Just a Spring Haze

That Friday night, we drove to Wrightsville Beach. It was still early in the season, so despite the warm weather, there wasn't a crowd. We walked along the shore in the moonlight and sat in the sand, talking for the better part of an hour, watching the lanterns from Johnny Mercer's pier reflecting on the sea. The wind coming off the ocean was just enough to cut the unusually high humidity for that time of night. It smelled amazing. We could see the shadows of a couple as they danced on the water's edge, pausing to kiss occasionally as the moon glimmered off the waves behind them. They were unaware that we were sitting in the darkness nearby, or maybe they just didn't care.

Eventually, we got up and went for a stroll on the pier. We walked out to the far end, to a corner everyone else was avoiding, possibly because of the abandoned fish lying nearby, though it gave off no smell. We leaned against the railing and looked back over the town of Wrightsville Beach, the condos lit up and the dull gleam of a green GloStick being tossed around along the shore.

There was a strange humming in the air. It reminded me of the sound of a wet finger running around the edge of a wine glass. Someone had set their fishing poles in the holsters at the edge of the pier and the lines were singing quietly.

The lanterns, the fishermen, the lights from Wrightsville Beach on a Friday night, were all picturesque, but after a few minutes, I turned toward the water, and it was just...nothing. The moon wasn't hitting it from that angle, so it was simply a thick black spreading out as far as the eye could see. Above it was a lighter black, an ashy sky with stars scattered across. I closed my eyes and told myself that this was space reaching out in front of me into--as far as I could see--infinity. Then I opened my eyes again.

It didn't work. It still looked like I was staring at a backdrop. If I leaned over the edge of the pier far enough, I'd touch it. If I were in the water, I could swim out to it...probably wade. If I were in a boat, I'd run into it, like in The Truman Show. It was painted, black lower down, deep gray higher up. And I couldn't get over how thick it felt, how heavy the darkness. I imagine this is what the walls of the 5 & ½ Minute Hallway from House of Leaves would look like.

I rested my chin on the railing, let an arm hang over the side. The wood was unusually warm against my skin, almost hot, although the sun had long since set.

We stayed there for at least half an hour, listening to the conversations around us and the waves hitting the legs of the pier, the music of the fishing lines and the odd laugh floating up from an unseen group playing in the dark of the beach.

"Ready to go back?" Adam asked eventually.

"Okay...does that look like a wall to you?"

"Hmm?"

"Does it look like we're standing in front of a huge wall and the ocean's not even real, it's just painted on, like a part of the wall?"

"What, like in The Truman Show or something?"

"Yeah, exactly."

Adam stared out, considering. "Sure. I can see that."

I think he was just being polite.

Just having thoughts.

"So we have some news for you," Heather said suddenly. My ears pricked up. Another baby! "But you're not gonna like it."

My heart dropped to my knees. That could only mean one thing.

Her baby gurgled happily to himself from the floor between us, blissfully unaware that something awful was happening: my best friend was telling me she was moving 800 miles away. As far away as I used to live, in another direction. That place she meant when she referred to "back home," and even though my back-home was different, I knew exactly how she felt.

She'd moved here five years ago and I'd known her for most of them, four as a friend. She'd started at my job after I'd been there half a decade and I'd immediately operated on the assumption that she disliked me, partially because her predecessor had and partially because at the time I tended to think most people disliked me unless I was proven wrong. We had brief conversations during our interactions at the end of the workday, but it was mostly polite small-talk. Once, she asked me if I'd sent her a friend request on Facebook. Someone named Stephanie had and she didn't know my last name. It wasn't me, but I thought, maybe I should. And then I'd decided not to. That'd be weird. I've never had a good handle on what's weird--after all, how should I know what's normal to people who aren't me?--so I tend to err on the side of caution. (As a footnote, we later became Facebook friends without much fanfare. And it wasn't weird at all. It was fine.)

