Charles chuckles and follows me the rest of the way to the blanket, where we settle side by side in comfortable silence. I bring my knees up and wrap my arms around them, leaning my cheek against my knee as the sun slowly inches up. Once fully over the horizon, I breathe the air in, listen to the soft waves and Charles breathing, and make my wish again. When I glance over, Charles is leaning back on his hands, his legs in the wet sand, his eyes closed as he probably makes some sort of wish. I wonder what a man like Charles would wish for. Probably world peace.
A moment later, he turns his head toward me and smiles. Something weird and warm struggles to life inside me, but I shove it back down where it belongs. I aim what I hope is a kind smile his way, and it must do its job because he just smiles wider and shoves to a stand. He silently brushes his legs off, salutes me, then walks off in the direction he was going. I watch him disappear on the horizon as the sun breaks farther into the sky.The seagulls sing overhead, and the waves crash harder against the shore, and life goes on like it always has and always will.
I gather up the blanket and slip the shells into my sweatpants pocket before heading back toward the house. I shake out the sand from the blanket, then leave my shoes by the back door. The house is warm and quiet, smelling like cinnamon rolls when I step inside. Dad and Pop are in the kitchen, whispering before turning their heads toward me. Dad goes back to the oven, and Pop makes his way over to me. He rests his big hands on my shoulders and squeezes hard.
“How was the sunrise?”
“Same as every other day,” I say dully.
Pop grunts at my tone. “No good shells?”
I drag my hand out of my pocket, pulling out the shells, and watch as he looks them over. He points out the same one Charles had. “I like that one.”
That same weird feeling from outside returns, maybe pride at someone else finding value in something that was worthless to others. Maybe I’m not as alone as I’ve always thought. The smell of cinnamon and icing pulls me toward the kitchen once Pop lets me go. We both take a seat at the island, staring at Dad expectantly, which only makes him chuckle.
“Y’all are so bad,” Dad says as his shoulders shake.
“Feed us, please?” Pop begs as he dramatically leans forward on the counter as if he’s been starved for weeks. “We are so hungry.”
“I fed you last night.”
“That was so long ago!”
I bite my lip to stop my smile at their antics. Dad plates the cinnamon rolls and drizzles icing over the tops. He gives usboth forks, but Pop and I exchange ahe’s crazysort of look before picking up the sticky buns with our hands.
“Neanderthals,” Dad says fondly, then digs into his with said fork.
Pop grunts loudly. “Good. Want more.”
Dad sighs affectionately and continues to delicately eat his cinnamon roll. Sometimes I wonder how I was able to be swept into Anthony’s tide after having such a loving example here at home. Maybe it doesn’t matter if there’s love around you, if you don’t believe you deserve it and don’t love yourself. We finish our cinnamon rolls in peace, and I help Dad clean up in the kitchen.
Pop disappears out into the backyard, no doubt to work on a car in the garage.
“We’ve not done it in a while, because you’ve been home, but usually on Sundays we have a neighbor over for dinner. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, I can go out.”
Dad turns to me with an admonishing glare. “No, you’ll stay. It’s a gluten-free meal, and this is your home. You’ll stay for Sunday dinner tonight.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“I’m really bored.”
Dad presses his shoulder against mine in a comforting gesture. “I know. But you’re healing, my love. We don’t need you to run out and make a new life for yourself right now. We need you to rest and find yourself again.”
“I just feel?—”
“If you say bad…” Dad interrupts with a patented frown.
“I know.”
“So, I’m going to make gluten-free pizza tonight on the pizza stone. Do you have plans for the day?”
“River is closing the shop early this afternoon so we can hang out.”
“Ah, River. He’s a good boy.”
