Chapter Twenty-Three
The Beacon
Rod
‘Is this how you woo all your co-coaches?’
Jordan’s words, uttered pretty casually as we round the corner to the parking lot, make me choke on the sip of water I’d just taken.
It takes a couple of coughs before I can respond.
This is also at least the third or fourth time she’s done this to me, so I should probably be on guard by now. Clearly, I haven’t learned my lesson.
Although she’s clearly cackling at me, I feel her hand rub my back. A simple gesture, easy. ‘I’m guessing that’s a no.’
‘That was … devious,’ I croak out. I manage to get the car into a half-decent parking spot between all the laughter and coughing.
We start the short walk out to the craggy cliffs that lie ahead of us.
They’re a mix of browns and tans draped in a lush green carpet of grass that spreads out on either side of the path we walk down.
The colours of the cliffs contrast sharply with the foamy ocean, which seems to go on forever.
The skies are a perfect blue, pulling the entire sight together.
And the best part about it all comes into clear view as we follow the paved way up towards it: the lighthouse.
It’s painted in a peeling white and red, perched just before the cliffs turn into something that looks like a giant took a bite out of it. They become uneven and jagged before jutting out and giving way to the water. Imperfect and yet beautiful.
The massive rotating light at the top of the lighthouse is off at the moment, but its stillness is what I really love about the whole thing. Out here, there’s no chatter, no sporadic movements. Everything is just still.
‘I’ll hand it to you.’ Jordan stops just before the lighthouse, hands on her hips, and looks up at it, before turning to me with a growing smile. ‘You know your way ’round getting out of a funk.’
I’ve learned a couple of things. Getting out of a funk has kind of become my day-to-day. I’d better know my way around it.
‘There’s stairs,’ I tell her. ‘We can go up there. They’re not the sturdiest, so just be careful, but I think it’s worth it.’
‘Well then, stairs, it is.’ She tugs the door open with a grunt, and then leans back in satisfaction. ‘Let’s get our steps in, hotshot.’
The stairs are an unsteady, spiralling affair complete with an odd mixture of grated metal and rickety wood.
It’s usually a little simpler when it’s just me up here, but Jordan picking her way up them in front of me makes me profoundly nervous.
It’s not even the fact that if she ate it and fell, she’d take me out on her way down.
It’s the fact that I’m being so careful of her.
I kick myself. She’ll be just fine on her own.
She’s not here for a safety blanket. Back down, Roddy.
As if on cue, she takes a step onto an extra suspicious piece of wood, and the thing literally tilts to the side.
Jordan yelps, everything tips back, I grab the wall with one hand, and I grip her with the other.
My arm wraps around her waist. I tense my whole body to keep her from falling backwards, but that also means we’re very close – close enough that I can feel the way she fits perfectly against me.
Her hand grips my bicep for dear life. This week’s set of sparkly pink nails digs into my skin.
I couldn’t care less. My eyes are locked on hers, wide with fear, which slowly fizzles out when she realizes I’ve got her.
Her eyelashes flutter, lips parting, but no words coming out.
‘Take me up an old staircase,’ she whispers, grinning, ‘so that I fall into your arms and never look back. Nice one.’
This woman.
We disentangle ourselves from one another, but I swear her eyes still glitter with that feeling that had passed between us. At least, I know I felt it.
Warier than we’d been when we started, we keep up the piss-poor staircase, past the old living quarters and watch room.
Eventually, we reach the landing, indicated by a solid, sturdy floor.
The enormous lantern itself sits in the middle, surrounded by a wooden deck totally windowed, no wall.
Natural light filters in from all sides and hits the floor in striped shapes.
I’m not saying it’s a cure-all, but it’s pretty close.
A quiet sigh of awe escapes Jordan as she does a slow turn to take it all in.
Light as far as the eye can see. ‘It’s hard to feel the burden of all the heavy, shitty things when you’re in here,’ I say.
I’m still fixated on her. On the calm energy that radiates from her and envelops me in a way I’ve never felt before.
‘I’d imagine.’ She finds a good spot on the deck, and after a modicum of searching about, pulls a fabric tarp from the control panel off to the side of the lantern, lays it out on the ground, and sits right down, legs crossed. ‘Pop a squat.’
I do. Our knees touch as I shift myself to get comfortable. This is already pretty different from the times I’ve been here myself. I’m not usually one for change, but this, I’ll take.
‘I didn’t think I cared much for New England when I got drafted,’ Jordan tells me, shrugging like, what can you do?
‘Rhode Island is pretty tiny. After living in wide-open Oklahoma all my life, even in a small town, it was hard to get used to. I felt confined. These kinds of things are nice reminders that isn’t always the case.