In early 2012, she asked if I'd ever read The Hunger Games. I hadn't, but I did the next day. Took down the entire series in four days, which isn't insane in that it's not difficult reading, but it's maybe slightly more impressive in that two of those were long workdays. And I had someone to discuss it with when I was finished! I never had anyone to discuss books with! Most people I know don't read for fun.

We improvised about the books for a while, then the upcoming movie. I told her I never go to movie premieres, but I was thinking about going to that one.

"I'm definitely going," she said. "That's the kind of movie you see opening night."

Hey! I thought. But then, no. You don't ask someone you barely know if they want to go to the movies. That'd be weird.

She walked by five minutes later and said, "We should go together." And it wasn't weird at all. It was fine.

Over the next few months, we started hanging out occasionally without the excuse of a movie. The awkwardness slowly ebbed as my shyness melted. I met her dogs. She listened to stories about my cat. We picked up one another's histories through anecdotes. We were both from somewhere else and I think there was something bonding in that: strangers in a strange land. Not really; just Northerners living in the South--Yankees, they still call us, grouping everyone in together. Doesn't matter; if you're not from here, they don't really care where you're from.

She and her fiancé were good company. I always felt energized after an evening at their place, talking myself hoarse and laughing until my face hurt, the way you do around people you're comfortable with, people you recognize as your own. They can draw you out of your shell, no matter how hopelessly introverted you think you are. Her dogs, even the extremely timid one, began to recognize me and come over for pats as soon as I stepped inside. Everything about their home was inviting. Even the cat who hated me when I showed up to feed him while they were out of town could at least be civil in their presence.

That winter, she took up Zumba. I considered giving it a try, knowing I needed badly to start exercising, but the thought of dancing in a room full of people was petrifying. Besides, I didn't want to be tag-along. That'd be weird.

A few months later, she tagged me in a post looking for Zumba buddies. And it wasn't weird at all. It was fine. Three days a week for an hour after work. I had no idea what I was doing and hid in the back corner, where she was good enough to join me, but I was actually doing it. I was in a room with several others and I was moving to music--confusedly, but technically, it was dancing. I tried going alone once, when she was out of town, but it was too much for me. I used to joke that she was my security blanket, but it was absolutely the case.



It wasn't until we were having lunch with our friend Marie that it occurred to me. Marie pointed out something with cilantro on the menu and suggested I might want to try it. Before I even processed what she'd said, Heather remarked, "She doesn't like cilantro."

"You guys know each other," Marie beamed. "You guys are such good friends."

I chuckled over it later to Adam. "Awww," he said. "You guys are such good friends."

"I think of her as a good friend. She has a lot of friends, though. I think I'm just her coworker-friend, you know?"

"Naw," Adam replied. "I think you guys might be BFFs."

This idea had never crossed my mind, but I considered it and decided maybe he was right, at least from my end. Which was strange, although it took me months to place why. I eventually realized: all of my close friends as an adult have been men. All of my close lady friends were people I met when I was a kid, friendships that were strong enough to make it to adulthood. I love those women dearly and I'm deeply thankful for their continued presence in my life and the way they've let me change and grow without pushing me away. This was simply something new to me, because it wasn't based on the convenience of being born with the same blood in our veins or having known one another since way back when. She was actually just this nice person I met who got me and made me think that maybe I wasn't as out of touch with other people as I often thought.

And over the next four years, that's a thing I came to recognize increasingly about Heather: she makes me feel more normal. I can talk about something I've been mulling over, an unexpected feeling I had in a particular moment, a knee-jerk reaction or impulse that struck me as unusual. She knows what I'm talking about--or at the very least, tries to without judging. At the same time, she's straight with me. She's never unnecessarily cruel, but if you ask her opinion, she'll give it with sincerity and it's very cool.

Maybe this isn't rare for most people, I don't know. Maybe everyone's surrounded by friends like that. But when you're a shy and awkward person who has a hard time getting acquainted with other people, it's always nice to know someone that's truly got your back. You can never have too many friends like that. They bring out something better in you. And they make you more confident--so confident that maybe you find yourself three times a week standing in the front row of a room full of people and dancing in spandex workout clothes.

