Chasing the Tide
Page 10
“Come on, let’s go inside,” I said softly, my arms still around him.
He shivered. “I hate the snow. It makes everything feel wet and cold,” he said, wiping away flakes that settled in his hair.
“I know,” I said, remembering all to well how much he disliked it.
“I made banana bread,” he stated, still wiping at the wetness on his skin.
I grinned, loving this moment of familiarity.
“I figured you would.”
**
Memories are most commonly associated with the sense of smell. When I walked into Flynn’s house I was assaulted by the rich, warm scent of freshly baked banana bread and cleaning products and was instantly thrown back to a different time in my life.
I remembered walking through these very rooms as a young, angry girl. Flynn and our secret friendship had been my only reprieve from an ugly existence.
Flynn put my bag down on the couch and continued into the kitchen without waiting to see if I would follow.
“You’ve painted the living room,” I called out as we passed through the room.
“I had a leak in the upstairs bathroom. Water was coming out of the ceiling and down the wall. I had to paint it. It looked horrible,” Flynn explained.
I looked at the now soft yellow walls and found the change sort of jarring. I knew altering anything was hard for Flynn. He lived in stasis. I was a surprised he had changed the color.
“Why didn’t you keep it blue?” I asked when we were finally in the kitchen.
Flynn was already cutting thick slabs of bread and putting them on plates. “You like yellow,” he said, as though that explained it.
I frowned. “Yes. I like yellow. What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, not understanding.
Flynn turned around and handed me my plate. He cocked his head to the side and looked at me steadily. His gaze was warm and solid.
“You said the living room would be pretty painted yellow. You smiled when you said it.”
“I did?” Flynn’s recall of seemingly insignificant details continued to astound me. What most people didn’t think was important, mattered the most to him.
“Right before you went to school. We were sitting in the living room. You told me you always wanted a yellow room when you were growing up. That it used to be your favorite color. So when I needed to re-paint the room, I chose yellow. This is your home now too. I want you to like it.”
Christ. My throat was in danger of closing up. And damned if those weren’t tears burning the back of my eyes.
“Oh,” I cleared my throat. “It’s really nice,” I said, my voice cracking just the slightest at the wave of emotion that threatened to take me under.
His simple, thoughtful action was perhaps the best homecoming I could ever have.
“Let’s sit in the yellow living room,” I said, quickly wiping at my eyes that had somehow become wet.
“I don’t eat in the living room. You could leave crumbs and that attracts mice. And ants,” Flynn lectured.
I shoved the rest of my bread in my mouth and put the now empty plate in the sink, raising my hands in front of me.
“All done,” I said.
Flynn nodded solemnly. “Okay then. Let’s go into the living room.” I reached out to take his hand as he walked past me. Without hesitation this time, he threaded his fingers through mine.
“You hand is warm,” he said, his eyes sparkling.
“You sure know how to sweet talk a girl,” I simpered, batting my eyelashes.
“I do? Was that a nice compliment?” he asked, smiling, his white, even teeth gleaming.
I chuckled. “Never mind, Flynn.” I lifted our joined hands and kissed his knuckles. He smiled wider.
“I missed your lips,” he said.
I flushed. I didn’t know why exactly. But his simple, honest words made my insides flutter like I was a schoolgirl again. And I had never, ever been a fluttery schoolgirl.
“Thanks,” I muttered, not sure what to say.
We walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. The yellow really did lighten up the space and I was touched that Flynn had done this for me. I saw the guitar he had bought me all those years ago on a stand in the corner of the room next to a desk with a laptop and a lamp I recognized from the apartment I had lived in before going to school.
The few furnishings that hadn’t been dumped in the landfill when I moved away had ended up here. Waiting for me.
Just like Flynn.
“We should get your suitcases out of the car. I cleaned out two drawers in my dresser for your stuff. Leonard said I should make the house feel like yours too. Because it is, Ellie. It’s your house now. So I cleaned out the drawers. And I made room in my closet. We should put your stuff away. I also made you a key.”
He seemed nervous and I wondered if he too was feeling the pressure of this moment. The need to make it perfect. To make it right.
He produced a silver key from his pocket and handed it to me. He pressed it into my palm, the jagged edges digging into my hand.
“It’s fine, Flynn. We don’t have to do that right now. I’ve been driving for hours. I’d kind of like to chill out for a bit. Relax,” I told him, kicking off my shoes and leaned back into the couch cushions.
“But your clothes will be all wrinkled. You should hang them up. I can do it for you if you want,” Flynn suggested, starting to get to his feet. I grabbed a hold of his arm and pulled him back down beside me.
