October Breezes (28 page)

I pound on the door again. “Skye, let me in!”

No answer.

Unable to take the stillness, I throw the screen wide and
grab the knob. The door’s unlocked, thank God. I run inside,
yelling.

“Skye? Where are you?”

I scan the downstairs and find emptiness settled like dust. I
have to find her.

“Skye? Answer me!”

Taking the stair two at a time, I pass the bathroom and give
it a half glance, at least until I see the pill bottles strewn across
the counter and pills scattered all over the floor. That stops me,
and I want to pretend I’m not seeing what’s right in front of me

—that it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. God, it does.

“Skye!” I yell, desperate this time as I dart into the
bathroom. Only one bottle has the lid off, and that’s the one I
take with me as I charge towards her bedroom. The world
seems to have slowed to half-time, and all I can hear is my
heart. It’s so loud, and it seems to take forever just to get
where I’m going. I nudge open the door.

Skye lies in bed, her face turned away from me, one hand
just above her head. She looks so natural I want to believe
she’s only sleeping.

“Skye?” I prod, expecting her to turn and answer, but she
doesn’t. I edge towards the bed and see make-up ruined by
tears. Although a blanket covers her from the chin down, it
fails to conceal her still chest.

“Skye!” I yell, thinking that will jumpstart her heart. Oh,
God.

I grab the cordless by her bed and call 911. The operator
answers, and I say things. I don’t remember what. The voice
tells me to start CPR. I go through the motions.

She’s never going to wake up.

I jerk upright in the bed, feeling night pressing down on me so it’s hard to breathe. I’m crying. Imagine—a six-foot-four guy crying like a baby. That’s me. Skye’s name is on the tip of my tongue, and my body is bathed in sweat. I calm myself by rocking back and forth, then head to the window to peer out at the beach, watching the rol of the tide, comforted by the sound of the water.

I look back at the bed and realize there’s no point in returning to it, no matter that it’s the middle of the night and I’m tired as hel. I rake my fingers through my hair and try to relax. My heart is stil racing when I pick up the phone and dial Skye’s number. Two rings later, I hear her sleepy voice.

“Helo?”

“Hey, you,” I whisper, closing my eyes to focus on her voice. I pad back to the bed.

“Everything okay?” She asks, and I can hear her shifting in bed.

“It’s fine. I just wanted to check on you after this afternoon, so don’t get up, okay?” I lean forward, resting both my forearms on the flats of my thighs. Right now, I don’t want to close my eyes for sleep, not until that dream is a less powerful force. I used to have it every night after it happened, but the years have blunted it some.

Stil, when it hits, it puts me back in high school again.

“You sound weird,” she whispers. “And it’s three in the morning.”

“Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t have caled.” I know this, but I wanted to hear her voice. “What time you think you’l get here?”

“That depends on how much sleep I get,” she replies. “Maybe by 2.”

“Good,” I say sit up straighter. “I should let you get back to sleep.”

“’Kay. ‘Night.”

“’Night.” I hear her disconnect the cal, and for a moment, I just sit there, the phone stil pressed against my ear. I don’t know why.

I guess I learned early on that the smal things sometimes hint at the bigger ones, and any time I feel currents in the water, I sense a shift coming, even if there isn’t one. Perhaps I’m not so different than Skye in that regard; we just fear different things.

Setting the phone on the nightstand, I grab my keys and head for the beach. The night air is stil heavy with June, so the fact I’m only wearing jeans isn’t a problem. It’s probably stil 75 out. As I step out into the oncoming tide, I look up and down the beach, realizing I’m the only sleepless soul taking refuge in the surf. I let the warm water wash over my feet and in the ful moonlight start looking for shels. It’s not that I colect them; Skye does. She has a thing about them.

A flash of white catches my eye and I bend to find one I know she’l like. Yeah, it’s going to take some cleaning, but that’s al right. I don’t mind. I wipe away the grit and shove it into my jeans pocket before I start walking. I’d forgotten how the sound of the ocean relaxes me, the way the moon spils across the water, burning with night. It would al make a great picture, but I’m no photographer.

I stop and stare at the moon, recognizing this is the place I want to propose to Skye, but part of me is terrified. It’s taken us years to get past what happened in high school. Years. The last thing I want to do is hurt her or remind her of something she can’t bear, but I can’t imagine my life going on with her just in the periphery. I reach into my other pocket and drag out the ring. Staring at the diamond and white gold setting, I know it’s not nearly as much of a ring as I’d wanted, but if I knew one thing about Skye, she liked the simple things—no flash and dazzle would catch her heart. Besides, she would know the ring was a symbol, that if she married me I would love her forever.

Of course, as hard as it was to think about, even if she didn’t say yes, I’d stil love her forever. I’d been doing it so long I don’t think I’d know any other way to exist. I give the ring one last look before shoving it back into my pocket and moving on. Ahead, I see a fishing pier jutting long and forlorn into the caps, silhouetted against the moon, and it’s as good a place as any just to sit.

I feel the grit of sand stick to my wet feet as I trudge to the pier.

There are a few lights strung along its length, at least half of which are burned out, a sign that while this place used to be a big tourist spot, it’s lost its charm somewhere along the way, not that it matters. Its charm resides in my memory, a time when things were simpler and I didn’t understand the way life could come unraveled so completely. There is a measure of safety in blindness, but you can’t find happiness in safety, no matter how much you want to. That’s my argument with Skye, I guess. She feels safe in hiding, always has. I know she’s afraid of being hurt or of hurting someone else.

Maybe she thinks that’s al there is to love, but she’s wrong. I just need a chance to prove it.

I glance back at the house, wondering if I should try to go back and get some shut-eye, but the remnants of the dream are stil too close, and I don’t fancy another round. I figure I’l just stay out here, where it’s cooler, anyway, probably thanks to the breeze bracing off the water.

I get to my feet and head back to the shore to grab a stick.

Between the moonlight and what feeble glow the lamps provide, I start drawing in the sand. At first, I think I’m just kind of doodling, that I haven’t realy figured out what I’m doing. Skye’s eyes begin to emerge, then her hair. Granted, I’ve always had artistic ability, and I’ve sure never chosen to use it—and I’ve never used wet sand and a stick as a medium before, but nightmares and boredom usualy help me figure new things to try.

An hour later, I’ve almost finished the rendering, and I put the last few strokes in her hair to give it that wild carefree look before I stand to take a look at my work. Smiling, I see her face, almost as good as if she were realy here. And that’s from memory. Imagine what I could do with her near me, not that she’d approve of my model selection. That’s another funny thing about Skye: she’s amazingly beautiful but blind to it. Perhaps that’s one reason I love her so damned much. Who knows?

For a moment, I just stand there, staring at her perfect face, the one I’ve taken such care to remove the pain of the past from. She is carefree and unbidden by things she cannot control, things none of us can control, and I only wish I had the power to realy grant her that gift in life. Slowly, I turn toward the ocean, aware that in a few hours the tide wil inch higher and higher on the shore until it washes up at my design, eventualy eroding it away. Turning and trudging back toward the house, I tel myself it’s al right; no matter what tide seeks to destroy it, I know it can’t. The best parts of Skye are stil locked inside my heart where I protect her. One last glance, and I smile at her beauty.

Once at the house, I fal back across the bed, exhaustion reaching for me yet again. I knew it would. I kick off my shoes and slide under the covers to welcome unconsciousness. The last thing I remember is wondering what time Skye wil arrive and whether I wil be conscious by then.

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