My favorite memory as a child was on some Australian beach. I was only about five years old and I was home "sick" from preschool. My parents didn't realize this was their first taste of kid lying until they had already both called in from work and I was suddenly well enough to climb the fridge and try to kidnap the cookie jar.
After giving me a chat about little white lies, they decided we should make a whole day out of it, you know? It wasn't too often we were all free, with Mom's busy research schedule.
They spent twenty minutes that morning trying to win me over to their suggestions. Mom wanted to see a movie I'd been talking about for weeks, but Mama was the better saleswoman. She'd get on her haunches and look at me, sitting in my judge's chair, and place her fingers gently on my toes. How about the beach? Her gray eyes sparkled as she talked about hot dogs, ice cream, sandcastles, the works.
Safe to say, Mama knew how to win the heart of an excitable kid.
It was hardly my first time on the coast; like in Washington, we were only a short 10 minutes or so from the sandy shore. But there was something about that beach that always hit differently. Even under the clouds, the water was so clear that the crests of the tides were like someone used a rare white sharpie to outline the sea. All I could smell was salt and fish and the faintest hint of vanilla from the nearby ice cream stand.
The first thing I felt when my toes hit the sand was a drop of rain on my forehead. The moms didn't seem too happy, but I remembered smiling. We had to huddle under the table umbrellas and occupy ourselves with soft serve, but the rain was so warm that it kept melting too fast to eat and by the end, I was too sticky to clap my hands.
To keep Mama's hair protected, Mom had to begrudgingly carry me mid-rain to the shallows and give me a cleansing dunk underwater. The second I was below, I almost wiggled out of her grasp; according to her, I kept insisting I saw a sea otter. After she dragged me back to the table, Mom spent the next ten minutes talking about sea otter habitats and how none of them included Australia. That turned into Mama holding me in her lap and both of us sitting there, enrapt, as Mom went on one of her long rambles. She looked happiest, like that.
And the best part is that Mom ended it by grabbing both our hands and saying Sea Otters did that while they slept, to make sure they never let go of the ones they loved.
That day, there were no hot dogs, no sun, only messy ice cream and rain showers. It was pretty shit, to be honest.
I remember being close to them, though. Seeing them as they were, messy and mine.
Memories like that make Mama's midnight appearances in my bathroom worse. The dull light flattening her beautiful, curly hair, her eyes empty and gray. It makes my heart beat faster and my fingers lose control, tapping without even a rhythm to guide them.
And tonight is just another shit night like that.
Sitting on the lid of the toilet, I hug my knees to my chest. I say words that make me hope she'll go away, but she never does. "I don't like seeing you like this."
She doesn't react, doesn't breathe, doesn't blink.
My bitterness melting, I give up and admit, "I miss you."
Mama doesn't look directly at me, just stares at the mirror like it has all the answers. "I know, Astra."
My shuddered breath makes listening to her harder. "Please don't call me that," I say as I wipe my eyes.
"But it's your name."
"You're not real. You're just another dream."
"And you are such a great expert on what's real." Her words sting more than they should. She's not real, right? But her next ones are worse, and she asks, "Are you even alive?"
Everything that comes out of her mouth keeps hitting me where it hurts. It keeps me tapping. I wonder, When did my skin get so brown again, anyway? There are even some pale shimmery stripes already. If you look hard enough, at least, resting just on the surface of my skin like beads of sweat.
Mama sneers, "You let her do this."
Slamming my hands down on the porcelain seat, I say, "And what was I supposed to do? I was a kid."
Finally, gray eyes meet gray eyes. Or maybe mine are black by now. I don't even know; all I just feel is decades of simmering blood start to boil. "Her rules keep me safe. Being Kai keeps me safe. We don't know what would happen if anyone found out about me. The only problem in all of this is me. I have to find a way to be happy. I need to do better."
I shove my face into my knees and try to hold on tighter. My thoughts are so overwhelming that I feel like they'll spill out of my head. They're ready to tilt what's left of me and capsize.
She isn't real, but I swear I feel her place her hands on my toes, like when I was little. Mama says, "It's not your fault."
"It is."
"It's human to want things, Astra."
In her own way, she's trying to help. I know that. She always used to try to help, but as her words echo through my head and into my chest, all it does is make me sore in a way I haven't felt in years.
"Stop. You know I'm not-"
Like a lightning strike through my spine, the door creaks open and a voice asks, "Kai?"
And with that name, I am Kai again, freckles and pale and all, but it's not enough.
When I look up, he's there, staring, seeing the worst of me.
"James." Another shock rattles through me, but this one hits my stomach and I feel sick, knowing I messed up. Knowing it's my fault that he has to see me like this and now probably feels roped into-
This bullshit isn't his problem, but now it will be, won't it? He's too nice to ignore it. I thought I was quiet enough.
"I'm sorry-"
He shakes his head. "This time, you can't lie and tell me you're okay."