“Later, Flynn.”
He shivered. “I hate the snow. It makes everything feel wet and cold,” he said, wiping away flakes that settled in his hair.
“I know,” I said, remembering all to well how much he disliked it.
“I made banana bread,” he stated, still wiping at the wetness on his skin.
I grinned, loving this moment of familiarity.
“I figured you would.”
**
Memories are most commonly associated with the sense of smell. When I walked into Flynn’s house I was assaulted by the rich, warm scent of freshly baked banana bread and cleaning products and was instantly thrown back to a different time in my life.
I remembered walking through these very rooms as a young, angry girl. Flynn and our secret friendship had been my only reprieve from an ugly existence.
Flynn put my bag down on the couch and continued into the kitchen without waiting to see if I would follow.
“You’ve painted the living room,” I called out as we passed through the room.
“I had a leak in the upstairs bathroom. Water was coming out of the ceiling and down the wall. I had to paint it. It looked horrible,” Flynn explained.
I looked at the now soft yellow walls and found the change sort of jarring. I knew altering anything was hard for Flynn. He lived in stasis. I was a surprised he had changed the color.
“Why didn’t you keep it blue?” I asked when we were finally in the kitchen.
Flynn was already cutting thick slabs of bread and putting them on plates. “You like yellow,” he said, as though that explained it.
I frowned. “Yes. I like yellow. What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, not understanding.
Flynn turned around and handed me my plate. He cocked his head to the side and looked at me steadily. His gaze was warm and solid.
“You said the living room would be pretty painted yellow. You smiled when you said it.”
“I did?” Flynn’s recall of seemingly insignificant details continued to astound me. What most people didn’t think was important, mattered the most to him.
“Right before you went to school. We were sitting in the living room. You told me you always wanted a yellow room when you were growing up. That it used to be your favorite color. So when I needed to re-paint the room, I chose yellow. This is your home now too. I want you to like it.”
Christ. My throat was in danger of closing up. And damned if those weren’t tears burning the back of my eyes.
“Oh,” I cleared my throat. “It’s really nice,” I said, my voice cracking just the slightest at the wave of emotion that threatened to take me under.
His simple, thoughtful action was perhaps the best homecoming I could ever have.
“Let’s sit in the yellow living room,” I said, quickly wiping at my eyes that had somehow become wet.
“I don’t eat in the living room. You could leave crumbs and that attracts mice. And ants,” Flynn lectured.
I shoved the rest of my bread in my mouth and put the now empty plate in the sink, raising my hands in front of me.
“All done,” I said.
Flynn nodded solemnly. “Okay then. Let’s go into the living room.” I reached out to take his hand as he walked past me. Without hesitation this time, he threaded his fingers through mine.
“You hand is warm,” he said, his eyes sparkling.
“You sure know how to sweet talk a girl,” I simpered, batting my eyelashes.
“I do? Was that a nice compliment?” he asked, smiling, his white, even teeth gleaming.
I chuckled. “Never mind, Flynn.” I lifted our joined hands and kissed his knuckles. He smiled wider.
“I missed your lips,” he said.
I flushed. I didn’t know why exactly. But his simple, honest words made my insides flutter like I was a schoolgirl again. And I had never, ever been a fluttery schoolgirl.
“Thanks,” I muttered, not sure what to say.
We walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. The yellow really did lighten up the space and I was touched that Flynn had done this for me. I saw the guitar he had bought me all those years ago on a stand in the corner of the room next to a desk with a laptop and a lamp I recognized from the apartment I had lived in before going to school.
The few furnishings that hadn’t been dumped in the landfill when I moved away had ended up here. Waiting for me.
Just like Flynn.
“We should get your suitcases out of the car. I cleaned out two drawers in my dresser for your stuff. Leonard said I should make the house feel like yours too. Because it is, Ellie. It’s your house now. So I cleaned out the drawers. And I made room in my closet. We should put your stuff away. I also made you a key.”
He seemed nervous and I wondered if he too was feeling the pressure of this moment. The need to make it perfect. To make it right.
He produced a silver key from his pocket and handed it to me. He pressed it into my palm, the jagged edges digging into my hand.
“It’s fine, Flynn. We don’t have to do that right now. I’ve been driving for hours. I’d kind of like to chill out for a bit. Relax,” I told him, kicking off my shoes and leaned back into the couch cushions.
“But your clothes will be all wrinkled. You should hang them up. I can do it for you if you want,” Flynn suggested, starting to get to his feet. I grabbed a hold of his arm and pulled him back down beside me.
“Later, Flynn.”
