7. Eclipse
A partial or total obscuring of one celestial body by another.
Rob pulled into a parking space and killed the engine. It was rare to find a spot so close to home. He grabbed the four bags of groceries and walked the half block to his door. The sun was shining and the air was cool and salty. When all was quiet, he could even hear the waves against the shore. Beach life was good.
“Hey, man. How’s it going?” his neighbor asked.
The man stood in the shade of a palm tree waving at him. He wore board shorts and no shirt, standard dress code for these parts. Rob’s neighbors were pleasant enough, old hippies who made a living painting murals and teaching tourists how to surf.
“Good, thanks,” he answered.
He put the bags down on his front porch while fumbling with his keys. He could feel his neighbor’s eyes on him.
“Groceries?” the guy asked. “Man, I’m starving.”
Rob nodded and slid his key into the lock. Was he supposed to offer him some groceries or invite him over for dinner? He didn’t know protocol for curing the munchies of your stoner neighbor. Once inside, he found comfort in the distance between them, no longer responsible for his side of their awkward conversation.
New to the city, and the West Coast, Rob Nettles found himself out of sorts. He had moved for work, transferred for a more advantageous position. He hadn’t thought twice about leaving his former home behind.
He’d settled himself into a small beach neighborhood within the city, trying to mingle among the locals. The community was home to free spirits who supported only local businesses and were sympathetic to its large vagrant population. In the four weeks he’d been there, he’d become addicted to authentic Mexican food and learned to identify the best places for imported beer. That was the extent of his adaptation.
At sunset, he walked the short block to the beach. Content to just sit in the sand and watch the sun drop into the water, Rob knew he had it good. He wondered if the people who had been here for years still felt the appreciation he did. He couldn’t imagine ever taking this for granted. This city felt alive, like the thriving metropolis knew him and welcomed him.
He’d called some of the biggest cities in the country home, but this place was different. The Pacific Ocean calmed him, and the energy of the city fed him. He knew it wouldn’t be long until he assumed the way of life here. With its laissez-faire attitude and persuasive charm, he’d be a fool not to.
Mississippi, the place of Rob’s childhood, was an alternate universe compared to the white sand beaches of California. Back home, the oppressive summer’s heat and humidity could melt you to the sidewalk. Meanwhile, San Diego always offered a cool breeze and moderate temperatures. Rob had traded his boots for flip-flops, his hat for a messy haircut, and his bluegrass for reggae. Still, each day he returned home to the empty apartment, he felt like he hadn’t exactly found where he fit in.
That was, until he’d found a woman by the name of Monica Templeton. Within a matter of minutes, she’d turned his world upside down, making him abandon all reason. He let down his guard and pulled her inside. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This doesn’t happen in real life, not this fast.
Twenty-four hours after their first encounter, he knew he’d never been more wrong. It happens. And it had happened to him.
After spending that first night on the couch with Josie, Tristan hadn’t stepped foot outside her apartment. He’d called work, citing a family emergency, and stayed for two more days. They did nothing more than talk and sleep, and sometimes he’d watch her sketch things in her notebook while he read. Most of their time together had been spent telling stories of their past. For so long those memories had been pushed into the background of his mind. It invigorated him to relive those happy scenes, playing them out for Josie to hear.
Tristan slid his tray onto the lunchroom table and took a seat. He poked at the brown glob of chili with his spoon.
“Where’s Mac?” he asked.
“She checked out in second hour,” Kohen answered.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. April told Ryan who told me. April’s in that class with her.”
Tristan abandoned his food and searched the rows of tables for April Landry. This girl was the mouth of the South, and if anyone knew details, she surely would. Spotting her three tables over, he approached the group.
“Why did Mac leave?” he blurted out, interrupting a conversation already in progress.
“Who?” she said.
“McKenzi!”
“Oh, her,” April said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know. One minute she was there, the next she was gone.”
The afternoon was torture. Tristan’s mind went over every possible scenario, each one more terrible than the one before. By the time the last bell rang, he’d convinced himself that McKenzi had suffered some sort of life-threatening injury and was lying helpless in Charity Hospital.
When the last bell rang, he ran the entire way to her house, tripping up the steps and collapsing onto the front porch. He beat on the front door, yelling for Earl to answer it and tell him that Mac was okay.
Finally, the door was thrown open and McKenzi stood staring at her exhausted boyfriend.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Are you okay? Let me look at you,” he almost shouted. Tristan entered her house, his hands checking the functionality of each limb, his eyes searching for signs of injury. He spun her in place, completing his thorough examination. “How’s your pulse? Are you feeling faint? Seeing spots? How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Are you done?” McKenzi asked, one eyebrow quirked at his crazed behavior.
“Why did you leave school?” Tristan asked, his voice accusatory.
“None of your business.”
“Tell me, Mac!”
“I don’t want to.”
“Fine! Just have your little secret,” he yelled.
“I can’t, Tristan.”
“You sure the hell can. I’ll go up there and rip every *NSYNC poster from your wall!”
“Fine, you hardheaded pig! I got my period, okay? I bled all over my favorite blue jean skirt and had to come home! Are you satisfied, you nosy ass?”
Tristan scrambled backward off her porch and, without another word, took off toward his house. When he finally made it home, he begged his mother to help him make it right. He couldn’t stand the idea of Mac being angry with him.
Two hours later, McKenzi answered the door to find a blue gift bag topped with a yellow bow. She looked around but found no sign of its owner. Tristan smiled from his hiding place, watching her carry the package inside. Having a doctor for a father, Tristan’s thorough sex talk had involved all aspects of reproduction and the female cycle. McKenzi sat at her kitchen table and unpacked her gift, item by item, unaware of being observed through the large bay window. There was a bottle of ibuprofen, a package of chocolates, a brand-new blue jean skirt with a tiny note written in Tristan’s obsessively neat cursive. McKenzi smiled, barely stifling her laughter as she read it: “I’m sorry. You’ll feel better in five to seven days. Tristan.”
Josie was so tickled by the story she smothered his face with kisses and insisted that he had to be the sweetest twelve-year-old in the history of the world. Tristan returned her kisses and whispered how he wished she could remember that day to tell him her own version of it.
Their relationship was a curious one—giving and taking in small doses. Josie still seemed shielded, as if she were awaiting rejection. Tristan knew no matter what he verbally promised, she’d never believe that he was here to stay. So he vowed to show her, to prove to her that he wasn’t just a fleeting reminder of her past. He felt as if his roots had taken hold and wrapped themselves around Josie. He was immovable and he’d remain that way for as long as she’d allow it.