Page 17

Jayce

I still dream of a boy running through the trees on bright summer afternoons, and the teenager I snuck my first drink with, and the man who yelled at the football players on my TV every Sunday. I still wake up to find him gone. I still roll over and close my eyes for a moment and wish I could join him.

I force myself out of bed and into the shower before pulling on clothes that I somehow remembered to wash. I’m only half aware of the trees and melting snow and cars passing me by as I drive to the shop. I replace alternators and brakes and rebuild rear ends that were damaged in accidents. I don’t like repairing those anymore. The shop is empty and cold and quiet. The world is grey and muted. It’s been three months since I lost half of my soul, and I’m still here.

There are moments when I forget to hurt. Moments when I don’t struggle to breathe. There are brief glimpses of a life less suffocatingly painful that are so short that I wonder if I’m imagining them. There are sips of tea that don’t burn my throat, steps where the rub of my collar on my neck doesn’t make me want to tear it off in a rage and crawl back into bed, sounds of life that don’t grate on my soul.

These moments come on Saturday mornings. I didn’t realize that at first. I’m too lost in the fog of survival to notice if it’s Saturday morning or Wednesday afternoon, so it took a while for me to recognize that there is a pattern. The moments come when Namid is around.

He’s here again this morning, working in the office like he has every other Saturday for the past two months, and I find myself wandering out to the reception desk and looking at the schedule when I know damn good and well what’s booked without looking.

I try to watch him from the corner of my eye without it seeming like I’m hovering over his shoulder. I don’t want him to feel uneasy here. I want him to stay. I want him to come back again. Having him here is comfortable somehow. He fits.

He finishes in just over thirty minutes, and I’m not ready for him to go. We’ve gotten coffee together after his last three days here, and I wonder if there is a way I can stay in his company for even longer as he shrugs on his light jacket and starts to tell me he’ll see me in a couple of weeks.

“Do you want to get breakfast with me?”

He cringes. That’s not exactly the reaction I want, and I start to shake my head.

“Nevermi… ”

“No, it’s not that I don’t want to,” he cuts me off, and then nervously glances at his shoes.

“I just don’t handle busy places like Saturday morning brunch in public all that well.”

He’s right; it will be busy. It’s the start of tourist season, and in addition to the town’s fine dining restaurant that opens only during the three summer months, the local diner extends its normal lunch and dinner hours to offer brunch during the summer. Both places will be packed.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

His face lights up with a smile that seems almost conspiratorial, and I realize I can’t wait to hear what he says next.

“Do you want to pick up some coffee and croissants and take them to the park?”

The muscles of my face split into a smile before I forget to stop them. I can’t help it; he is so bright and joyful and full of life that when he smiles at me, all I want to do is smile back so that he never stops.

“I’d love that.”

Out here in the middle of nowhere, you can get pre-packaged, preservative-laden, pre-sliced bread in a bag anytime. Freshly baked goods, however, are harder to come by unless you make them yourself. On Saturdays, though, that changes. There are three bakers in town who bring the fruits of their labor to the market for a portion of the proceeds, and we can get everything from crusty sourdough loaves to chocolate croissants.

Namid and I are early enough that the case is still full, but there are a handful of other shoppers in the store, so that could change quickly. I grab the one-dozen-sized pastry box and snatch up two of my favorite onion and cheddar rolls before anyone can pop out of the dairy case and steal them all first.

“Well, that was decisive,” Namid says with a laugh.

“Have you ever had these?”

“I have, and they are indeed the best, but I need another coffee, and people who drink coffee with savory foods are monsters.”

I can’t help the snort that escapes. “Agreed.”

I slip a strawberry tart and an apple fritter into the box while Namid examines every single one as if his life might soon depend on how much knowledge he’s absorbed about the store’s pastry selection. Eventually, he lands on a cream cheese and raspberry Danish, a chocolate croissant, and a maple bar. As I struggle to put the lid on the box correctly, he picks up another box and loads it up with half a dozen donuts before glancing over and noticing the look on my face.

“For Ken.”

“Uh-huuhh.”

He flashes a smile and winks at me as he puts a lid on the box.

Pastries secured, we head to the coffee shop where he corrects the order I place .

“Americano instead of espresso on that, please.”

The barista nods as if Namid hasn’t just shaken my world to its core.

“What in the world is an Americano?”

He chuckles. “It’s just my shot of espresso mixed with hot water so that it’s more like a cup of coffee. I love espresso on its own, but it’s not exactly a ‘goes well with multiple pastries’-sized beverage.”

“Ken likes donuts way too much, and an Americano is better than an espresso with multiple pastries. Educational day for me.”

I’m joking with him. I’m not laughing or dancing or even smiling, but I’m joking with him, and it feels…okay. I’m not the person I used to be, and I’m not okay, but this, this is okay.

When we settle on our usual bench, I watch in amazement as he polishes off the raspberry Danish in a handful of bites and starts in on the chocolate croissant before I’ve made it halfway through one onion cheddar roll.

“That’s…a lot of sugar.”

He blushes and cringes as he looks down.

“I’m not exactly a morning person.”

“It’s almost eleven.”

“Exactly.”

He doesn’t look back up at me as he nervously starts to pick the top flakes off of his croissant.

“You’ve been meeting me at the shop at nine.”

“Mmmhmm. ”

His pale skin flushes even further.

“What time do you normally get up?”

He cringes and shoves half of the croissant into his mouth, delaying the inevitable for a moment. Clearly, he’s not going to say eight a.m.

“I normally go to bed around three a.m. and get up around ten.”

I can’t help the note of disbelief bordering on panic that seeps into my voice. “Why in the world have you been meeting me at nine then?”

He shrugs. “You asked me to.”

My heart aches at his almost innocent and effortless kindness. This is him shopping for my groceries all over again. I asked him to, and that was enough for him. He hadn’t argued or debated or even asked if later would be alright. He’d volunteered to do me a favor when I was at my lowest, and when I made it inconvenient for him, he’d simply agreed. Time after time, two months later, he was still doing it.

“Namid…you should have said something. It’s not like you’d have been interrupting my mid-afternoon Saturday squash game by asking me to meet later.”

He simply shrugs again. “You need help, and if nine is best for you, then I can make it work.”

How has a man this kind spent his life so alone?

“Well. How about we switch to noon next time?”

His smile is brighter than the sun. “My blood sugar would thank you. ”

We sit together for more than an hour. We talk about the fact that the weather is beautiful and about the way we’re both happy summer is starting to arrive. We talk about the fact that dogs are infinitely better than cats. We talk about nothing, really; mostly, we just sit. We sit in the sun and enjoy the morning, and there is a peace that settles over me. There is something about him that comforts me, even when he’s just sitting by my side. When he’s there, the darkness that still threatens to drag me away is a shade lighter.