58
Long Island is a great idea. The first night I’m there I eat popcorn for dinner and sit on the deck watching the waves reach their foamy hands out to me and invite me in. It’s still summer-warm but hazy, and the moonlight is diffused over the water. The limitlessness of the ocean beyond the horizon exhilarates me. I can’t see what’s just past that line, and if I swam out to it, there would be another line I wouldn’t be able to see past. I just know that what’s ahead of me is the rest of my life, starting with tonight. And then tomorrow.
There’s a light, constant breeze off the water that tickles my skin and makes me think of Wyatt. I’m confusing the feel of the breeze with the feel of his skin on mine. There was a time, of course, when these sensations would happen at once, the breeze skimming Wyatt’s hands on my skin. If I’m going to stay out here, I am going to have to get used to feeling him in the air, hearing him in the sound of the gulls. Now that I’m listening to my heart, I realize he’s been right there all along anyway.
On my second night, I decide I need to do something about my bedroom. I start picking the sticks off my tree of life. Maybe now that my life is such a sticky art project, my room doesn’t need to be. When I’ve put them all back in my mom’s stick-collecting basket, I step back to take in what is now a poorly painted tree dotted with dried glue. The ugliness of it starts to close in on me and I open my window. The moon is low over the water and the salty night air blows in. More of this, I think. I grab a sweater and head out the back door, through the dunes, and up the rope ladder to the treehouse. Wyatt’s guitars are gone, and his rug has a few leaves on it, but the futon is still there with a painter’s tarp thrown over it for protection. I pull off the tarp and lie down on the futon, remembering what it felt like to be there with Wyatt, just talking, talking, talking. The next night I go back to the treehouse with sheets, a blanket, and candles.
I secure a part-time job working for Mrs. Barton fifteen hours per week running a reading enrichment program after school. It’ll be enough to cover my food bill. I should be padding my résumé and my bank account and angling for the next big thing. But it feels great not to. The thing about my old job was that there was no collaboration, no back-and-forth. I came in with the plan and that was that. In this life, working with kids, it’s like I’m offering an idea and they’re offering one back. We follow those ideas around until it’s time to go home. I wonder if this was my dream all along.
When I hear from Wyatt, it’s always late at night. If he calls and I’m in the treehouse, it’s an extra thrill. Sometimes I’m asleep and he’s on his deck watching the sunset. I always wake up to respond. I think a lot about what Dr. Judy would say. If I’m addicted to Wyatt, there’s no way this counts as sober.
Wyatt: Are you up?
Me: Why are you up? It’s even late there
Wyatt: Having a rough day. Wondered how your day was
I stretch out on the futon and take in the totally luxurious feeling of knowing he’s waiting for my response. Dr. Judy would flip.
Me: It was maybe my best day. We read a story about dragons, and I had construction paper and scissors for us to all make our own dragon. But this kid Miranda, like six years old, says dragon is like drag on. She takes her chair and drags it on the carpet to make her point. And I’m like wow this is phonics or something so we spend the whole rest of the afternoon dragging each other on chairs. And I did not get fired
Wyatt: I think you’ve found your calling
Me: What was so rough about your day?
Wyatt: I tried to quit my job and found out I can’t
Me: What does that mean
Wyatt: I tried to tell Carlyle I don’t want to write for Missy anymore, that I want to try writing that movie or just try something else. I can’t stand handing her a song and having her turn it into crap. He said he stands to make $100 million off her next album and if I don’t finish it he’ll ruin me
Me: He can’t do that
Wyatt: He actually can. He has a lot of power out here
Me: That’s horrible
Wyatt: So I guess I’m going to wake up tomorrow and write Missy another song
I don’t know how to reply. I’m going to wake up tomorrow and go for a swim. I want to tell Wyatt to walk away from that mess and meet me at the beach. Which is selfish and absurd. I’m lying in a treehouse with nothing to lose, and he’s fighting to reclaim his creative independence. I’m not going to walk outside tomorrow and find him sitting on the back porch waiting for me. I’m not going to wake up in the middle of the night and feel his breath on my neck. A breeze comes in from the water and moves over me like Wyatt himself. I think of the least desperate thing I can type.
Me: I bet it will be a great song
Wyatt: Tell me about the kids at the library
As I text him the highlights of my day, I can picture him looking out at the beach that’s facing the wrong way. He’s in a really bad place again, and I’m glad that I’m here for him this time. When we’ve said good night, I close my eyes and picture Wyatt the way I want to see him, happy, with his guitar in his hands, and I let the waves sing me back to sleep.