Chapter 3
Chapter Three
YURI
Cooper is here.
Lyric, I roll his nickname around in my head to test it out.
It fits, but it’s hard to imagine calling him by it.
I guess I have to though, right? No one on Palm Island seems to know his real name and I’m starting to get the feeling that that’s how everyone around here likes it.
Worrying about what to call him might not be a problem at all though.
The thought of that distant, polite smile he gave me like I was a stranger makes my stomach clench and my insides curl up like I’m one of those roly-poly bugs in human form.
“Ugh,” I groan at myself and shake my hands out, trying to rid myself of the embarrassment and rejection of it all.
I barely managed to pay attention to the rest of Boston’s tour and now I’ve been standing in the living room of my new place thinking about Cooper for at least an hour.
I need to stop replaying the awkward ten seconds in the café over and over again.
I need to unpack my stuff and try to settle in.
I need to do something to make myself feel normal for five minutes, because what the actual holy fuck was I thinking moving to a strange place full of people I don’t know?
Manic laughter surprises me by bubbling up in my throat, and as soon as I let it out, it’s impossible to control.
Except, it only stays laughter for a few seconds before it turns into a sob.
I put a hand over my mouth to try to contain it, but it’s no use.
My shoulders shake and my lungs burn for a deeper gulp of oxygen, so I stop fighting it and give in, letting myself cry.
I don’t think this is about Cooper. Not totally, anyway.
I think this is the culmination of the stress and overwhelm that drove me here to begin with boiling over in a way that probably should have happened months ago.
I cry until there’s nothing left in me, and then I shuffle through the small house in search of the bathroom.
The fading light outside casts an orange glow through the open windows, and the shadows of palm trees sway back and forth on the floor.
The bathroom isn’t hard to find considering the house only has three rooms in total.
I flip on the light and lean over the sink to splash some water onto my face.
Of course, there aren’t any towels, which would have been nice for me to notice sooner.
With water dripping off of my nose and chin, I strip my shirt over my head and use it to dry my face, then I start making a mental list of all the things I’ll need to either get in town or order online.
Towels, obviously.
Hand soap.
Toilet paper? There’s one roll. That’s nice; at least it means I don’t have to run out right this second.
I know Boston pointed out a convenience store and said that they have all the essentials and groceries, I just can’t remember if he said how late they’re open.
Maybe I should walk back to town anyway and find out.
If I put it off until morning, I’ll spend the next few hours until I fall asleep thinking about it anyway.
I drop my wet shirt onto the bathroom floor and add “laundry basket” and “detergent” to my mental list, then I blow my nose and kneel down to unzip my duffel so I can find a fresh shirt.
I left most of my clothes in storage in favor of getting stuff that felt more beach appropriate, but I did pack a couple of old t-shirts that I’ve worn so many times they’re practically threadbare.
My favorite blue shirt used to have a funny physics pun on it, but it’s faded to the point that it’s unreadable.
Something familiar feels like a lifeline right now though, so I dig until I find it at the bottom of the bag and pull it on.
It fits exactly right, and it gives me that slight sense of normalcy that I need while I’m drowning in a sea of unfamiliarity and uncertainty.
I get back to my feet and pick my bag up.
I’ll unpack it when I get back, but for now I can at least put it in the bedroom.
Like the rest of the house, the room is small, with just enough space for a queen bed and a dresser.
There’s a pillow on the bed, but no sheets, so I add that to my mental list and hope like hell they’ll have some at the store in town—otherwise it’s going to be a long night.
I drop the duffel at the foot of the bed then head back to the living room.
I flip on the light so it won’t be pitch dark when I get back, and grab the key off of the kitchen counter.
A sense of purpose helps to chase away the last of the emotional turmoil, bringing me back to my usual state of semi-numb anxiety that’s almost as comforting as my old t-shirt.
Sure, this whole thing is completely crazy and possibly will turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life, but Cooper is here. That feels like it means something. I remember his detached smile again and my shoulders sag as I step out the door into the fading afternoon sunlight.
LYRIC
The earlier clouds cleared away just in time for the sunset to streak the sky with pinks and oranges.
Smoke swirls in the air around me, curling from the cherry on the end of the joint that’s dangling between my lips as I absently pluck at my guitar strings.
My eyes wander along the empty beach, mostly swallowed up by the high tide as I sit at the top of the concrete steps that lead from the road down to the sand.
My stomach growls, but I’m not ready to get up and go home just yet.
I inhale a lungful of the blueberry flavored smoke I’ve spent the last year cultivating, and I enjoy the soft buzz that fills my head and keeps me grounded in the moment.
It softens the edges of too much mental chatter and relaxes the go, go, go feeling that used to leave me feeling exhausted from trying to keep up with it.
When I was a kid and I couldn’t stop bouncing off the walls, my parents tried all the meds the doctors recommended: stimulants, anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, you name it.
I couldn’t stand the way they made me feel.
Sure, I could focus better, I said a lot less dumb shit, and I hardly ever forgot to do my homework, but I felt like a zombie.
The stimulants made me crash too hard and the rest of them turned the world gray and lifeless.
I refused to take them and eventually my parents gave up.
It didn’t mean my problems went away, but for a while I gave up trying to fix them.
Weed doesn’t fix any of the things that bother other people.
It doesn’t help me focus or make me more productive.
It definitely doesn’t make me better at remembering shit.
