The Counting-Downers (19 page)

“I guess so.”

A thoughtful silence descends upon us and we become prisoners of our own minds for a minute before setting ourselves free and finding each other again.

Something tells me Tristan and I would find each other in every lifetime.

“So, honestly, you’re not mad?” he asks, after a while.

“I’m not mad. At all. Sorry if my initial reaction made you think otherwise; I was just so shocked. I thought I would surprise you and then I ended up being the one surprised.”

“It means so much to me that you came out here to support me on
your
birthday.”

“Where else would I be? I can’t miss the most important moment so far of my best friend’s life, can I?”

“This isn’t the most important moment of my life.”

“No?”

But he either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t want to answer his cryptic statement because he changes the subject. Maybe he was referring to the day his parents died. As a good friend should in these circumstances, I become an accomplice in my own distraction.

“How did your dinner go?”

“Great.” I tell him some anecdotes from our evening’s exploits. He finds my trying to teach the gang Norwegian hilarious.

“I’ll have to test them later. Sorry I couldn’t be there.”

“Nonsense. This is far more important. I’m so proud of you. Has it gone well? Is it everything you thought it would be?”

“Yes and no. It’s nothing and everything like I thought. And it’s more. I’ve never made my art for external validation, you know?”

I nod, remembering my thoughts about Blaise earlier.

“It’s always just been something I do for me. Now, I have all of these people seeing it and commenting on it. Now that I’ve put it out there, it no longer belongs to me. It’s theirs to interpret, theirs to feel, theirs to consume, or discard. I know how I felt or what
I
was trying to say when I made it, but I can’t control how
they
take it. They have all the power and it’s scary.”

“The artist’s dilemma. Good art belongs to the viewer, not the creator.”

“Exactly. It’s an experience that’s going to take some adjusting to.”

“Well, I don’t know if my opinion means much, but I think every single piece is incredible. Objectively, of course. Excluding the fact that most of them are about me, they’re all something I’d be proud to hang on my walls. Or my mom would.” He tilts his head back and gives a burst of guttural laughter at my joke.

“I’m serious,” I say once we’ve both calmed down. “You have a gift, Tristan. And those, who are lucky enough to find their gifts, have a duty to use them. It’s bigger than you. You just have to trust that your gift will reach those it’s meant to in the way that it needs to.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

“Try. Take it from me, your art speaks to people. Even if it’s not your chosen wording, it will say exactly what they need to hear depending on their life experiences and where they are right now on their journey. You can’t control it so you might as well embrace it. It’s a beautiful thing.

“If you want to find your freedom, it’s there. Freedom lies in letting go of things you can’t control and not just being okay with it, but
happy
about it.”

He absorbs my words before speaking. “I’m so lucky to have you in my life, Baby Bear.”

“I know. And don’t you forget it.”

“No danger of that.”

“Good. Do you want to go back inside? I want to take selfies in front of my selves… get it?”

He looks skyward and groans at my terrible pun before slinging his arm around my neck and leading us back into the fray.

As we turn our backs on the cold night air, I realize that it’s in moments like these where true freedom lies. Invisible but palpable, below a sky full of stars, our freedom lies in between a boy who sees a girl, and the girl who feels him.

Truly. Deeply. Freely.

“IT LOOKS LIKE a tree.”

“Does not!”

“Does so.”

It’s been three weeks since Tristan’s exhibition closed to critical acclaim and his star began its slow ascent to the stratosphere. Luckily, he has me on hand to ensure it doesn’t reach its destination too quickly or become over-inflated on the voyage.

Although there’s no chance of that happening as Tristan is the most grounded person I know. His feet are so firmly embedded in the earth that he may start sprouting roots.

June has dissolved into July and summer has settled in for its brief stay. But this being Southern California, it tends to remain longer than the other three annual guests known as seasons. Away from the sea, the air is humid and the heat oppressive. The Sunday sun is high in the sky, illuminating everything, and scorching our skin.

Tristan and I are lying side by side, head to head, top to tail, in my meadow, watching the clouds float past us as we try to match their elusive forms to an earthly counterpart.

“No, you’re wrong! That one looks like a jellyfish stuck on a bed of coral.”

“You are way too specific and way too abstract at this game.”

I laugh, causing our heads to knock together. “And you’re too literal! Plus it’s true! It does look like that. Maybe if you try squinting.” I demonstrate, giggling and holding up my hands to the sky as if trying to frame an image.

“No? Okay, Mister Unicorns-aren’t-real-and-neither-are-athletic-baby-unicorn-shaped-clouds, what about that one?” I ask, pointing toward a fluffy mass that reminds me of a balloon made out of half-eaten cotton candy that someone discarded after they decided they wanted a hot dog instead.

“A popcorn kernel.”

“Oh, my goodness, I give up!”

“We’re never going to see the same thing.”

“I know; that’s the beauty of it. We all see something different even though we’re looking at the same thing.”

“Are you trying to make clouds a metaphor?”

“I’m not trying, they
are
.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he turns his head to the side to face me so that his cheek rests on the purple tartan blanket we’ve placed over the crisp, dehydrated grass. He’s looking at me with a strange mix of contemplation and tenderness. It’s a look that I’ve come to associate solely with Tristan and gives me a sense of fond familiarity as a result.

