Reclaiming the Sand(20)
Author: A. Meredith Walters

Taking my refusal at face value, Flynn didn’t argue, he didn’t even comment. Instead he sat down on a small bench and watched me while I raged internally.

There was always something so easy about being with Flynn. Even as I was embroiled in resentment and age-old bitterness, I couldn’t deny the effortlessness in which we were together.

An ocean of time separated us from the kids we once were together, yet I was surprised to find those people still there, beneath the surface.

“I planted some flowers. The ones you liked are there. The yellow ones with the black center,” Flynn said suddenly, breaking the quiet. I blinked in confusion.

What was he talking about?

“You used to pick them on the way home. They grew by the road near the bridge. You would wrap the stems together and then throw them in the water. You said they were too pretty. They were your favorites.” He seemed to be reciting from a book, his sentences monotone and fluid.

How the hell did he remember all this shit about me? Whereas I had made a conscientious effort to forget, it seemed Flynn’s memories were as vivid as ever. I didn’t know what to do with that.

“Black Eyed Susans,” I said softly, rubbing my temples, my head throbbing.

“That’s a stupid name,” Flynn replied.

I barked out a laugh. I couldn’t help it.

“Yeah, it’s a stupid f**king name,” I agreed tiredly.

“You shouldn’t cuss like that,” he admonished. He had always hated when I swore. Yet another ridiculous detail that had gotten stuck in my head.

Flynn got up and disappeared around the side of the building and I wondered if he had gone back inside. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had left me without another word. Flynn wasn’t one for things like closure. He was abrupt and final.

But he came back a few minutes later with a handful of yellow flowers. He held them out toward me. “Here. These are for you,” he said, handing me the bouquet an impatient shake.

I slowly reached out and took them from him. Our fingers brushed briefly and I recognized his instant recoil. His hands clasped together in front of him and I watched as he started to methodically rub them together.

“Thanks,” I said, holding the flowers limply. I knew never to be surprised by what life threw at you, but I was shocked as hell by the direction my evening had taken. I hadn’t expected to find an odd sense of comfort in the presence of the person I hoped to never see again.

“Are you going to come by the art studio?” Flynn asked abruptly.

I remembered our conversation days before and how rudely I had turned him down. I had been hateful and mean. Clearly that hadn’t deterred him. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him where to shove it in the most inelegant way possible, but there was something in the air that made rejecting him seem impossible.

Maybe it was this place that had inexplicably always felt like a home. Maybe it was standing here, with Flynn, being reminded of a time when things made a perfect sort of sense.

Maybe it was the fact that I was still slightly inebriated and not in my right mind.

Whatever it was, my inhibitions were gone.

“Sure,” I found myself saying. Even though Flynn wasn’t looking at me, I thought I could make out the edges of his smile.

“Good,” he answered. He finally looked up at me and the ghost of a smile was still painted on his lips. “You look cold. You should dress better,” he said, indicating my bare legs and tiny top.

I snorted. “I’m cool. But thanks for your opinion,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“You look cold. I’m going to get you a jacket,” he pressed and I shook my head.

“Flynn, I’m fine,” I assured him firmly, knowing that once he was stuck on an idea he wouldn’t let it drop.

“Why were you in the woods?” Flynn asked.

“Uh, I was walking home from a party,” I answered.

“A party,” he intoned in his oddly pleasing voice.

“Yeah. It kind of sucked,” I said, surreptitiously rubbing my arms, not wanting to admit that I was in fact quite chilly.

“Why did it suck?” Flynn’s eyes fell to where my arms were crossed over my chest. He stared long enough for me to know he was enjoying the view of my ni**les poking through my shirt.

“Dude, my eyes are up here,” I snapped, annoyed at the way I flushed under his gaze. Most guys would have had the decency to look embarrassed at being caught ogling. As I said many times, Flynn wasn’t most guys.

“Why did it suck?” he asked me again.

I shrugged. “Just the same ole’ same ole’, you know?” I said, not wanting to get into all the reasons I had left. Like it even mattered. I knew for a fact that it was most likely my friends hadn’t even noticed that I left.

“I don’t know. I don’t go to parties,” he responded.

I wasn’t entirely surprised by his confession. Flynn had always avoided social situations. When we were fifteen I thought he was ridiculous because he never went out. I had been in the midst of my own raging social life that involved delinquency and foolish decisions. But that was before I realized how hard it was for Flynn to be around other people. He struggled with daily interactions in a way the rest of us took for granted. And why would he choose to hang out with people who never once made him feel like he belonged?

Myself included.

“That’s not true. We went to a party once,” I said, before I could censor myself. My mouth fused shut and I wished I could take back my words. The last thing I wanted was to connect with him over that particular shared memory.

Especially one that was so horrible.

From the look on Flynn’s face I knew he was remembering that night all those years ago with perfect clarity. But unlike me, he wasn’t one to hold back what was on his mind.

“Your friends put my head in the cooler and then made me leave,” he stated flatly. I winced. Even though I had convinced myself I had gotten over my Flynn laced guilt, I still felt it rearing its shameful head.

I had taken him with me to a party at Stu’s, whose parents were out of town. Stu lived in a trailer park by the river and the drinking was primarily happening in his fenced in back yard.

It was in a less savory side of town so the typical collection of high school dropouts, stoners and preppy kids trying to seem hard-core were there. I knew better than to take Flynn there. He had been adamant that he didn’t want to go.

He had been anxious yet I had pushed him even knowing what kind of reception he would be given. I don’t know why I had done that; what I had hoped to prove by dragging him there. I had known that my friends would gang up on him. So why hadn’t I listened when he had pleaded to stay at his house and watch television?