A Life Between the Fences

Splashes came from seaward, and she turned to see James's arms cutting through the water, each stroke throwing off ambered water beads. He slowed, turning to float on his back, displacing the water with soft bubbles around him.

"Head feel better?" she asked.

He twisted, looking for her voice as his big hand wiped his face. "Oh, hey—yeah, doing better now. Just needed to get into the water, I guess."

"Are you going to be up here long?" she asked. He was close—close enough for her to see the water slung over his eyebrows. The closest they'd been in two years.

"All summer." He fought the urge to move closer. When she looked at him, though, he could see an anger that rolled across her green eyes like dark thunderheads.

"Well then, you should know that Ryan and I are getting married here. This summer."

"Oh?" he said. "Oh yeah, I saw the ring. Congratulations."

"Thank you."

He drifted. The waves lapped. "Have you been... long?"

She nodded. "A year."

"Good," he said. "That's good. He seems nice."

"Yes, he is."

He looked back at the beach. A pair of white seagulls had landed, strutting near her towel. He swallowed, looking back to her. "I'm sorry we haven't talked much in the last couple years."

"I bet you are."

His eyebrows lifted. "You're the victim then, is that it?"

"You stopped talking to me!" she cried at once. "You never even said why. All my letters. My calls. You never..." She looked away. "James, after I left—"

"That's right," he said. "You left that summer. Not me."

She let out a short, sharp breath. "Fine." She floated shoreward. Anything to be farther from him. "Blame me if that makes you feel better."

"At least I don't make myself feel better by jumping into bed with the first warm body I see."

Angrily, she splashed water in his face. He jerked away, and by the time he could see again, she'd already reached the shallows. Her feet stirred the slick strands of seaweed along the sandy lakebed, and she strode the last dozen feet to shore as the water drained off her body. The white seagulls screeched, then pattered and flew away.

"You're a child," she called back.

That night he laid awake, sheets strewn across the floor, air conditioner rattling in the vents. He thought of that night in the boathouse; the way she'd looked when the moon was caught in her eye; the way her hair laid wispily against his chest; the way their bodies had tucked into one another. The softness of her skin had filled his hands and when he'd kissed her on the shoulder, he'd been unsure where the moonbeams ended and her body began.

He'd told himself it had been his father's health that had kept him away from both the cottage and her, but that wasn't true. It was his garden rose sensitivity that had told him to prune her friendship. She had hurt him by leaving that summer, and so he had removed her from his life. But as he laid in the dark, his toes cold from the air conditioner, he realized the shallowness of his anger and his grief. In the dark ceiling above, he saw the memory of his own anger reflected at him in the turbid greens of her eyes, and he knew he'd done something far worse than her leaving.

He laid fitfully all night, until the sky lightened and he drove into Spring Garden, where the main street was squeezed between diagonal parking spots and limp flowers hung from the pots on streetlights. The general store was bright in the dim morning, like a lighthouse calling him home, and there he bought a box of envelopes from that gaunt mannequin of a man, Mr. Wallace.

When he had been younger, he'd once stolen chocolate from the store. He'd made it all the way back to the cottage with the blue bar in his pocket, where it stayed for two days, the guilt outweighing his hunger. After agonizing over it, he'd told Astrid what he'd done, and she'd gone back with him the next time he was in town. He had wanted to put it back in the box, to pretend that nothing had happened, but she convinced him to apologize.

After James had finished his apology, Mr. Wallace had swiped the bar off the counter. The old purveyor had eyed them both with his finger out. "Next time," he told them, "I'll have you both dragged off to jail by your thumbs." When James had left in a daze down the red interlock outside of the general store, he'd felt like it had been a waste. What was the point of apologizing if they didn't accept it?

"You don't apologize to be forgiven," she'd told him.

He still thought about that sometimes, how much it would hurt to be dragged anywhere by his thumbs, and that was as good a reminder as any that he didn't need her forgiveness; he just needed to apologize.

With envelopes in hand, he drove back to the cottage, stopping at the grey-barked trunk that Astrid used to call the Elephant Tree. Early morning light lanced through the boughs, and the red and yellow wildflowers gleamed beautiful and dew stained as he picked a handful from around the tree. At the cottage, he tied a piece of brown twine around the rigid stems, wrote a letter of apology, tucked it into an envelope, walked across the beach, and laid upon her porch both flowers and letter.

