6. CHAPTER 6
If you’re the kind of masochist who wakes before dawn, you get to see the world devoid of color. It’s a strange phenomenon, like the moon has sucked all the life out of everything leaving nothing but grey shells. It’s eerie, and peaceful.
Before arriving here I thought maybe I’d be able to sleep in if I was somewhere cold, somewhere where it feels like the sun doesn’t rise until halfway through the day.
Turns out it was just another pipe dream, and no matter where in the world I am, my body’s programmed to be up before dawn, ready to drag a board out into the water.
I carve a lazy S with my skateboard down the middle of the wide suburban street, my chin raised, the crisp air filling my lungs.
This is when I thrive.
This is when I don’t mind being alone.
The frost-covered blacktop twinkles in the remaining moonlight as I weave my way towards the coast. Well, the shore. It’s not the coast, not really. We’re too deep in Puget Sound to be able to call the waterfront in Broadrock the beach.
I hang a left and pull into the small parking lot by the playground, breaking just shy of the only car—a dented Jeep Wrangler with a faded Idaho number plate. If it were summer it would likely be full of campers and converted vans. But they’re long gone, not to be seen again until spring.
I look down the shoreline and can just make out the shadows of a man and his dog walking along the rocks. They’re smaller here than in other parts of the sound, more like gravel. But a beach isn’t a beach without sand or waves.
I kick my board up and step closer to the water.
The sound of the stones crunching beneath my feet is jarring, but I keep going.
I’m not a stranger to this place. If I think hard enough, I’m certain there are memories buried somewhere of Eden bringing me here when I was a kid on sunny afternoons when he finished school.
There’s an old weathered log and I collapse down on it. The wood is slick with dew, soaking my ass instantly.
Welcome home, Novak.
I look out at the pewter slab of water spreading from the horizon to the tideline.
Dead. Not a hint of the ragged surf I crave, of the ocean that never shuts up.
It’s only been three days but I already yearn for the endless howl and crash, the sparkling phosphorescence riding the waves into shore only to be sucked back out again, and the humid air heavy with salt.
I breathe in, searching for it. And even without the rolling water stirring it up, there’s enough of a hint of it in the air to fill me up. I don’t know why, or how, but it’s always calmed me. Always made me feel like everything would be okay.
Bending down, I run my fingers over the pebbles at my feet. Picking up a larger one, I press it between my palms, and that buried memory flashes in the front of my mind.
Sea glass. A pocket full of it. We were out until sunset searching for the best pieces. I got into so much trouble when I didn’t empty them out and they ended up all through the washing machine. But I was tiny. Maybe three.
The next day Eden took me out again. My arm was stretched up as I held his hand.
I remember Mom mumbling something to him but I can’t make out the words.
The front door opens and I pan back to my mother.
I wave, excited to be going, but I’m met with the back of her head as she walks up the stairs.
Even then I could feel she was glad to be rid of me, glad that someone else was there to take me off her hands.
I called out to her, but she never turned back, and that’s when Eden scooped me up into his arms and whisked me out of the house.
He always made sure I smiled. He always made sure I had things to laugh about.
At least he used to.
I raise my head and focus on the line where the sky meets the sea. For a minute, the sun pretends it might be bold today. It teases with bright orange before slipping behind the grey of the clouds that have been covering the sky since I arrived, ready to cover us all in snow for another season.
Do I really wanna do this?
Is this really where I wanna be?
I've got more than enough money to get me back to San Diego. But is that really a better option? At least Eden invited me to stay with him. All my parents did was tell me that my room was now a gym.
No, what I want is for Broadrock to wake up. To not give up and shut down like it does every fricken year, like it has nothing good to offer when the sun stops shining.
I want it to fight.
I want Eden to find his way back from whatever cliff he’s trying to throw himself off of.
I want to stop feeling so alone. Stop freezing my ass off on a log. Stop counting down the minutes until Tek needs me, and pretending I don’t care if he does or not. And, most importantly, I need to stop wanting things I know I’ll never get.
Digging my heels into the rocks I watch two gulls fight over a limp strand of seaweed.
The sun makes a second appearance and the day starts lighting up in tiny flecks, but the water stays flat, and the sky stays mostly grey.