It makes me feel the way I want to—more relaxed and less bothered by the way my brain wants to run in circles all damn day like a dog chasing its tail.
At the end of the day, isn’t that what matters?
A cool breeze ruffles my hair and raises goose bumps on my skin, reminding me that it’s only February, still technically winter even here in paradise.
I strum the strings a little faster in a melody I’m just making up on the spot.
The crunch of shoes on gravel draws my attention, and for the third time today, I look up and see Yuri standing a few feet away.
I stop strumming and lean my elbow on my guitar, taking another drag of my joint before plucking it from between my lips and stubbing it out on the steps.
I tuck what’s left behind my ear with my gaze still fixed on Yuri, standing perfectly still, staring at me in the fading sunlight with those impossibly blue eyes I used to spend days on end lost in.
He’s alone now, and instead of that weird-ass Hawaiian shirt, he’s wearing a t-shirt with faded lettering on it that I’m pretty sure used to be a math equation he swore was some kind of pun. He’s carrying a couple of plastic bags in each hand.
“Hey,” I say, breaking the silence.
“Hey,” he echoes, then shuffles his feet, and even with his fingers curled around the bag handles, I can see them twitch, wanting to do that little tapping rhythm he used to do all the time. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered me.”
I snort a laugh.
“I might be a little fuzzy at times, Yur, but you’re hard to forget.
” I tear my eyes off of him and look back at the ocean, watching the steady motion of the tide lapping at the sand.
“I thought I had a bad edible though when I saw you get off the boat. Palm Island is the last place in the world I expected you.”
The plastic bags rustle as he shifts them around like he’s not quite sure what to do with them.
“Yeah, my working theory is that I’m having some kind of nervous breakdown.”
I laugh again and nod. “That shirt you were wearing earlier can be filed under evidence.”
“Hey.” He aims a halfhearted kick in my direction. “It’s beachwear, it’s very fashionable.”
“Uh-huh, sure,” I tease.
He narrows his eyes in a glare and we both laugh.
“I didn’t expect to find you here, but I’m not surprised,” he admits.
“No?” I grin at him, trying to clock eight years’ worth of subtle changes in the fading light.
He’s put on a little muscle, and weirdly he seems taller, although that could just be because I’m sitting down.
But other than that, he looks exactly like the Yuri I remember, with his fingernails chewed down to nubs and those perfect high cheekbones.
He’s still rocking the same haircut and all the freckles I remember on the bridge of his nose look like they’re still where they belong.
“You always said you wanted to live on a beach somewhere.” His eyes roam over me without any subtlety, like he’s doing the same thing I am—looking for evidence of the time that’s passed and who I might be now.
“Every time I’ve thought about you, I’ve pictured you exactly like this: surrounded by sand and palm trees with your guitar in your lap and a joint between your lips. ”
“I’m a man of simple pleasures.”
“That’s not a bad thing.” He shifts the bags again and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. “Have you… um… have you thought about me?”
I shake my head.
What would have been the point in torturing myself with memories of the past? Yuri was one of the best things that ever happened to me, but I never thought I’d get to keep him forever. He had bigger things to do, and I just wanted a life without pressure and expectations.
“Right, of course. Sorry, that was stupid.” He laughs, but the sound is tight. Then, he shuffles back a step. “Well, I should probably…”
“Hold up.” I get up and sand from the steps rains down, some of it still clinging to my shorts and some finding its way into my sandals. I swing my guitar around onto my back and reach for some of his bags. “I’ll help you carry these.”
“You don’t have to,” he says, but he doesn’t fight me when I take them. “I live down that way.” He points down the road in the direction he was already walking, the same direction as my place.
“Sorry about earlier, by the way,” I say as we fall into step on our way down the gravel road.
“At the café… A lot of people come here for a fresh start, and I didn’t know if you’d want anyone to know that we…
you know.” I chuckle and raise my hand to brush my hair out of my face, forgetting for a second that I’m carrying some of his bags and catching a faceful of plastic.
“Right, no, that’s fine. It’s probably easier if we keep things simple.
No one needs to know. And I swear I’m not going to get in your way or mess up your life.
I took the bartending job at The Sand Bar because I needed a change of scenery.
My life just started to feel so… I don’t know, claustrophobic and empty, and I felt like if I didn’t do something crazy, I was going to lose my mind.
” He cuts off his babbling with a huff of laughter. “Sorry I’m rambling.”
“It’s cool,” I assure him. I never minded his rambling. Actually, I think I kind of missed it. “But you don’t have to avoid me. There were never any hard feelings, Yur. I’m not upset you’re here. I was just surprised.”
“No, there weren’t. So, maybe we can hang out while I’m here? You can help me write up a cheat sheet to keep everyone straight.”
“No one on Palm Island is straight,” I deadpan, and he barks out another laugh.
“Fair enough.” We slow in front of one of the houses that has all the lights on inside and he waves his bags at it. “This is me.” He takes the rest of the bags back from me and tugs his bottom lip between his teeth again. “Thanks for the help, and I guess I’ll see you around?”
The same warm, comforting feeling I’ve always had around Yuri flutters in my chest and I nod.
“I’ll see you.”
It would be hard not to in a place like Palm Island, but I think about what he said as I walk home. It would be cool to hang out with him while he’s here, even if it’s only for a little while. Nothing in life lasts forever, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth enjoying in the moment.