It felt right to go to the boathouse after that, where he ran his hand along the white paint of the rowboat, feeling smooth globules in his fingers where dripping paint had dried. He threw open the doors to the lake and swung his legs over the boathouse's edge.

A tar-black shell of shadow stretched across the water before him, the breezy blue morning sky reflected beyond it, and dark green shores beyond that. In the shadow of the boathouse, water bugs skipped off the lake, their rippled steps flowing inappreciably in the dark water. Once, he had known all their names, just as he'd known their purpose and what would eat them and why. There had been an order to things when he was younger, when the world was smaller in the summer; when everything would disappear around him and his entire life would collapse into the space between their fences—and in that space was always Astrid, where, in those too-short summers, she'd become his world. The hurt he'd blamed her for wasn't fair to her, and neither was his reaction. Ignoring her had been petty and stupid, and his spite had needlessly punished them both.

He sat there, thinking of his mistakes, watching as the shadow of the boathouse slipped away into the morning and, as it did, so did it seem the weeks slipped away into the summer. Soon the heat set upon them, draining the life from their days until they were ravenous creatures of dawn and dusk, fed by the twilight plum of memory. In those dog days, James's father reminisced of youth, when his body was familiar to him. He spoke at length about what he might have done differently if he knew how things would have turned out, but it was wasted on James, as such omens always are on young men who still know the strength of their bodies.

Astrid's brothers talked about baseball and what it was like to play when they were younger. They'd been neither good nor dedicated, but the memories of those late high school days spent on a field instead of half-asleep in a warm classroom had given them many stories, and they shared them with Ryan at the slightest of provocations.

Ryan talked about his parents, who would arrive soon enough for the wedding. He didn't see them much anymore, but he said it would be good that they'd get away from their busy lives in the city for a few weeks. Astrid had met them before and they liked her well enough, but he still thought it would be good for them to spend some more time together before the wedding.

James—though he didn't speak it—thought about Astrid and the way he'd treated her. Since their swim, she'd spoken to him only in passing, and only when niceties demanded it, and not once had she mentioned his letter. He tried to be pleasantly distant from her, giving the space he thought she needed, and he'd even begun to adjust to the new state of their relationship. Even if she never forgave him, he could still be a friend, and he could still be happy for her. And her family was still pleasant enough with him, with both Michael and Caleb remaining good friends.

It was a July night when the brothers dragged him to Spring Garden to drink at the local pub. The place was little more than a dark-walled asylum for local miscreants, but it had pool tables and that was as good as any way to spend a Friday night. The long bar had the smell of lime and the zest of lemon in the air as James waited to pick up beers for himself and Michael. Ice clinked in glasses behind the polished counter, the bartender working down the bar. Nearby, a woman not much younger than James blinked coyly, a thin black straw in her mouth.

James smiled, leaning against the wood as she teased her black hair and batted her smoky eyes. She was short with curled hair and the lights danced on the tanned skin of her shoulders like a heady mirage. But when he thought about saying something, the beers came, and he pulled back to the pool tables. On their third round, he found her there, still alone and smiling, and by the time he returned for the fourth beer and their third round of shots, she was biting her lip. When he made the mistake of telling Michael and Caleb, they both threw down their cues and wandered over to the bar, sitting near to her.

"I've just never seen anyone who is such a virile lover," Michael boomed.

"It's really his generosity that makes him stand out," Caleb said. "Such selflessness."

Michael picked up the beer just put in front of him. "I certainly cannot believe it. He seems too good to be true."

"But he's not!"

The woman shook her head and rolled her eyes, but a smile was clear on her face as she bounced one leg on her knee. James's ears burned red, and he offered her an awkward smile.

"Indeed, our very sister has never gotten over him, and I suspect she never will," Michael said.

James turned to the brothers. Michael was already drunk, but it was the look of terrified sincerity on Caleb's sober face that James couldn't ignore. Caleb pulled Michael off the black barstool and roughly patted his brother.

"Well, it's getting late." Caleb said, and soon he had them both loaded into the car, driving down the dark, bending highway to their cottages. In the backseat, James turned to Michael.