I drag my wet behind back to the parking lot and drop my board ready to head towards Main.
The streets are still empty enough that I can push off into the center of the road, and I make it almost the whole way before a pickup swings around the corner and I have to bail to the sidewalk. But as soon as it’s passed, I’m back on the road.
I glide through the green light of the intersection and past the open coffee shop that starts off the stores of Main Street. The sun still isn’t all the way up and I can see the lights from inside Teken Ink spilling out amongst all the other dark storefronts.
The front windows have frost around the edges that is starting to melt from the heat inside, and when I cup my hand over the glass to look in, I see Tek rolling over the shop’s graffitied wall with charcoal paint.
I knock and he turns his head slowly towards me, only to stare for several seconds like he’s pondering whether or not to tell me to fuck back off home again. Eventually he gestures for me to use the alley entrance and returns to painting over the only brightness the shop has.
In the back lot I stop by Tek’s van and look through a small gap where one of the curtains on the side door isn’t pulled across the whole way.
There’s a cupboard behind the front seats with a small sink, and the rest is a bed made up with a pile of pillows, a comforter, and multiple blankets.
The whole interior is lined with wood panelling and it looks straight out of the pages of a van life magazine.
It’s a direct contradiction of everything I've learned about Tek so far.
I picture him reclined on the pillows, headphones on and a paperback in his hands, reading in the spare time that I don’t think he has. There’s a weird twist in my stomach at the thought of him sleeping in there alone. At the thought of him doing anything quietly, or gently…
I back away before my brain starts painting any more pictures.
The shop door catches when I first try to open it, but with a nudge from my shoulder it opens on the second try.
“Hey,” I say, closing the door behind me.
He doesn’t look up, just says, “You’re early,” as if it’s a flaw in my character.
“By like ten minutes,” I reply, stripping myself of Eden’s plaid jacket because it’s hot as fuck in here right now.
Distracted by the extreme change in temperature, I trip over a pair of—size fucking enormous—combat boots.
Catching myself on the door jam, I curse, and look to Tek who chooses now to glance back at me; all cheek bones and sharp eyes.
“Why the hell is it so hot in here?” I ask, kicking his boots back beside the door before walking to hang my jacket in the back room. If he answered me, I didn’t hear it, and that’s probably for the best.
Back on the shop floor I ask him if he wants a coffee but he shakes his head no. Sensing he doesn’t want to be interrupted, I pull up the stool behind the reception desk and watch him finish the wall.
The mural was a mess of cohesion; angels and demons and topless pin-up girls that screamed of my brothers art style, with technicolor highlights resembling the tattoos on Tek’s forearms, criss-crossed with black geometric tribal patterns like the ones I saw covering Reeze’s neck.
Like he can sense I have a question, the next time Tek dips the roller in the thick gunmetal paint, he says, “I couldn’t look at it anymore.”
“I get it,” I reply softly, and he nods his head.
We might not have much in common. There might be thirteen years and several cultures between us, but my loneliness matches whatever demons he’s housing well enough for us to agree on something.
With a final pass of the roller Tek steps back and looks at his work. “It’ll need another coat tomorrow—fuck.” He looks down at the slippers he’s wearing. The same ones he had on when I was here yesterday. “There’s fucking paint on them.”
Scuffing them off, he squats down and wipes them on the drop sheet.
I stand up and walk towards him. “Were they expensive?”
“No!” he snaps, catching himself but choosing not to apologize.
“They were—fuck,” he curses again, throwing them to the ground as he stands up.
“They were a gift from my Halmae.” As he finishes the sentence, Tek looks at me then down at the ground, almost like he’s ashamed of what I think of his outburst. “My Grandmother,” he mumbles, snatching up the slippers before shuffling past me to slip his feet into his combat boots and push through the back door with the paint roller still in his other hand.
With no instruction I fold up the drop sheet and take it to the back room then collect the paint tin and tray.
“What do you want me to do with this?” I ask at the back door, holding out the mostly empty tray towards Tek.
“Chuck it.” He jerks his head towards the dumpster then pushes back past me, his bicep hitting me hard enough to knock me into the door frame.