“It was a work thing. Professional development conference about incorporating nature-based learning into our lessons. We spent a week in Gatlinburg, and we went into the park every day for five days.”
“Gatlinburg? But that’s where I live.”
“I know. I spent the whole time wondering if we’d run into you. I knew it was a huge park, but—” I cut myself off abruptly. “I think I was almost relieved when we didn’t. I wouldn’t have known what to say.”
For more reasons than one.
Connor’s eyes were focused on something I couldn’t see. “I can’t believe you were so close and I didn’t even know.”
Closer than he realized. But I didn’t say that. No need to bring it up. Not now.
So I laughed, and said, “Maybe it’s for the best. I don’t know that you would have been happy to see me.”
“Maybe not.” Connor stretched his index finger out and brushed it along the back of my hand. “Still.”
I inhaled. “Maybe you can show me one day. What you like about it, up there?”
I stretched out a finger, let it curl around Connor’s. He gave me a small smile in the dark.
“I’d like that.”
It was tentative, this nameless truce between us.
I was pretty sure Connor was doing his best not to press me, while I was doing my best to just enjoy this, because I wasn’t sure how long it was going to last. Not very long, if I didn’t make some sort of demonstrable gesture soon in the direction of coming out.
Maybe I could start with Katie? That was for sure less terrifying than saying anything to my dad. But somehow, it would hurt even more if Katie had a problem with it. And that thought was scary in its own way.
Connor and I weren’t seeing each other every day, and that was probably a good thing, though I ached whenever he was gone. On Wednesday evening, over a week into this new normal, my dad called to un-invite me from that week’s Sunday night dinner. Katie and a few other athletes from her cheer team were going to be in an exhibition at a political rally in Savannah that day.
That surprised me. Not that my dad would get involved in politics—he had no compunctions about that. But growing up, Sundays had always been reserved for church and nothing else. Apparently, though, there might be press at the rally, and once I heard that, things clicked into place. My dad’s ego far outstripped any commandments about keeping the sabbath holy.
I offered to go over for dinner Saturday night instead, even offered to bring takeout, since I knew my presence would mess up my mom’s carefully planned weekly menu, but my dad said they’d be busy, which was code for, ‘I don’t want to see you,’ and hung up abruptly.
Feeling somewhat disconcerted, I decided to go for a walk. I was too antsy to work, and it didn’t feel right, calling Connor because my dad had made me feel bad. A few minutes after leaving, I realized my feet were taking me towards McIntyre Beach.
I took my time walking through the park, opting to avoid the main path and take one that wound to the side instead. It brought me to the stream at the edge of the park. The trickle of water running across stones and through reeds was soothing, though it was submerged by the roar of the waves as I got closer to the beach.
The dunes petered out when they reached the streambed, so I picked my way over an outcropping of stone and out onto the sand itself. I walked down towards the water, drawn to it by a need I couldn’t express. I wasn’t sure if I wanted it to cleanse me, or carry me away, or if I just…wanted.
I reached the smooth, wet sand at the water’s edge and let the waves crash and roll up to my toes before dancing back a pace, belatedly trying to keep my shoes dry. The water spit a shell up on the sand, rinsing it clean before receding, and I bent down to examine it.
It was one of those tiny conch shells, so worn by the restless fingers of the ocean that its outer layer had disappeared, exposing the inner spiral to the eye. There was something naked about it, and beautiful.
I picked it up, feeling its smooth pinkness against my skin. I rubbed my thumb along the central spire, then rolled it between my