"What did you mean when you said she'd never get over me?"

The silhouettes of lanky trees sped by as Michael shoved him, a dopey smile on his face. "You're great, James."

"He's drunk," Caleb said. "Pay no attention to that moron."

"You meant something by it. Tell me what."

"Well, Jamesy—"

"Ah!" Caleb shouted over his brother. "Ignore him. He's just shit stirring."

Michael grinned, putting a finger to his mouth, shushing himself as he laughed. On the last dirt road home, the car squeezed the gravel, tires popping in the dark as they pulled up to their cottages and spilled out with a pleasant goodbye.

In bed beside Ryan, Astrid heard her brothers stumble in through the rolling glass door, and she pulled herself up to see the damage they'd done to themselves. By the time she shuffled to the kitchen hallway, Michael was giddily making eggs, Caleb thumbing his phone at the kitchen island nearby. She stood in the hallway, their backs to her as she listened and watched.

"You shouldn't have said that," Caleb said. "It's just going to make it harder for him."

"No, it's all good." Michael grinned, eyes half-shut. "And I was never onboard with interfering the way you have."

"Mike, we agreed."

"Ryan doesn't even share that many interests with her. She loves science and stuff, and he's all cooking, and restaurants, and food-whatever," Michael said. "James would be much better for her."

"It's not our place."

Michael scoffed. "Not our place? You made me hold on to the letter." He shook his head. "Not our place... what bullshit. James loves her. He's a good guy. Caleb, you should have read what he wrote, apologizing to her. It broke my heart a little, knowing she'd never see it. He cares about her more than Ryan does—more than anyone, probably—and I think he always will. We shouldn't have gotten in the middle of them figuring that out."

Astrid took in a deep breath and guiltily turned away from the kitchen, tiptoeing back to the bedroom. She slunk under Ryan's arm and listened to the muffled conversation going on in the kitchen until finally the doors of her brothers' rooms squeezed shut, and the cottage fell quiet around her. Ryan's breathing thumped in her ear, and the heat of his body overwhelmed her.

She slipped out from under him again, left the room, and rolled open the glass door onto the deck. The waterthrush and crickets crooned, and the silver moonlight hung ribboned on the black waves. At the end of the other dock she saw James, sitting on a wooden deckchair just as they had that night two years ago.

She stepped across the sand and up the dock. It was a mistake, she told herself. Turn around.

Her soft footfalls made him sit upright as she neared.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked.

He nodded. She passed in front of him and tucked one leg under her as she sat. They stared out at the gentle lake and the gorge of milky stars above them. Hiccups of waves jostled the dock—knock, knock, knocking against the timbers as the needlepoint of stars watched them.

Her head rested on the cool wood of the deck chair. "I can't sleep."

"No?"

"I used to sleep so much better up here."

"Well, sharing a bed, you know, that can make it hard for some people to be well-rested."

"Yeah?" She looked at him, his cable-thick arms above his head, and she folded her hands in her lap with a sigh. "Yeah, sometimes I think I'd sleep better alone."

"You just need a bigger bed," he said.

"How big is yours?"

His stomach unsettled, and he let out a slow breath. "Not big enough."

He moved away from the chair, sitting on the edge of the dock. With a sigh, he dangled his feet into the warm water. "I think it'll be windy tomorrow. Would be a great day to have a sailboat."

She slipped off the chair, playfully scrunching her face as she sat beside him. "Still haven't forgiven me?" Her toes skipped across the waves as she lowered them to the water.

"You think I should?" he asked.

"Why not?"

He straightened his legs, taking his feet out of the lake. Beads of water dripped. "I've never been good at forgiving people."

"Is it so bad to forgive, though?"

"It always felt like giving something away," he said.

"I think it's more like giving something back."

He shrugged. "It's hard."

"I know," she said.

"I'm trying to be better."

She bumped her shoulder into his. "Me too."

"Well then, in the spirit of cooperation, allow me to say that I officially forgive you for stealing our sailboat." He bumped his shoulder back into hers. "But if your brothers ask, this conversation never happened, and you're still a no-good sailboat-thief."

"Thank you." She smiled.

