So one of my many questions about the lifeguard has an answer: James does, in fact, wear a uniform of shorts, a sweatshirt, and a distinct lack of shoes even off the beach. That's about as much as I can wrap my head around. But the fact he's now standing on my balcony is a completely different ordeal.
I'm vaguely aware he's mumbling some semblance of an apology or explanation, but all I can hear are the footsteps coming up the stairs. Mid-sentence, I cover his mouth and say, "Shh! Just... stay here and stay quiet."
Before he can respond, I shut the balcony doors behind me and start preparing a speech. It was a- an animal. Or I was leaning on the branch and it fell. Maybe I leaned on it, and there was an animal, so it all became some absurd Looney Toons scene.
That sounded perfectly insane enough.
When I open the door, Mom isn't giving that concerned half-smile that I expect. Instead, she says, "Shell was meowing. It was distracting." On cue, the kitty flounces her way in, glares at me, and then takes residence under my bed. Mom, pleased with that outcome, starts to turn away.
Flummoxed, I ask, "You didn't come up here for any other reason?"
"Was I supposed to come up here for another reason?" I realize, in horror, oh my god, I could've fallen off the balcony and she wouldn't have noticed. Mom raises a perturbed eyebrow and pries, "You okay? Please tell me you aren't still pouting. You know I keep you inside to protect you. The doors wouldn't need so many locks if you could just accept that. Maybe we can-"
I cut her off, not wanting to hear her talk anymore. I was being given an out. I just needed to take it, no questions asked. Rubbing my arm, trying to scrape off the sting of her cluelessness, I say, "Yeah, totally, I'm fine. Nevermind."
And then she nods at me like I'm the Looney Toons situation and leaves, shutting my door behind her.
Turning back towards my balcony, I let James inside and he's all fidgety while trying to pretend to act nonchalant. His incessant pacing betrays him, though, my eyes following him as he goes back and forth like a human Newton's Cradle.
Just then, he knocks over a stack of textbooks on my desk and they thud to the ground. From beyond my door, I hear a very muffled, "Are you okay?"
Brilliant. She notices now that there's a ridiculous noise in my room. "Still fine!"
James gives me this tortured, apologetic look, but I'm just staring at him in abject terror and awe. If my Mom wasn't absolutely oblivious to the noise coming from my room...
His forte is not sneaking around, is it?
Keeping my voice low, I ask him, "Now, let's talk. Why do you need a place to stay?"
"That's... Complicated." James' shiny grin is all wobbly and crooked, like a kid who hasn't figured out how to lie. Granted, maybe he hasn't.
I cross my arms and point out, "More complicated than having to hide a grown man in my bedroom?"
"...Fair." Then he does that thing again, scratching the back of his neck. I'll have to log that under "awkward, embarrassed behavior" in my head's James Chambers file. He gestures towards the bed and asks, "Mind sitting first?"
I nod and James crosses his legs on my bed, but instead of sitting next to him, I sit on the floor. James doesn't seem to mind, he just keeps pulling at his frayed jeans, which makes me want to tap my leg, and I can see the doomed circle-jerk of fidgeting from a thousand miles away.
Trying to break the tension, I chuckle awkwardly and hug my knees to my chest. "I feel like I'm about to get a personal intervention."
With furrowed brows, James takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, and says, "Maybe I'm getting one." I didn't notice before just how thick his brows are. Seeing him without his glasses, all serious, it's like they're the kind that a costume designer would put on someone playing "Tarzan". The brows alone can make up for all the other expressions that his smiles don't cover.
He's just like that, isn't he? All expressive. I normally have to work at figuring out people, but all I have to do is look at him and I feel like I understand what he's like, even if I don't know all the details. Honest, sentimental, clumsy-
But even with all his expressiveness, I'm not prepared for what James does next.
He just starts talking, like it's that easy: "My mother died earlier this year. Don't make the face, everyone makes the face. The real problem was my Dad. She was the mediator, and without her... well, we didn't agree about anything. After all, my preferred life direction was, to quote his eloquence, "utter crap". So I got angry and took some stuff that was mine, but he refused to give me, and the asshole actually put an arrest warrant out on me." He rushes out the last bit in one fell swoop that seems to suck up all the air in the room.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to get all worked up," he says.
I have to hold back a laugh. That's worked up?
I've had internal screams at the dinner table more dramatic than that.
