between the Gulf and the Intracoastal Waterway. The house nearly disappeared into the shadows of the giant McMansions that flanked it on either side. Though the house was barely standing, the land was worth millions. They’d never even thought of selling like so many old-timers did during the boom.
Behind their house was a rickety old dock that wound through the mangroves and let out at the Intracoastal, offering views of Caladesi State Park and a smattering of islands. We’d lower the Boston Whaler from its creaking davits, and head out just as the sun was peeking over the horizon. We’d fish, pulling snook, sheepshead, hogfish, the occasional baby shark or grouper. The rays flopped around, jumping out of the water—dolphins would sometimes crowd around the boat. Egrets stood in the shoals, fishing just like us. In the summer, piles of cumulus clouds towered above us like distant mountains. I’d heard that bald eagles nested on Caladesi. There was a big nest, but I never saw the birds.
“It’s this, too, you know.”
“What?”
The old man didn’t talk much, that’s why I liked him, could not wait for our weekend mornings on the boat. Didn’t it seem like, after Kreskey, no one could shut the fuck up? My mother, the legion of therapists, teachers, counselors—all well-meaning and kind—but their words meant very little to me then. (Words, the language of healing and understanding, would mean everything later. But not to that broken kid who had no idea how to piece himself back together, how to understand the world again.)
“There’s chaos and pain, son. War. There’s evil in this world. We’ve both seen it, what people can do to each other. What happens to the body, or can,” he said that morning. “But there’s this, too. Always.”
I looked around at the peaceful water, the electric-blue sky, and knew he was right. It was everything, all of it, good and bad. It made a kind of sense; I figured I could live with it.
Now, hiking on this strange property, I am breathless. And this search has yielded nothing; I am back at the house where Angel was fostered, having failed to find the other structure she claimed was there. I am beginning to wonder if she might be wrong, or lying, or exaggerating. All this time, I’ve seen no one in the house. But tonight, there’s a light on inside. I find a perch inside the tree line and watch. I think about those days when we were together again.
You agreed to meet me at Café Orlin in the East Village. You wouldn’t come to my place, and who could blame you? You’d seen something in me that I had been able to hide from most others. And it scared you, as it should.
Always, even as kids, I felt like you were behind glass. A butterfly pinned to velvet, beautiful and untouchable. For the briefest moment, I had been able to touch you—heart to heart, skin to skin. (In fact, I can still feel you. Can you still feel me?) But when you showed up at the café that night, you were out of reach again.
Even at the small table, you kept your distance. Your movements were small and protective, your face still and unsmiling. It had been a few weeks; I thought you might have forgiven me. I’d hoped that the distance had softened our encounter in your mind, that your affection for me had washed over it, as sometimes happens. I’m sorry to admit that, even now, I don’t remember that night in my apartment, exactly. Blurry flashes, moments, words. I know I made you cry.
You ordered a double espresso—with steamed almond milk on the side. Your go-to order. When the waitress left us, you said quietly, “I don’t want to see you again after this, Hank.”
You and Tess had that in common, you were always direct and to the point.
I could feel him raging inside, clanging around.
I was surprised when I noticed that your hands were shaking. That’s when I saw Greg lingering outside. You have good taste; he was a handsome guy. He leaned against a lamppost reading the Post (a lowbrow choice for him, no?) like a character in a noir film. I realized with shock and shame that you were physically afraid of me. That he was there to step in if things got out of hand.
“The messages you left, the things you’ve said. They’ve hurt me deeply. And you’re wrong. I’m not to blame for what happened to