He smiled back and raised his feet out of the water again, listening to the sounds of the waterdrops falling into the lake like kind rain. "So, what brings you out here tonight?"

"I told you, I can't sleep."

"Why are you out here on the dock, though?"

She shrugged. "I like the stars." A memory returned to her. "When I was little, my dad used to tell me they named me Astrid because I was as beautiful as all the stars." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I used to think that meant something when I came to the cottage. I could just lie out here on the dock and look up at them all. It felt like I belonged here more than anywhere else. It's beautiful out here at night, isn't it?"

He looked at her, his heart aching. "Some nights more than others."

"Of course, when I was older I learned my name had nothing to do with stars." She laughed. "But it still means something to me being out here at night."

The stars blossomed above, the crook of the moon talon-sharp as it wedged itself unwelcomely among them, its better half lost in that longing black we call the sky. The heavy croak of frogs and the thin screech of crickets played on. They sat in honest silence and, as the warm water fell against their ankles, it reminded them both of that night two years ago.

"Why did you cut me out of your life?" she asked.

He swallowed, knuckles whitening as he held onto the edge of the dock. The black edge of the far shore was visible against the mirror of water, and he wondered how far away it was to swim. He shrugged. "I was hurt that you left."

"That's not fair," she said. "I had to."

"I know," he said. "But that's how I felt. I'd never been with anyone before. When you left—even knowing you had to—it hurt. More than I expected." He laid flat on the dock, feet still in the water.

"That was your first time?" she asked as his hands stretched above his head and he looked to the stars. She laid beside him, watching his throat jitter as he drew scant breath. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

"I always wanted it to be you," he said at last. "I thought, what could be better than that? And then it happened, and it was a perfect night, and I knew, laying there with you in that boathouse, you were the girl I was going to marry." He turned to look at her. "Then a week later you were gone."

"I never knew that."

He shook his head. "It was just stupid immaturity, you know? I was being stupid."

"Yeah," she said. "You were."

He smiled and his hands slid down from above his head. He wondered about the last two years and all the times he could have spent talking to her, all the things they could have shared. He had stolen it from both of their lives, and for that, he wasn't sure there could ever be forgiveness.

"Did you write me a letter?" she asked. He swallowed nervously, and she knew it was true. "What did it say?"

"You never read it?"

"I never got it."

He took a deep breath and blew it out of his mouth. "It said, I'm sorry for ignoring you all that time. You meant a lot to me, and I treated you really shitty. I should have been honest about how I felt."

She blinked, unsure what to say. "What else?"

"What else?" He chuckled. "It said, we're even for the sailboat."

"What else?" she asked, and her earnestness took him by surprise.

He swallowed. "It said, I wish I'd been better."

"What else?"

He turned to look at her, a chill on his spine. "It said, I miss the way you say my name."

"What else?"

"It said, I'll never meet anyone like you again."

"What else?" she whispered.

Their hands neared, fingertips touching. "It said, you're all the best parts of living."

She pulled herself up and leaned over him. Her hand fell on his cheek, and without thinking, she kissed him. His hand went to the back of her head, pulling her deeper into their kiss like a flower pressed into the pages of a book. A replete sigh left her, and he laid her back on the dock. Their kiss broke, and her eyes opened. She saw his hungry heartache as her hands ran up the thick muscles of his arms, her hair lying scattered on the dock behind her like a broken halo. His eyes glistened, his chest heavy with anticipation.

"Don't stop," she said.

But he pulled away.

"Oh, no—don't." Her eyes teared, and the embarrassment of what she'd done overwhelmed her. "I'm sorry—that was... Oh, I'm so sorry." She got to her feet, the metal and wood of the dock clamouring and clonking beneath her as she fled down the dock, her face red hot.

James could only sigh and stare with anguished abandon at the endless waves of stars above.

It was only days later when the inescapable crush of the wedding descended upon them. Ryan's parents had arrived, and the preparations had moved beyond the point of no return. It was to be a small ceremony with only a handful of friends and family from both of their lives, but already everything was paid for. If a bachelor or bachelorette party had taken place before their wedding day, James knew nothing about it, and he was better for it. He had tried to keep his distance from the Thompsons. He knew, even if she'd lost sight of it for a moment, it wasn't him she wanted.