Meet Me By The Dock

Chapter 18

I wake up with sore muscles and a sluggish heart.

Last night, after I clicked the door closed, I sped through my house, running from the shadows that spread up the wall. I ran up the steps, changed out of my clothes, and slipped under the covers. I wrapped my arms around myself and squeezed.

My emotions were building up inside of me and all I wanted to do was scream, or punch something, or tear at myself until I unraveled into a pile of flesh and bones. Then nothing else would hurt, because I'd be nothing at all. I squeezed my eyes tight and held my breath. I dug my nails into my sides and left small semi circles indented into my skin.

But now it was morning.

I've always loved and despised the innocence and naivety that you feel the first few moments after waking up. It's refreshing, to peel open your eyes and take in your surroundings. Like the way my sheer curtains flow lazily with the light breeze. And seeing my bright bathing suits strewn across my entirely white bedroom.

But joy is inevitably followed by despair. "These violent delights have violent ends." or whatever Shakespeare wrote. I'm not trying to compare my life to a Shakespearean tragedy about two lovers that kill themselves but, the quote came to me the more I thought about how unfair it was for our brain to give us that ounce of serotonin just to rip it all away.

Like, hey your life is really turning up! Just kidding– you really fell for that one, huh?

It felt like the universe was flipping me off.

I drag myself out of bed and fling open my big window overlooking the lake. I take a deep breath in and fill my lungs with fresh air. The waves roll softly up the sand and the tiny sound of birds chirping fill the air. The dew clings to the grass, making it shine. I find it strange that every morning I wake up and think that something will be different.

My emotional earthquake must have disrupted the world outside my window. But the aftermath is never visible, nothing changes.

I brush my teeth and comb out my hair in my bathroom across the hall. I grab the first gray sweatshirt I find strewn across my bed. I slide it on and glance in my dressing table mirror as I pull my hair out of the hood.

On the front there is a symbol of two swords crossing over each other to make an X inside of a crest, with a small 1945 below it. Underneath it says, W. J. A.

This is Matthews sweatshirt. Matthew. Cold guilt spread through my body as I remember how I left him standing under my porch light alone.

I'll apologize, I have to. I won't be able to live with myself if I don't, especially after how sweet he was last night. How he held my face in his hands and danced with me and reassured me even after I lost every game of milk toss.

I slip on my flip flops and head down stairs to the kitchen for coffee. As I'm pouring my cup I glance out the window and see my mom standing out there facing the water. It's breezy out today so she has her cardigan tightly wrapped around her body as she stares out at the waves. Her blonde hair flows with the wind, curling around her shoulders.

My brows furrow and I notice she doesn't have any coffee, so I pour her a cup next to mine and fix it up how she likes it. A splash of creamer and one and a half scoops of sugar.

I slide open the already cracked back door with my hip and make my way down the steps next to her. I didn't realize how cool it was compared to yesterday because my room isn't facing the wind.

I come up beside her and silently hand her the coffee, not wanting to disrupt whatever calm she senses out here. She nods with a smile and takes it from me.

We left Maine as soon as school ended, and we're really lucky we got to do that. My mom teaches law at the University of Maine and since she's been there so long she gets paid more because of her experience. So for my whole life, we always both got summer vacation.

We stand like this for several minutes, just sipping our coffee and staring quietly out at the lake. She's the first to break the silence, "I feel like he's everywhere."

She doesn't have to specify who she's talking about, I already know what she means. I flashback to a few nights ago, to when she found his ties and snapped. Cracking under the weight of her grief. Letting the sea of her emotions pull her under.

"I know." I whisper quietly.

Even though we lived at our house in Maine longer than we lived out here, my dad always seemed more at home here than anywhere else. He would get up, go swimming, fishing, or boating. And at night he would sit out back with my mom and sip a beer until it was too dark out to see, then he'd get up and do it all again the next day.

That's probably why he seems to be in everything we do out here. Because this lake, this house, this dock will always carry a little piece of him.

I inhale the fresh air deeply and lean my head on her shoulder. "I have something I have to go do." I say.

"Okay sweetie." She smiles, but it's a sad smile, one where it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

I kiss her on the cheek and run back inside. I quickly braid my hair to the side in the mirror by the front door, and I tuck my baby hairs behind my ears.

Right as I'm about to grab the door knob I notice I'm still wearing his sweatshirt.

Oh god, that would have been awkward.

Not out of character, though.

I slip out of his hoodie and hang it on the banister of the stairs to wash when I get back. And I finally head out the door and across our yards. I'm wearing a blue tank top and white shorts, which I slept in.

It's fine he won't notice. Probably.

I knock loudly on the big, blue door three times. Standing out there in the moments before the door is answered, the fire fueling me to come over here has burned out, and I suddenly feel awkward and small.

What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?

Having lost all of my motivation, the thoughts I've shoved to the deep pits of my brain come crawling back. What am I even going to say once someone answers the door? Oh god, what if he's not home? What if he doesn't forgive me?

What if he hates me?

As soon as I think that, the door swings open and I'm met with what I'm now calling, bedhead Matthew. Possibly my favorite kind.

He stands in front of me in a fitted white t-shirt and blue flannel pajama bottoms. He runs his hand through his messy head of curls.

He scrunches his nose, "Lilah what-" He starts.

"I'm sorry." I blurt out before I can run away, "I'm sorry I left so quickly last night and I'm sorry I left you standing out there and I'm sorry if I hurt you because I didn't mean too," I take a deep breathe, "I think you're pretty too but I just got scared and its nothing to do with you its just-" my voice cracks and wavers, don't cry Lilah, "God, it's hard to explain, I just couldn't— I couldn't—" I look around his porch frantically as if searching for words, I find none so I repeat, "It's so hard to explain—"

"Lilah." Matthew cut me off, I didn't realize how heavy I was breathing until I was gasping for air. "You don't have to explain anything to me." His eyebrows furrow in concern, "I don't want to force myself on you," he pauses, "I may have been a little forward last night."

No, no, no that's not it.

"You weren't." I whisper.

He leans against the door frame, tilts his head and smiles, "Well that's nice to hear."

I smile back, "I am sorry, though." I say again.

He shakes his head, "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"But-" I start but am cut off by his mother calling 'Mattie!' from inside his house.

He looks back and must see what she needs because he turns back to me and says, "Shoot I got to go— take care of yourself, Lilah."

I offer him a small wave as he's finally the one to shut the door on my  face for the first time this summer.