“Elijah,” I tell him, and he makes an appreciative sound.
“Well, Elijah, I recommend you have the chicken salad sandwich with our steak fries. It’s my favorite.”
I return the menu to the condiment rack, turning back to give him another easy smile.
“Sign me up…” I trail off, leaving room for him to fill in the blanks for me.
“Bennett.” He grins. “My name is Bennett.”
“Thanks for the recommendation, Bennett. I’ll let you know what I think.”
With a nod and a blush, he turns on his heel and walks away once again.This could be very fun.
I’ve never been a good contender for relationships—for obvious reasons—but for flirting? Fooling around? I’mgreat. I don’t get attached or easily embarrassed, and I know my way around a man. Maybe Bennett can manage to keep me entertained for the duration of my stay here in Fort Myers—however long that may be.
Tabitha’s Place gets pretty busy after my order is taken, so other than dropping off my food, I don’t get to interact with the hot waiter much. But all is well—I’m sure I’ll have plenty of opportunities in the future.
I pay my tab, leave him a little smiley face on the receipt, and leave the diner.
I’m lying in bed later that night, listening to the sound of the sudden rainstorm hitting my window, when I remember I have a mission tomorrow. I’m curious to meet the odd local, to see what he’ll be like. In my head, I imagine an old man like John, but grumpier.
I can charm him, I’m sure of it. I mean, I charmed Bennett within seconds, didn’t I?
Right. It’ll be easy. Tomorrow, I’ll get that interview.
Chapter Two
Rowan
I've felt it my entire life. This unbearable sadness; this intangible longing.
From the moment I was delivered from my mother’s womb, I felt it, as if it wrapped itself around me like some impenetrable shield against the world that welcomed me—barricading me from my peers, from any semblance of normalcy I could have experienced.
I’ve lived buried so deeply inside of this never-ending pit of sorrow and yearning for so long that it feels like a second skin. And I fear if I were ever to shed it, I would find that there is nothing underneath—that I would find that I am no more than this pain.
All that to say, I am quite content to stay nestled in the safety of my misery. It feels familiar; it knows how to hold me.
As the axe smacks down, cracking through the center of the oak log I have propped up, I remind myself of this again. It splits into two—even and clean. It’s a practiced motion, an easy task. Fall is starting to settle around me, which means more firewood will need to be stacked onto the back porch. The later in theevening it gets, the colder the air. The closer to November it becomes, the worse it’ll get.
Aside from the cracking of wood and the thud of it hitting the dirt as I throw the split pieces to the side, it’s relatively quiet. The position of the sun tells me it’s nearing lunch, and even the birds are silent.
There is mud on my jeans and caked onto my boots. My shirt is tucked into my back pocket, but were it still covering my torso, it would be covered in dirt as well. It rained last night, and I took my camera into the woods this morning. I came up empty, but that’s fine.
I focus on the cool breeze of the upcoming season, on the feel of the axe in my palm, on the quiet that surrounds me. Cicadas humming, leaves rustling, wood splintering.
I enjoy this solitude as much as it suffocates me.
It may be confusing to some—why I isolate myself when I crave human connection, why I relish in this heaviness I carry when I resent it so. But the simple answer? The one that I keep locked away, for lack of caring what my peers think and the energy to speak: I maywantconnection, but that does not mean I can handle it. I may desire release from this emotional burden, but I would be nothing without it.
Though I know deep down—if my brain didn’t work the way it did—I’d be a social butterfly. The biggest extrovert.
I’d attend town events and sit in the restaurants for dinner. I’d take the time to mingle and maybe even care about what others have going on in their lives. I really, truly would. But unfortunately, sitting on top of all of thoseifsis the reality: I’m fucking depressed.
No one knows why; I’ve always been this way. I’ve seen a few therapists, tried a few pills—but nothing has worked. The therapists couldn’t find a single thing to talk through, and the pills made me brain-dead. Zombie Rowan.
I have no trauma. I didn’t witness a catastrophic event or a major heartbreak. I’m just… sad. And it’s the kind of sadness that makes it impossible to be around other people, to smile, or pretend to be interested in their well-being. So, I stay here—in my little bubble with my darkroom and my pictures of the setting sun and little bluebirds.
Bluebirds that, unlike me, can fly away from their issues whenever they’d like.
