“Yeah.” He hangs his head like he’s ashamed and I know the feeling. I’ve felt ashamed of who and what I am a lot in the last couple of years. I walk over to where he’s standing.
“That’s it?” I ask, watching him slowly turn away from me and I swear I hear him say something like “hardly” or “maybe.” I can’t tell what he said, but I know if he meant for me to hear it, he would have said it louder.
So I leave it alone. For now.
“Hey,” I say softly, easing up to him. I reach out to touch his shoulder. “What’s the big deal? So what? Your dad is the Governor,” I state the obvious, trying my best to ease the worry that’s written across Zander’s beautiful face.
“Travis had an idea,” he begins, looking out towards the beach. “The fundraiser that my dad is hosting is back in Atlanta on Friday. Two days from now. He thinks I should bring you to the fundraiser gala as my date. Best if I introduce you to the media voluntarily instead of Jeremiah writing up some inflammatory bullshit, ya know?” Zander glances at me as I absorb what he’s said.
“That guy would do that?” My voice comes out screechy; irritation over some asshole who writes shit that isn’t true has me balling my fists.
“Come here. I’ll show you. There’s a lot of shit on the web about me. Fair warning.”
Zander grabs my hand and leads the way through his house. We head down a long hall and turn going into an all masculine bedroom that I have to assume is Zander’s private space. He drops my hand and I take the opportunity to take a look around. A low profile bed with clean lines and dark stained wood is set against the far wall. The walls are painted a flat gunmetal gray with white crown molding edging the room. A tray ceiling is sort of the focal point. It is for me anyway. My eye is drawn up to admire the crisp white paint of the tray ceiling juxtaposed against the flat gray covering the rest of the walls. The nightstands on both sides of his bed are antique-looking steamer trunks with all the neat hinges, rivets and hardware. Zander’s bedding is really the only splash of color in the entire room. His duvet is a rich blue with thin white stripes oriented across the bed width wise, giving the illusion that it’s bigger than it really is. There are multiple black and white prints framed in thin, simple black frames on the wall. I walk closer to his bed to get a look at the print above his headboard. It’s in a perfectly square black frame and the print is of a mangled piece of driftwood. It’s sitting on the sand so elegantly as if someone had placed it there as opposed to tumbling ashore riding a wave. The horizon and the water is out of focus. The driftwood fills most of the frame and it’s so badly mangled that it’s almost offensive looking. It reminds me of my sculpting style. Somehow, the fact that it’s distorted is where its beauty lies. Most people would say that it’s ugly but my first thought is to wonder what is that piece of art’s history? Where has it been? Who has it seen? What did it endure to become so twisted? How did it make it ashore in one piece? How did it not just disintegrate under the elements that have obviously been so punishing?
“This is…perfect, Zander.” I tear my eyes away from the art just long enough to look to where he’s standing so that I can give him my compliment. Then I allow my attention to move back to the picture.
“Thank you. I think so too,” he says, leaving the alcove where his computer is set up to come closer to me. “My grandfather took that picture here in Tybee. He always told me stories about coming here when he was a teenager. Said it was his favorite place to visit.”
“Your grandfather sounds like my kind of guy,” I say to the picture, allowing my eyes to trace the contours of the misshapen piece of wood that, at some point, was a part of a tree. It must have been living and thriving at some point. Who knows how it ended up cast into the deep, dark, cold water of the Atlantic. Who knows how long it was adrift. Where it came from. I guess none of that matters now; I think I like it better this way. It’s back on dry land as a new version of itself. It’s reshaped, restructured, and boasts its durability like a badge of honor. I like it.
That tiny bit of me that hopes finds something else to hold onto just looking at the picture above Zander’s bed. I reluctantly tear my eyes away from the picture to turn and face Zander. He’s standing at the foot of his bed wearing an expression that makes me want to explore his handsome features with just my lips.
“Is this entirely necessary? Me leaving the motel? I can just go home.”