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Chapter Eight
He went fora run in the early morning hours right after sunrise. He stopped nodding to joggers after about the fortieth time he passed a group. The beach was shiny in the morning sun, the brown sand glistening like tiny pieces of coarse glass, covered and brushed over by the foamy surf.
He was hopeful this morning, almost grateful and looking forward to the day. Sure, he’d be going back to his parents’ chaotic home, but the intense drama amused him more today than it annoyed him last night.
What are you going to do? It is what it is.
He thought about the advice he gave his aunt about trading places with her sister, the comment that made her cry. Where had that come from? Why didn’t his father try to reason with them that way, get their cooperation to get along and reduce the stress and drama for everyone? Dimitri never thought about him being very good at that. And he had experts, meaning two ex-wives, to testify to the fact that he was an unfeeling sonofabitch, which is how he would usually describe his dad.
But today, suddenly all things were possible.
He knew it wouldn’t last. But if he could make it until he could at least see her one more time, he’d give anything in the world for that chance. He wouldn’t even require she go through the gauntlet of answering all his unanswered questions to his satisfaction, something his ex-wives used to determine if he wasworth their forgiveness or their time. He could be late, but he better have a good excuse, delivered flawlessly, with just the right amount of care for their feelings. He’d not been very good at that.
Turning the tables, he wouldn’t care even if she told him she was in love with someone else. If she wanted his help, he’d be there. Even if he had to stay arms-length away from her. He could do it. He really could.
And then he’d work his magic, as she called it. The magic that was the two of them together. He’d just focus on the mission, not beg anything from her. Just pay attention to her, anticipate what she needed, and give her all that and anything else she wanted. He’d get away with as much as he could. He wouldn’t be so careful to raise any subjects or ask too many questions. And he’d take the rejection and wouldn’t back away. He wouldn’t insist. He’d wear her down, just by him having that burning flame inside him he’d never speak about. He needed her like the air he breathed. Like he needed to visit the beach, as he was right now. Like he needed the smell and feel of being free, his freedom and the freedom of everyone he cared about.
There was no higher calling. Something he was just wired for, came out of the shoot designed for. He wasn’t birthed. He’d been sent. He honestly believed that.
He observed early morning beachgoers, the scavengers, the pensive ones who found answers in broken shells and smooth rocks they could dig up with their big toes, the fishermen who tired of people peeking into their pails to see what they’d caught, especially if they hadn’t had a score yet.
They were young, old, fat, and slim. Some came to play. Some came to forget. Some came to be inspired. Everyone took from the beach what they needed. It was the only place where, afterwards, it didn’t feel robbed or depleted.
It all was still there. The magic was still there. Like love was still there even though the person you loved was gone forever. He’d taught himself that lesson. He hoped to God he didn’t have to re-learn that one.
He stopped at a seafood diner he knew to make fresh crab omelets and had a huge breakfast with fresh biscuits with apricot jam, his favorite.
Even the lug of food in his gut didn’t tamp down his mood. His lungs were fresh, despite the hour at the greasy spoon with its poor ventilation system. He probably breathed in more oils than he ate. His lungs still felt clear because that lovely engine, the heart of his soul, was humming a little tune, fluffing itself up for another magical encounter with her, even if it was by phone. He checked his watch. That would be about nine hours from now.
He washed his Hummer, vacuumed the floormats, and wiped down the windows. He saw people looking at him. His long trunks with the American flag designs and flip-flops, but he was without the sweaty tee shirt he’d started his run with. Ladies were everywhere, and they too were old and young. Some washed their cars in those incredibly skimpy bathing suits, whether or not they had the figure for it. In Florida, everyone let everything hang out.
One of the things he liked about Florida was that it was “uncool” unless you spent time around Palm Beach or Miami and the ritzy places in between. Not like the beaches and communities of Southern California where it was how perfect you could look, who you knew, and were you with a movie star or social influencer. Could you spike, show your dazzling pearly whites, and laugh easily? And you had to know how to flirt.
Not that he was thinking about it, but if he wanted to flirt, he’d be mostly doing it with women even older than he was. And that made him laugh.
So why the heck would he?
He had loved the very best, most perfect woman in the world. And she was alive. And she was waiting for him to call him back at ten o’clock tonight.
And she’d called him “my love.” But he’d get her to say more, if he was lucky.
His phone rang on the drive back to his parents’ house. Jordan.
“You talk to her?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“We’ll talk again tonight.”
“Did you use your dad’s phone?”
“I did. I erased the activity afterwards. Is there a way I can trace the call tonight when I talk to her again? We’ll only be on the phone for thirty seconds.”
“Don’t think so. Let me do some checking. I have a friend who does gadgets. Dimitri, I need to inform you about something.”
“What?”
