Even though his jeans are wet, he walks in long, easy strides back towards the beach house, which I’m beginning to think is more like a beach mansion, the closer we get to it.
Zander leads the way down another boardwalk that seems to go directly to his house. The boardwalk that inclines over the sandy dune is wide and weathered looking from who only knows how many years exposure to the seaside elements. Wind, rain, salt, and sand have worn down the wood, rewarding the planks with an uneven surface for having endured the abuse. The wood is sort of a gray color and I suddenly feel an inexplicable kinship with then entire thing. If I had to assign a place or item to represent me over the past two years, this boardwalk would be it. It stretches from one point to another. A passage. A journey. Gray, worn, warped—but still intact, somehow.
I pause and step to the railing, nearly forgetting Zander leading the way. My fingers glide lightly over the banister. The wood is rough and could easily give out a splinter or two if someone got too close and carelessly rubbed against it. It’s clearly in need of some love and attention. I can’t imagine it weathering another hurricane or tropical storm, but what do I know? It may have been here through countless storms. It’s a little ratty, but not broken or useless.
“Don’t worry. It’s solid. Doesn’t look that way to everyone else, but I know different,” Zander asserts from where he has stopped, only feet from me. He has turned to face me, leaning against the same railing my fingers are resting on. His light brown hair is tousled, a single lock hanging lazily over his eyebrow. Something powerful, yet perfectly silent, sheaths my mind and it’s as if Zander knows that I, somehow, relate to this boardwalk similarly to how I related to the beach. Somehow he knows that a part of me wants this boardwalk to last forever, even in its weathered condition.
A flicker of hope resonates through me, praying that maybe if this boardwalk could last an eon of high seas, easterly winds, and merciless rains, then maybe there’s a chance for me too. It’s my hope. My ardent prayer. My silent mantra.
In spite of my anger and self-destructive tendencies, somewhere deep down in the recesses of my soul, I still hope. I’m human and hope is so inherently human that there’s no escaping it. I guess everyone hopes, even widows who wander through life unsure of their place in the world.
In this moment, looking into his knowing eyes, I’d give my next breath to know what Zander hopes for. Somehow it seems like it would be a worthy trade. I don’t know it, but…I do.
Zander’s perceptive gaze lingers a moment longer, then he turns in place and continues down the boardwalk. He steps down from the last plank, makes long strides to the sand-spattered cement patio beneath his home, which rests on stilts, elevating it beyond the reach of storm surge that coastal residents deal with every hurricane season.
I follow silently behind him. A set of wide white stairs lead us to the second level of the house. I tiptoe up the steps behind him, still barefoot and carrying my things in my hand. The stairs open up to the balcony that I’d seen from down on the beach. It’s much larger than I had imagined. This massive balcony does appear to wrap around the entire house, wide and painted pristinely white. White wicker furniture dots the space. Small wicker end tables sit between each set of chairs. I peer up at the lighting above us. Lantern-style light fixtures the same clear blue of the water line the underside of the awning. Wicker benches, matching the chairs and tables, are sporadically placed alongside the railing, looking out towards the water. Comfortable cushions adorn the tops of each bench. He must have lots of gatherings here to have so much seating. I imagine he has quite the circle of friends. He just looks the part of someone who has regular, kickass, slightly swanky parties.
“Wow,” I whisper mostly on reflex, stepping to the railing to look out over the water. It’s gorgeous. The view is spectacular and for right now, I forget how cold I am. I forget how shitty my life has become. I even forget Zander standing near a sliding glass door. I step closer to the railing so that my stomach presses against the wooden banister, rest my palms against the top rail, and draw in the salty breeze.
Just a little north, toward the point, is a lighthouse that appears to be the real deal. I hadn’t really seen it until just now. The oversight is just another indicator that I’m missing so much of what’s right in front of me because I’m too busy licking my wounds. I look out across the horizon, scanning the water as I go. I squint, trying to see as far as I can. It’s so clear today. I must be able to see for miles from here. The water is calm with the exception of normal whitecaps. “You have quite the view, Zander,” I say without turning around.