Letting go of one of my knees, it falls to my side. He's absolutely fascinating to watch and analyze, I realize. The way James is sitting, elbows on knees, leaning forward, spine like spaghetti... I understand that kind of unique insecurity, the kind that turned your posture all crooked. Even after fourteen years, I can still feel it in my own chest, right inside my largest artery. I say, "I'd ask why you won't give the stuff back, but I assume it's because it's your mom's."
"Bingo. I appreciate a perceptive accomplice." Though James chuckles, his grin doesn't get any higher than his nose. Everything above that is still saturated with that numb-nerved melancholy. This guy really wasn't good at hiding anything at all.
As if he can read minds, James admits, "I don't really know what I'm doing with this whole hiding out thing." Again, my own stealth-sensibilities wince. That's an understatement.
If I were smart about the whole thing, I'd pat his shoulder, say, "That's rough, buddy", and send him on his way. James is a stranger. Kicking him out is the right choice because a random guy in my room is 100% a higher penalty than sneaking out late at night.
But then James' eyes look like caramel, and I'm stuck.
Perhaps a little quiet, I say, "My name's Kai."
The second he hears my name, a hint of honey lightens up those brown eyes of his. It makes my lungs stop functioning for a second.
Until now, every smile I've seen was trying to charm or to brighten up a room. But here, on my floor, his upturned lips look genuine and natural. I was wrong before; his other smiles were like lamplights. This is the sun.
And with that smile reflecting in his eyes, he says, "Thanks, Kai."
When he stops looking at me and instead looks around my room, he scrunches up his nose and his grin starts to fade. "I should probably go, shouldn't I? I really shouldn't be laying low at stranger's houses- I mean, who does that-?"
To my own surprise, I sit straight up on my knees and grab James' hand. Every twitch under my skin stills, staring straight into his eyes. Feeling a sudden flare of embarrassment, because honestly, who the hell did I think I was, grabbing him like that? It would have been easier, better to let him go, why am I-
I back off, letting go of his hand.
"No. Stay." Trying to excuse my behavior, I half-heartedly say, "You can't go without shoes."
"Don't worry. I've been walking without shoes for a while."
"Why?"
"Bad story." When I don't flinch, James gets this wry smile. "Let's just say when I left I felt inspired to do some avant-garde art installations. The windows looked lovely once I was done." The glint in his eye tells more than the story he doesn't describe. Now that sounds like worked up.
But all it does is make me feel that pull to make him stay, to shut up that part of him that is looking at the balcony.
My lips betray all logic and I offer the biggest trump card I have. It's not like I was ever going to use it, right? "A long time ago, I thought I was going to- Anyway, so I have money. I can help you get out of time. And if you need a place to hide while things cool down... I wouldn't mind the company."
"I couldn't let you- I can't-" Running out of indignance, James' shoulders soften and his voice gets quiet. James asks, looking stunned, "Seriously?"
Against the rules, I nod. "Yeah. As long as you need."
James chuckles, but he keeps blinking like he might wake up from a dream at any second. "Dude, I don't know how to thank you."
I almost want to flip the whole script and ask if he's serious. Thank me? I wanted to thank him. For me, him showing up again in itself was a dream.
And with one smile, I've decided a little more dreaming is worth the consequences.
Trying to shake off the surrealism, I do my best to ground myself in reality and this conversation, which is still happening, despite all my wishy-washy musings. I correct him, saying, "Not a dude. But I'll call us even if you tell me how much you love tea and how you ended up in my tree."
The way he crinkles his brows, amused, is nearly too adorable for my poor heart to stomach. He asks, "Got any honey?"
"I do," I say, possibly charmed more by his eyebrows than his smile at this point.
"Then I love tea."
As I start my electric kettle again, James straightens himself 'til he looks like a movie-ready Kindergarten teacher about to tell his students the best story ever. "So, hear me out, I had no clue your attic would have an actual person in it..."
I snort and sit down next to him on the bed, crossing my legs underneath me. "What, were you just going to hide out in the empty attic like some modern-day Quasimodo?"
James tries to whisper-yell, "I said hear me out!"
Over the next hour or so, I'm startled by how easy it is to just sit there and listen to James. He somehow manages to perfect the line between narcissism and pushy. He's happy to do the talking, I'm able to share myself in the places that feel comfortable, and he fills all the other spaces in between.
That is, until he looks at my balcony once more, frowns, and asks,"Why are you stuck inside?"
So he did hear.
I know one thing: no matter how much he fascinates me, I should never answer that. Mom's choice to keep me inside is always a taboo topic, one that I don't talk about. Beck and I discuss the issue in vague riddles, and Mom pretends like there's never been any other choice. So I just go along, accepting that this is the ocean I live in.