I assume he'll gesture me out, give me a chat about crying in the bathroom like a freak, or something about being the kind of absolutely insane person that talks to no one. I even move my foot off, ready to walk to my Sysiphian punishment.
But instead, James just sits down on the floor across from me. At first, he mirrors my position, both knees tuck under his chin, but after a frown, he lets one lay flat and leans against the wall, much more casual.
That fits him better, I think.
With a sigh, James asks, "What's wrong?"
We sit in silence for a good minute, and not because I want to. It's just it feels like someone has gone all medieval torture and wired my mouth shut. I've seen it in a movie, I think. And he just has to sit there while I stare at him, saying nothing.
I've never felt so embarrassed, not talking to someone. Most times Mom or Beck let my silence slide by them.
James doesn't seem as pleased to let me play wallflower. That, or he very much likes staring at quiet people on the verge of tears.
After what feels like an endless night at sea, James says, "I can't help if you don't talk." He chuckles at himself, though. "Well, I guess that's not true. I could just do all the talking."
Before I can even try to do better, interact like I should, he does just that: "Y'know, I used to get panic attacks when I was younger, too. I could tell by the shaky hands and that adorable little "I'm sorry" twitch you have. Please don't let your lip wobble like that. Your secret isn't that obvious. I just know the signs, and I look at you a lot-" James winces but adds, "Anyway, my mom used to read me books to help calm me down."
I nod, but I feel like my heart stops beating. Is it because he's already figured out I have panic attacks? Is it because he's so casual about it? Or is it because the audacious man threw in the word "adorable" about something that made my skin itch? In ancient times, or even now, crippling anxiety isn't what one normally would call "cute".
Though a part of me figures he doesn't mean it exactly like that, either.
When I stare at him like a little freckled deer stunned half-dead in his sunny honey headlights, he moves towards the bedroom on his own. "Let's grab one from my stash. Mind if I turn on more lights?"
One more nod is all he needs to get up and go rustling through his things.
James comes back all bespeckled, flicks on the annoyingly bright bathroom lights, and sits down on my shower rug. Which is good, honestly, because sitting anywhere else is excruciating. I'd knelt on the tile floor before, when I used to panic-vomit before tests, and my kneecaps stayed bruised for over a week.
He has this little blue book with golden writing in his hands, but I struggle to focus on what it says. Or maybe I just don't really want to, like I want to pretend this isn't real. It's bizarre enough, after all. If I woke up that second, I wouldn't question it. But he's all smiley and that's enough to make me happily float along with the illusion.
Gentle with volume, James says, "This was my favorite as a kid." He opens it and starts reading, "Once when I was six years old, I saw a magnificent picture in a book-"
I don't know what comes over me, but my mouth unlatches and I impulsively ask, "Does it show the picture?"
Looking up, he smiles at me in that stupidly charming, sunny way. "Yeah." He pats the rug next to him. "If you come sit next to me, you could, y'know, actually see it."
"I don't wanna move."
"Oh really?" Giving an exaggerated eye roll, he thumbs the first page. It looks natural for him. "So you don't want to see a snake killing something?"
I blink. "What is it killing?!"
"You'll never know unless you look."
We have a stare-down then, with me tucked against my knees and asking questions from my high porcelain tower, and he a very lost prince down below. But I don't have any hair for him to make the mistake of climbing.
So either we keep our distance, or I have to jump.
Sucking in a deep breath, I slide off my seat and crawl onto the little space next to him. He's warm, like a human sun, but after a few too cold moments tonight... I don't mind. I keep a small distance between us, an inch that drives a wedge between my freckles and his tan. It's enough.
Despite my deliberate efforts, though, every inch of my skin is still aware of how close he is.
"Good." Negating all my careful decision-making, James scoots closer and his shoulder presses against mine. My own cheeks burn too hot to say anything. Luckily, he doesn't look and just goes back to reading: "I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest. It was the picture of a Boa Constrictor in the act of swallowing an animal. Here is a copy of that drawing-"
Somehow, even looking down at the words and the pictures, it's still James that has my full attention. Even just his voice is enough.
Normally, I imagine James' voice like this unforgettable melody that gets stuck in your head the first time you listen to it. Particularly like a 90s Alan Menken song, a Disney princess of a man. But right now, it turns into a hybrid of a lullaby and bath, softer, warmer, and I can't help but feel my eyes shutting.
My twitching fingers and thudding heart and breathiness don't disappear all at once, but I'm so used to it by now that it's weird to feel it relax away at all. Am I really always this anxious? And is one boy with a kid's book really making a difference?
It nags my sense of individuality, but again, you can only care so much about individuality while on the most soothing sun rock you've ever felt.
Before I know it, I'm leaning my head on his shoulder, our arms pressed close, like sea otters holding hands. And just like sea otters, at some point I fall asleep, even though I never mean to.