I was supposed to help her shop for a wedding dress, but I woke up that morning with all the warning signs of a UTI and stayed home to drink my weight in cranberry juice, a decision I will always regret. She chose a dress just fine without me, of course, but it would have been fun, and what a life event to be a part of in some small way. I ate a sandwich while watching her Vegas wedding online (thanks, technology of the 2000s) and teared up with happiness. I worried that she'd move home during her first pregnancy, realized that there were worse possibilities when she decided to stay, but miscarried.

We walked by the river on a gorgeous afternoon a few days after. My heart ached for her as she scratched her dog behind the ears, affected a laugh with a bitter note in it, and said, "I was being greedy. I wanted too much love, huh?" I didn't know what the right thing was to say that day, so I hoped listening was enough.

We grinned across the floor at each other in Zumba when I asked if...something was different about her and she informed me that she'd just found out the night before that she was pregnant again, the third time, the one that came to full-term.

We Christmas-shopped together every December for the last three. It's indecent to go to Blue Moon without her. I've tried.

I know where the light switches are in her kitchen and bathroom without having to feel around. We rode together to her son's dedication. I know first-hand that she makes an amazing Thanksgiving dinner (which I still feel bad about, actually, because she did it alone, while pregnant). And she told me one of the best stories I've ever heard about the time she rolled off the side of a patio chaise to get away from a clown when she was little.

We've

swam in a pool fully-clothed, with her dogs
hopped our way into our workout clothes in adjacent bathroom stalls a million, million times
carpooled after work
sat in the warm sun by the fountain at the theater in the spring and beside a bonfire outside Starbucks in the autumn
messaged one another random silliness in the middle of a rough workday
talked through fitting room walls at most clothing stores in town
been lost in a corn maze on Halloween night, her husband loudly whispering, "MURDER," anytime strangers wandered by
hung out to sort-of watch TV and unwind after a long week
sat together at work gatherings, exchanging amused glances when events dictated
shared countless meals
talked well into the night
exchanged confidences
traded childhood memories
made inside jokes

Twice, we went clubbing with friends downtown. Even on anxiety meds and drunk, I can't let my guard down, but she's a natural dancer. She doesn't do it in a showy way, she just moves to the music with grace and a lack of inhibition that is enviable. One of the those times, she was dancing to a particular song and maybe the alcohol was making me emotional, I don't know, but I remember thinking what a beautiful person she is, inside and out, and now that song always reminds me of that. Even if I was in some I-love-you-man stage of drunkenness, I was right, she is a beautiful person. And generous, kind, funny, and so, so much fun. I'll miss her badly.

The other time we went clubbing, I actually danced. I wasn't going to. Even as drunk as I've ever been, I wasn't going to. There were songs we knew from Zumba on and I thought, Maybe I will. And then I stood right where I was, because dancing isn't something I've ever done, especially in public. That'd be weird.

But she grabbed me and pulled me out to the floor, me laughing self-consciously and her patiently telling me to stop worrying and move to the beat. I mostly just tried to follow her lead and not fall over in a tipsy stupor. She spun in a circle under the arc of my arm, then twirled me around the same. The room dipped and swirled, but she clasped my hand and held me steady and we danced, as best as I knew how. And it wasn't weird at all. It was fine, fine, fine.

 

I think we're like fire and water, I think we're like the wind and sea.

In eastern North Carolina, March is a confused thing.

Once, we went hiking to some waterfalls. It was chilly enough for long sleeves, mild enough to regret them after ten minutes. We went half an hour out of our way to find restrooms, only then they were closed and I finally ducked into some bushes, shouting, "DO YOU HEAR RUSTLING I THINK SOMEONE'S COMING IS SOMEONE COMING," the whole time. We found our way to the entrance from the Blue Ridge Parkway and there was a little shop, only the little shop was closed and there was no one in sight because that part of the Blue Ridge was shut for the winter. It was like being somewhere abandoned. I couldn't actually picture it with people there.