But the magic of honey eyes over tea starts getting to me, and much to my own surprise, I feel like talking.
Maybe it has to do with the fact James still feels like an elaborate dream.
Staring down into my cup, I say, trying to keep things vague, "Protective mom. Something... bad happened when I was little and she's never quite been the same. I was homeschooled and even took my college classes online. I have free reign of my balcony, most of the house, and the yard, and sometimes she plans special events to take me out, but otherwise..."
When I meet James' eyes, his mouth is wide open and he looks horrified. "Holy shit. That's like Rapunzel in a tower level of lockdown. No offense to your mom, but that's kinda abu-"
"It's not," I say, quickly cutting him off. But the bite to my own voice sounds wrong, and playing defensive feels wrong, and I find my gaze drowning in what's left of my drink. "At least, she doesn't mean it to be."
I expect more questions, an inquisition of sorts. All it takes is one internet search to know my situation isn't simple, and commenting on every self-help article how being a fish complicates things isn't the answer, and I can almost feel that disgust and uncertainty crawling up my skin, because what if I am just making excuses and-
James' hand on my arm shuts up some leg tapping I don't even realize I started. He says, simply, "We don't have to talk about it."
I feel the building pressure of his questions fall off my chest. "Thanks."
I can tell that doesn't make him like the situation. His frowning eyebrows still look second-hand dissatisfied, but he isn't asking more of me. I always expect more, and to keep this problem to myself feels-
Trying to awkwardly chuckle my way out of this situation, I say, "Guess we both have our family problems, right?"
James points at my balcony. "That was the first branch that broke on me all night. Fate must've brought me to a person who gets it."
Rolling my eyes, I try to make sure he doesn't notice how squishy I feel, hearing that. I've never done well with the concept of fate, because fate means I was made to be trouble, and Mom was made to suffer, and-
Desperate for a distraction, I nod towards the messenger bag that came off said branch with James. "What do you have in the bag?"
"Feel free to check it out." When I frown (because who just let people go through their bags?), he takes a gulp of tea and shrugs. I walk over to the ratty thing and open it up, looking through its messy, unorganized inside. James starts describing its contents, saying, "I only packed the first things I could think of. Toiletries, a handful of clothes, a few books-"
I sputter out a laugh as over five pounds of books tumble onto my lap with perfect comedic timing. "A handful?"
Picking up a few, I see the likes of an Edgar Allen Poe collection, a copy of The Odyssey, Jane Eyre, Moby Dick... James left home and he took a book set with him?
I have absolutely never met such an absurd man.
Granted, I haven't met many men, but still.
Unable to help myself, more giggles fall out while I fondle a well-worn copy of Wuthering Heights. "You go on the run and you grab a half-dozen hardcover books?"
"Necessary reading material."
"What, did you think if the cops found you that you could read them into submission?"
"Words can be pretty powerful, thank you," James says, pouting.
"This doesn't count as paper and handcuffs don't count as rock. You don't win that face-off." I flip through the dog-eared pages and point out, "Lots of notes in the margins."
"I know this will be very surprising, but it's almost like I very much like reading."
Regarding the rest of his things, only a handful of clothes and small belongings, I'm hit with an amusing revelation. "Do you know the worst part of all this?"
"What?"
"If you had left space for a single flashlight, maybe you would've done a better job at climbing trees."
Across from me, James is all geared up for some sort of pro-book argument, but his pointed finger wilts and his gaping mouth shuts the second he processes what I say. Begrudgingly, he admits, "...Touche." James peers at me, giddy on the floor. "Why are you so cool with this?"
"I guess I know what it's like to feel like I'm running from things, and I figured it'd be nice to help you take a break from running."
\James asks, suddenly, "Ever read Robinson Crusoe, Kai?"
"No. Seriously, enough about books for one night."I toss a small plush tiger at him, and James just gives that wobbly, uncertain, trying-to-charm smile at it. But this one doesn't meet his eyes, and I don't know why. What makes his smile so different sometimes?
Before I can ask, James says, "Another time, then. So, where should I sleep?"
Even though I still have a million questions, I grab more than ample pillows and blankets from my closet and I make a sleeping bag/bed of sorts on the ground for James. Thousands of hours of extravagant pillow forts to make up for the people that'd never fill them led to one kid with a hell of a lot of material and soft-spot-making skills.
I assume I'll have to stay up late coaxing James to sleep, first night in a new place and all, and mentally prepare myself for it. But the second his head hits the pillow, he's gone. Guess he's been exhausted for a long time.