Hours later, when I wake up, James is passed out right next to me, and his glasses are all askew on his face, and his mouth is gaping. There's even a little drool on his chin. How he manages to sleep so deeply on a shower rug in a bathroom, I have no clue.
To give him credit, I guess, for some time, I was right there with him.
Taking the book out of his lap, I look at the page he left off on. I read the first lines to catch my eye: My friend never explained anything to me. He thought, perhaps, that I was like himself. But I, alas, do not know how to see sheep through walls and boxes. Perhaps I am a little like grown-ups. I have had to grow old.
I peel my eyes from the words and look at the sun-haired man in front of me, with his crinkly smiles and wide-open books. James, seeing things that other people don't? That sounds about right.
But then I realize I'm still right there next to him, staring at him, and the embarrassment pulls me up to stand. Christ, if he saw me...
Instead, I back off and look in my room. The wall clock reads 5 am. Not a reasonable time for anyone to be awake.
I shut the book still in my hands and place it on the floor next to James. Also, I grab one of his blankets from the bedroom and cover him with it. No reason to wake him, but also no reason to leave him cold.
Though, granted, it's hard to picture James ever being cold.
I drag myself back to bed, alone like I should be, but I can't fall asleep. I'd love to say there I did some notable introspection, but to be honest, it's hardly the first time I've stared at the ceiling for hours. All I do is sit there until 8 am, when breakfast seems like a good enough idea.
I bounce my way downstairs (something that's becoming a bit of a bizarre new norm for me) and decide to do something special. After reading me to sleep, James deserves it.
Not as reckless as the man himself, though, I keep things pretty simple. Eggo waffles and bacon simple. I fantasize about James' excitement about it. Maybe I'd get a sunny smile out of him, right in the middle of a dull morning.
But then another person appears down the stairs, brown hair a mess and pajamas buttoned better than usual.
Beck, grumbly, sits down at a kitchen stool and says, "I was going to apologize for keeping you up last night. I knew I was staying up too late cataloging the growth of my sea monkeys and playing music a bit too loud, but you don't look as exhausted as I expected."
"I didn't even hear you."
"That explains the lack of passive-aggressive "She will never be loved" post-its on my door." Beck frowns. "Seeing you make breakfast is... weird. Don't you normally just ask me to buy you something?"
"I felt like changing things up."
"Hmmm. Fair, I guess. Second point of concern, that's a lot of food." Raising an eyebrow, Beck's looking at all the food I'm collecting on my plate (four waffles, 10 strips of bacon) like he would an extra-legged sea monkey under a microscope. "Going through a very late growth spurt? Or is this cuttlefish related?"
I do my best to shrug and be flippant. "Just hungry."
"Yeah, says the person who begs for bagels, eats one, and then says she'd prefer never to see another bagel ever again."
Wouldn't it be nice if Beck wasn't an observant scientist?
Lacking expression, I shrug again. "I was so excited yesterday I forgot to eat dinner."
Beck peers at me, but my saving grace is the fact his eyes keep flicking at the still-steaming pot of coffee that Mom left on the counter. He has other caffeine-related priorities that don't involve grilling me on my breakfast choices.
"Checks out," Beck says, but when I take my first step up the stairs, he adds, "Enjoy all your bacon."
"Will do."
Before I register it, I'm all the way up the stairs and smiling in front of my own door.
Is it stupid to be so excited about making a half-assed breakfast for my refugee? Yes. Is it a little concerning how my fingers are twitching, waiting for James' reaction? Absolutely.
But do I care?
Opening the door to my room, I see James dragging his things out of the bathroom and groggily blinking. However, the second he gives me a once over and zeroes in on the food in my hands, his eyes get wide. Much to my own tragic glee, he gets this lazy Sunday morning smile on his face, even though it's an exhausting Tuesday.
James says, "This is an upgrade from the ramen, gotta admit."
"Thought it'd be nice." Placing the food down on my desk, I grab two Eggos and start nibbling them like toast- lightly buttered and ready to enjoy. I add (without looking at James' face), "And thanks for last night."
"Well, you're welcome. Especially if it gets me bacon and Eggo waffles."
I snort. "The internet does say food is the way to a person's heart."
Shoving down the gravity of what I just said, I take too large of an Eggo bite. James doesn't seem to know what to say, either, just keeps inspecting the bacon like it's an unidentifiable archaeological artifact. Considering I've been a pescatarian for years (I blame the Cuttlefish), maybe it is. But I'm not exactly sure I want to ask.
Just as I'm starting to worry that I might have cooked pork poison and he's just acting polite, he shoves the whole piece in his mouth and swallows.
James says, off-hand, "Hey, maybe this is weird, but would you like to read more together after this? The whole situation aside, it was... nice. I don't think I've shared my favorite books like that in years."
I have to shut down my stupid smile before it makes anything weird again, instead bowing my head and keeping it simple. "Yeah. I'd like that."