9. Nine
Nine
Sara
Three months. That’s how long it takes for non-grievers and the village to forget a tragedy.
They are built to shed things fast when they haven't been hit by eroding, corrosive pain. When I saw people out in town, whether they were laughing, arguing, or entwined in their tangled intimacy, they seemed like distant creatures on a wildlife documentary. The world had become a vast stage, and I am merely an audience member at my very own chaotic circus, altering no one’s existence… While mine felt irreconcilable.
How did life just keep on going?
My strength is slowly returning, like sea glass being polished by the rummaging waves, and I am deliberately doing my best remembering Joe smiling, laughing. I can now walk through fire and smell smoke, not the searing heat. Progress.
Occasionally, I forget, and a gentle bubble of laughter escapes my lips, a smile briefly illuminates my face, just to fade when I recall I won’t ever see him again… Even if it’s just to tell him how much he mattered to me.
Summer is at its tail end and the Mistral wind has picked up.
It's the ideal time for our annual sailing boat race this weekend, they are majestic, and I look forward to seeing them every year.
The boats grace the dock and are magical as your head whips up to the very top of their masts.
There's something about watching them sail away, drifting in different directions, powerless against the maddening ocean, and yet always in control.
Never too certain of the illusion ahead of them. I related to these sailboats.
I have tried to go out a little more with the girls, baby steps.
I haven’t run into Liam at all, and I am extremely thankful for it.
Also, my birthday month has finally arrived.
Drumroll, please: October in all its glory.
I guess it makes sense; Halloween and grief are a sort of season, but mark that all year on my calendar.
I'm trying to enjoy the last decent summer weather with Artemis, Mimi, and Anne, hair still damp from the Bouillabaisse beach at the town’s entrance.
Even though it is the spot where all the popular kids from school gather, I absolutely adore this beach.
As a child, I walked here every morning with my mom, brother, and our playful dogs, skipping joyfully along the warm sand and wading into the inviting light blue water.
The deep end stretches so far from the shore that you can walk through the water, letting your thoughts drift away, while the gentle waves barely rise above your ankles.
We often swim here, drawn by the convenience of proximity to the village, which means we never have to ask anyone for a ride.
I don’t like to ask favors; I’d rather vacuum a whole deserted island covered in sand.
It’s not too hard to know where someone is in this tiny village, and I knew it was just a matter of time before Tyler and I would meet again.
He had shown interest in the last few days of school; somehow I left a lasting impression when I bumped into him while rushing to see Joe. That day hurts to think about.
Apparently, he can’t take no for an answer because he found me, and he's now waving at me with a smirk that reminds me I had declined to hang out. Shoot me now.
I don’t feel like engaging with the idea of potentially dating. I know very little about Tyler since he recently moved here from Cannes, but I don’t think he wants to just get a kebab and call it a day.
He is definitely handsome though, with his tall slender frame, green eyes, a wide chest but not as wide as Joe and Liam. He has that model Esque look to him with a “I play sports” for an appetizer. I can see why girls throw themselves at him. I just won’t be one of them.
He leans with his hip as if he is posing for a magazine that only exists in his head, in his swim trunks, I'll admit looking like half the candy I’d taste, but my mind is not on the same wavelength.
“I bet you wish you had said yes to hang out with me?” he says wriggling his eyebrows.
“I don’t have any regrets, Tyler,” I say, trying to get around him.
He grins. “Are you always this happy? Everyone has at least one regret. It’s cool.”
“I’m a ray of fucking sunshine, didn’t you know?” I smirk, doing my best not to be awfully rude to him. It isn’t his fault I am dying inside. He is still a nice guy, and a part of me feels bad.
He studies me a little too long. “You look tired.”
“I am, there, that’s one regret I have—I woke up.”
He scraps his foot in the sand, considering. “We need to cheer you up buttercup, there’s a thing on Wednesday at the pier. Nothing special. a few people. You should come.”
I laugh, sharp and mean. Damn it, I can’t help it. “Why?”
“Why not?” He crosses his arm asking genuinely curious, a bit of shock too.
“I don’t know, sorry. I’ve been going through a lot lately.”
“Yeah… I know, if there's anything I can do Sara. Are you okay?” He takes a few steps closer, and I’m not entirely comfortable with his proximity. He actually looks concerned. Either he’s good at faking it, or maybe he’s a decent guy.
“I… It's okay Tyler, we barely know each other… you don't owe me anything.”
“I know I don't, but I'm allowed to remind you, you're not alone, no?” He tilts his head in an endearing way.