Once his breathing evens out, I get out my laptop and order a copy of Robinson Crusoe before falling asleep myself.
When I wake, it isn't morning, and James is still sleeping, and I'm alone in the darkness with my heart beating out of my chest. This isn't new, I know this feeling, but it wraps around me even tighter when he's right over there and my skin's tingling the horrible kind of way and I feel like I could collapse into a squishy puddle at any moment.
Nononono, not now, not like this, not-
Feeling my skin slipping and softening and my tapping fingers making up for none of it, I hop on the pads of my feet to the bathroom. I don't breathe until the lights turn on and I'm staring at myself in the mirror, a splotched mix of Kai, Astra, and the cuttlefish beneath.
But the real horror is the tall, brown-skinned woman standing behind me, her gray eyes so soft it's cruel. Opening her lips, the ones that I can still feel on my forehead sometimes, what's left of Joanna Caspen asks, "What are you doing, sweetie? This can't go well."
My lungs shudder and I wish I could close my eyes forever. But this, she, isn't new, either.
According to medical science, panic disorders can come with hallucinations. I've been aware of that since mine started, when I was eight. But something about my alien physiology, or my brain, just seems to make them so vivid.
Broken, indeed.
I exhale, try to smooth my skin, try to get one color or one texture across my pores. Instead it's defiant, and brown fades into white into orange, with these pale stripes breaking up the pattern. If it wasn't proof of my inadequacy, maybe I'd find it beautiful.
Shutting my eyes tight, not wanting to see the mirror or Mama, I say, "I thought I'd never see him again."
"You, my love, are an idiot. He may be able to see Astra and feel something, and maybe Kai can catch his eye, but he'll never be able to see-"
I can't help myself. I open my eyes and the splotching is worse, my entire body almost fully reverted to its orange and white palette, with empty black eyes staring back at me.
My not-Mama gestures at me and frowns, the same one mirrored on my face. Disgusted, she says, "This."
Clamping my hand over my mouth, I smother the tears the best I can. I'm gasping for air, practically suffocating, but no one can hear a peep. I'd rather have the pain rip through my lungs than wake anyone up.
Anyway, if anyone else sees me, it won't make it better. I'll just make someone else miserable, too.
I slide down my counter and sit on the floor, the mirror fully out of sight and my Mama just standing there, tall and curly-haired, this angelic smile on her lips. It's this dimpled, freckle-filled one she only gave me when I was Astra. It almost makes the pain feel better and worse all at once.
Even though I can't feel her, not really, the not-Joanna kneels down and brushes my cheek with her thumb. "Hi, Tiger. How's my little girl doing?"
Gulping, I wipe away my tears and tuck a bundle of frazzled, curly hair behind my ears. A few blinks later, trying to end the redness and crying, I say, "I'm okay."
"No, you're not. Talk to me, Astra." Mama keeps tapping every freckle on my face, and with every touch my skin is starting to feel like mine again, even if my own tapping continues.
"I may have made a big mistake, but I can't-" There's nothing there, but I lean into Mama's touch, desperate for it to be real. At least tonight, away from the mirror, this not-Mama somewhat acts like the woman I remember.
I finally admit, quiet and soft and unsure, "I just want to feel human, Mama."
"You are human, my little Tiger."
"No, I'm not."
"Fine. I'll admit; you're so much better. You have curious eyes and smooth pores and tiger skin," Mama says, pressing her lips to my forehead. I can almost feel it this time. "Who wouldn't want to spend a lifetime with a girl like you?"
But that sends a punch right through my gut. "You didn't."
I fight off swallowing more air like it's water, more hot tears burning my cheeks, more of all the things I need to stop because I need to stop making mistakes, I need to-
Before not-Mama can respond, there's a sudden knock on the door. "Kai, you okay?"
Everything in me snaps back in place. Focusing on moonlight skin and freckles and green eyes that look friendly and fine, I answer, "Yeah, totally."
I got the voice on my first try. That's good.
There's an awkward pause, but James keeps going, saying, "Cause I thought I heard-"
As I wait for everything to settle, I keep the excuses going. "Old house. Creaks. Maybe ghosts. Who knows?"
Watching my skin turn right, and feeling my cheekbones get sharp and my hair straightens out, I exhale. I'm okay.
"...Right." Finally opening the door, James looks me up and down in bewilderment and says, "You should probably get to sleep, too."
I nod and tuck myself under my comforter, like it's any other night.
Except for the fact I have the sun-haired boy of my dreams sleeping on my floor and soon enough, inevitably, I'm going to ruin everything.
This is fine.