It was colder, the day before. We climbed a trail winding steeply up through woods, maybe it wasn't even meant for humans, maybe it was left by animals. Roots crisscrossed our path under a blanket of last autumn's leaves and everything was dull, dry, brown, until we reached the top of this little mountain, a little mountain in the midst of a hundred other little mountains, and a wooden fence stopped us from rolling down the other side. The wind was blowing a dull ache into my ears and it was the only thing to hear, the wind and all those bare branches and the leaves crunching under our feet, long undisturbed and smelling like some forgotten fall. I carved our initials into the fence, hidden away in the middle of a wooded nowhere deep in the Appalachians, and then we walked back down our little mountain to the car. We'd never find it again if we tried.

Two days later, there was an ice storm and we listened to pellets pinging on the old roof of our cabin all night. When it finally stopped in the early morning hours, the only sound in the world was the water from the creek behind the cottage rushing away under a frozen surface.



We let the road thaw until the next evening and then drove through the nearby countryside, stopping for wild turkeys to cross the road. The melting ice made us cocky and we decided to play on the railroad tracks beside a defunct-looking post office that was still in operation, only the cold coming off all that metal and the setting sun chased us back to the car after a few minutes.

Two days later, we took an interstate drive for hours with the windows down.

Sometimes, it just rains. The day we went to the beach, it rained. Started out sunny, then a mist crept in over the ocean, over us as we drove east to meet it. We walked the slippery Rocks at Kure Beach until my Chucks lost their footing and I decided I didn't want to slip and fall into the sea. Amanté chased some birds in the drizzle. We settled for the park, playing on the swingset as the overcast day turned to night. He kicked massive pinecones around, astonished by their size, then we went downtown for a muggy dinner, but there was no more rain.

Other days, it's that wintry kind of sunny that tricks you into thinking it's warm outside. You bundle up because your phone says it's freezing out, but you don't really believe it until you take that first breath and it freezes in your lungs.

Those confused March days are coming again soon. We'll spend a week rubbing hands in the car to keep warm or opening the windows while we cook dinner, wandering through a museum as a surprise thunderstorm makes the heat outside even thicker or walking a foggy beach, driving to the store in a late-night downpour or navigating unfamiliar streets under a frozen early-morning sun. Together.

Fangs

I like to do year-end music lists as much as anyone. My original plan was to use my favorite songs of the year as writing prompts throughout December, but December was kind of crazy for me and that didn't pan out. So then I was going to make it January, because, hey, it's a 31-item list. But then that fell through, too. So I guess I'm just going to do it anyway, at my own pace.





We're never afraid to be on the right beach at the wrong time. We've

sat on the knoll by the ferry on a wind-raw December night
watched a lightning storm away out over the ocean from the shore
stood in the middle of the rock wall at Fort Fisher as thunder rolled across the water to us
laid huddled on the sand in the hopes of seeing shooting stars when it was below freezing and you could hear the chill in the waves, feel it down to the bone.

So when a January day promised to be clear, if not warm, we didn't hesitate. We bundled up, got in the car, and drove. We drove

                                       

                                                                                                                                                                                                        west
                                                                                                                                                            south
                                                                                                                     west
                                                                             south
                                      west

almost to the state line separating us from the wilderness of another Carolina.



I don't remember a thing about the drive, but I do remember that the day turned gray and it felt right. I remember that salt smell slapping me in the face on a sharp gust the moment I stepped out of the car. I remember the long pier from the road to the beach, between condos and over sand hills and through a copse that buzzed with insects the summer before, now quiet except for the wind. I remember not hearing the ocean, knowing it was over that down and not being able to hear a thing. You take a few steps and suddenly, it's there, white foam crashing white noise dimly in the background until you come over that last rise and the sea opens out before you at full volume, louder than you ever expect and never stopping for breath. I remember the grass on the dunes and almost no one around. The day bright behind the clouds. My toes going numb and my fingers long since gone, out of my gloves so I could take pictures. The wind raking my hair mercilessly. Sand filling my shoes. Jaw locked against the cold, eyes streaming, ears aching deep down inside.

What a good day.