“Of course.” I pause, his words sending warmth where I've been left frozen. “Listen Tyler, I’m not good company right now but…” I continue not believing what comes out of my mouth “Wednesday is actually my birthday dinner at La Plage restaurant at eight… You can stop by on your way to the pier.”
“Oh? … How old?” he asks, smiling, and I’m actually taken aback by his unexpected charm.
“Nineteen…” I say, feeling my cheeks redden. What the hell? I need to end this conversation, but luckily, he takes me out of my misery.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll stop by.” He winks, throws his beach towel over his shoulder and waves goodbye as he walks towards his group of friends. I let the silence fall between us and put a soft smile on my face until I turn back to the girls baking themselves under the October sun. We’re spoiled.
When I get back home in the afternoon, Mom is at the kitchen counter, surrounded by open mail and a glass of Chardonnay. We've luckily been doing a lot better. I haven't found the strength to fight, and my boyfriend is dead.
She doesn’t look up when I come in, just says, “Did you eat?”
“I didn’t actually,” I tell her, as the rich aroma of her Moroccan cooking envelops me. The scent is a tantalizing mix of spices and warmth that wraps around me like a comforting embrace.
Mom was born in Morocco before moving to France in her twenties, and she knows how to cook.
The kitchen is her canvas, particularly the fragrant tagine or sizzling Merguez sausages, masterpieces that speak of her heritage.
Each time I catch a whiff of her creations, it is as if being hugged by her love.
A love that she doesn’t know how to communicate half the time, but I’m good at shoving uncomfortable memories into those little boxes in my head.
She circles the rim of her glass with a red-painted nail. “You should see someone, Sara.”
“What do you mean?” I drawl.
“I mean… talking to a therapist.” She frowns with concern.
“I'm fine,” I mumble with more anger in my voice than I want.
Her mouth twitches. “It’s not about that. It’s just —” she stops, picks up an envelope, and sets it down again.
“I’ve done and said things that are irreparable, Sara, and…
I don’t want you to feel alone. I know what you’re going through, but I’m an adult and I’ve inflicted too much pain on myself after your brother.
You’ve grown beyond your years, and I hate…
hate the pain you’ve already had to go through... talking helps sometimes.”
“It doesn’t.”
“What about with me?” Her voice is small, a plea for forgiveness that she may have lost her way along the blurry lines of grief and being a mother.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. You’re the only one who can understand me, which is why I was desperately needing you, and I love you, I do, but you’re also the one that...”
She stares at her wine as if the answer is somewhere at the bottom. “Who has hurt you because of it,” she whispers. “I know… I am — so sorry.” She readjusts her posture and glances at me. “It seems you had a better day today?” she asks quickly, and I can hear the apprehension in her voice.
“Actually, Mom, today might have been my first okay day in what feels like a long time.” I pause, staring into her teary eyes. “So, are you going to feed your daughter or what?” I force a chirpy smile, and she giggles, her laugh sounding like a soft veil of hope wrapping me all around.
Going to bed, I feel hopeful. I lay there with Joe’s hoodie pulled over my face.
I used to think grief was a hole, something you had to crawl out of.
It’s not; it’s a tunnel you have to walk through with stones attached to your back that will crowd out your organs, unbalance you and change the pressure in your head.
You become a version of yourself that is learning to survive by carrying grief as an unfamiliar weight, an invisible love.
You can’t see it and you can’t touch it, but every breath you take will hold on to that love.
Until it becomes familiar again, just never quite the same.
As I fall asleep, I promise myself I’ll never let go of love, ever again.
In the morning, I make coffee and stand at the window, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from an unknown number and my heart feels uneasy.
UN: U alive?
Me: Depends. Who is this?
UN: Who would you like it to be?
I type, delete… That is a tricky question… Who I’d like it to be was dead, and dead men don’t text. I probably take too long thinking about what to say back when a new text comes through.
UN: It’s Tyler.
Rolling my eyes, I don’t answer. I’ll pretend I didn’t see it.
ping
Tyler: Truce?
Maybe I should see where it goes, he seems nice enough to be a good distraction, even though the guilt rises when that thought comes up. I can't help feeling like I am doing something wrong behind Joe’s back and that reality alone makes me want to cry for hours.
Me: Bribery is a sin.
Why this guy even induces curiosity is beyond me, but I am in a place where my mind feels desperately lonely, and maybe I need to feel again, anything?
Tyler: I am just wondering on a scale of 1-10 how happy you’d be to see me on your birthday?
Rolling my eyes.
Me: 4.5
Tyler: I’m a lucky guy then! See you Wednesday, birthday girl.
Me: See you, Tyler.
I might smirk, but not by much. I am filing this in the “I sure as fuck don’t know what I’m doing,” little box in my head.