“You see meaning in everything, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t every artist?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t think so. I see meaning in most things, but sometimes an orange is just an orange, and a cloud is just a cloud, you know?”

“A cloud is never just a cloud. Nothing is ever
just
what is seems. You just have to look closer.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.
‘The greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.
’”

“Did you just make that up?”

“I wish.” I laugh. “It’s one of my favorite Roald Dahl quotes.”

“Well, it sounds like it could be a Matilda Evans original.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Hey, I’m not the one seeing baby unicorn-shaped clouds. Does your therapist know about your hallucinations?”

“She does as a matter of fact.” Although we don’t talk about my cloud watching, I have been seeing a therapist for the past eighteen months to help me deal with my dad’s death and it’s helped immeasurably. Grief may still be present but it no longer threatens to suffocate me.

After our relationship-changing chat, my mom began seeing her and we had a few family sessions. I found that I responded well to Dr. Laura Wesley’s relaxed style of therapy during the group sessions so I signed myself up for a few individual ones after talking it through with my mom. This being California, it’s not unusual to have a therapist on speed dial.

“How is that going?” he asks as his smile clears.

“Good, I have another session in a couple of weeks. I don’t need her as much as I once did, so we only have a session about once a month now.”

“Makes sense, I’m glad you’re finding it helpful.”

“I think it all comes down to the therapist and whether their approach reaches and speaks to you. Maybe you could try speaking to someone about your grandfather and parents. You might get on well with Laura. She’s great at taking you on a subtle thought journey where your perspective tends to change in incredible ways. She’s not pushy or irritating at all. In fact she barely speaks, just lets you talk and work things out for yourself.”

“Thanks, Baby Bear, but it’s just not for me. I don’t like the idea of cutting myself open and bleeding in front of a stranger who’s only there because they’re being paid to be. Besides, who needs a therapist when I have you?” He tries to change the subject with a joke, which I allow. This time. I want to keep pushing the point, but I know I’ll have to change my strategy for next time.

Moreover, I know some truth lies in his words. For whatever reason, he’s comfortable enough in my presence to talk a lot about his life-loving parents dying in a freak diving accident when he was eight, and his life with his grandfather in the painful aftermath.

Even though I’m far from a trained therapist, and am in therapy myself, I like to think I take after my dad and give good advice. I make furtive attempts to try and sneak in some of the grief coping strategies I’ve learned from Laura into my chats with Tristan.

I’m not sure if he’s noticed or if they’ve helped him, but over time, the sadness in his eyes is being replaced with some of the sparkle I saw two years ago and was beginning to believe I’d imagined.

When it comes down to it, the most important thing is that he has
someone
to talk to, rather than keeping all his negative thoughts and emotions contained deep inside. The effect would be like pouring poisonous black tar into a bottle, only adding to it and not expecting it to overflow into his bloodstream.

“Aw, you’re too kind, Goldilocks.” I notice his shoulders lower once he realizes I’m teasing, and we’re moving away from the topic of therapy.

Restless, I roll onto my stomach and kick my long legs out behind me. Tristan shifts and mirrors my position so that we’re facing each other, my chin in my palm, his head resting on the back of his hands. A graceful blue butterfly with midnight wings floats between us, doing a lazy dance through the stifling summer air as I watch on with passive fascination.

I’m in a simple white cotton summer dress with thin straps and flower detailing around the waist and hem. It contrasts against my limbs that have been made golden by the sun’s rays. Despite my Scottish and Nordic ancestry, I’m fortunate to be able to bronze instead of burn under the strength of the Southern Californian sun.

As it always does these days, my stopwatch takes pride of place around my neck, the heated metal searing my skin. It’s far too hot to have the heavy weight of my hair pressed against my neck and shoulders, so it’s away from my face in the form of two French braids, which meet at the back of my head to form a chignon. Tristan said he missed my flowers so he plucked a yellow Gerbera from the meadow and placed it behind my left ear to ‘complete the look,’ in his words.

“I’m so hot.” I groan on the last word, leaning over Tristan to reach into the cooler for an icy bottle of homemade lemonade.

“That you are.”

It takes me a minute to realize what he means before I reward his joke with an eye roll as I sit back down with my legs outstretched, flipping open the lid of the glass bottle before tipping my head back and guzzling half of it without pausing for breath.

As I straighten and wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, my gaze finds Tristan’s already looking at me with a strange expression on his face. It clears with my next blink leaving my face perplexed and his once again playful.

“You know what I meant.”

“That too.”

We both smile at his stupidity.

We packed a makeshift picnic of sorts, full of fresh fruit, salad, and a few light snacks. The type of refreshments summer days call for. Mom has taken an excited Oscar to a birthday party one of his friends from kindergarten is having, so the house and meadow are empty except for us.

Tristan has been back to the meadow a few times since that day in the treehouse two years ago. Since our reunion a few months ago, we tend to alternate between here, the beach, and his forest cabin whenever we need a location to hang out. The beach would have been too crowded today so we decided on the meadow. All of my friends from college had plans for the weekend so it’s just the two of us today, which I’m secretly happy about. It feels right to share this sacred place with only him.