’ She lets out a rough laugh. ‘If anything, home can feel confining sometimes, too. Space isn’t everything. ’
‘Can’t really find clear air to breathe when your life’s in flux all the time.’
‘Exactly. Cheers to that.’ She shakes her head, chuckling. ‘This would be a good time for a beer.’
‘Redbridge it is,’ I add, which thankfully makes her smile. Awful asides not landing flat – check.
‘You know, that’s one of the first times, and honestly, just being here is one of the first times all my health stuff hasn’t felt like an extra slice on top of a heap of flaming shit,’ she says with a roll of her eyes. Gently, she nudges my shoulder with hers. ‘Thank you.’
‘Yeah.’ I haven’t told her much about my heap of flaming shit, but I understand every word she says. It’s kind of the way I’ve felt around her, too. ‘And for the record, I didn’t really do anything. You’re the one who’s taking care of yourself despite all that life flux.’
Jordan snorts. ‘That’s sweet, but I think “taking care of myself” may be an understatement.’
I raise a curious eyebrow.
‘So. How gross are we willing to get?’ she asks.
‘Hit me, J-Dog.’
Her eyes nearly pop right out of her head. ‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘You’re sharing some gross stuff, right? We’re tight now.’ I nudge her with my elbow, and she rolls her eyes, doing a poor job of hiding her smile.
‘You and this nickname thing. Well, Hot Rod and J-Dog. Got a ring to it.’
‘Definitely. Anyways,’ I raise an expectant eyebrow. ‘Things were getting gnarly?’
‘Yeah. So. A lot of people with coeliac also have other GI shit to deal with. Pun intended. In my case, I am just very good at pretending that I am managing it and then hiding how terribly I am managing it.’ She tucks a hair behind her ear before pursing her lips.
A hint of a laugh sneaks out. ‘I’m not supposed to eat a lot of things that basically trigger my …
tummy issues. Now, my doctor doesn’t need to know jack, but let’s just say that I choose to take my chances with what I eat in exchange for exceptionally detailed war planning.
’ She hesitates, as if she’s deciding whether or not to tell the next part, but gives in eventually.
‘Appreciate that this war planning usually involves plotting out the nearest good bathroom wherever you go. It’s like establishing a fucking military base, Rod, it is an art. ’
I don’t doubt it is, except that I can’t even begin to fathom what the appropriate reaction is because Jordan’s started to giggle, the beginnings of hysterics.
It’s not long before she gets me. Her dimples, her gasp-for-breath laugh, the crease of her eyes; it’s something magical that I haven’t ever seen before.
All I know’s when you see it, you can’t help laughing with her.
‘You write battle plans,’ I wheeze. ‘I think that’s pretty artistic.’
‘Tummy-ache battle plans,’ she corrects me. She’s laughing so hard she leans on me for support, her curtain of black hair falling over my shoulder. ‘I know all the good goddamn bathrooms at the Reapers’ training facility. I went to the Super Bowl last year. Rod, I found one there too!’
In the midst of totally losing it, I clutch Jordan’s shoulder out of panic. ‘Wait. Is this something I can laugh about? Should I laugh? I’m sorry …’
‘Rod,’ she grins, ‘sometimes, when what you get saddled up with really sucks, there’s not much you can do other than find a broken lighthouse and laugh about it.
This has been my whole life, you know? Figuring out how to shove being sick to the side so I could get out there and play just like the other girls.
Memorizing public bathroom beelines. Tough luck. You have to laugh.’
I think about what she had said about her parents, vague mentions she’d dropped earlier, but little else.
Dad was absent. Mom was breaking her back for what seemed like no reason.
Somewhere in between there was Jordan, grappling with what she’d been given all on her own.
I watch her laugh, each one coming right from her heart, her eyes squeezed shut as she falls against my shoulder.
I was never a laugher. I put all my frustration into my game, and played until people noticed.
But I could see how we weren’t all that different.
Everyone else might see something beautiful.
In fact, they should see something beautiful.
You get good at hiding the sad, derelict cracks after a while.
Jordan’s eyes eventually open, meet mine. It doesn’t take a conversation for me to see that sadness lurking behind the amused glimmer.
‘You gotta laugh,’ Jordan says again, but this time, it doesn’t come out as happy. The statement is heavy, finite. The creases beneath her eyes stand out more than they have before, the weight of growing up relying on Mom, yes, but also with Mom relying on her. Sports, farm, sickness, all of it.
‘We got one more destination to hit before we get you home.’ I stand, and extend a hand to her, which she takes. I blink back the strange emotions swirling through my chest, and help her up. ‘Come on.’