Zach doesn't say a thing. Eventually the tension in his body dissipates and I assume he's fallen asleep. He turns to his side so that he's facing away from me, and I let go of his shirt. Unsure of whether my kisses answered questions he had about himself, or awakened new feelings he'd been unaware of, I am suddenly afraid that that I may have royally fucked up. It's not like I expected him to declare his undying love and devotion, but were my kisses so unimpressive that he had no comment? The ramifications of coming on to my brother's best friend set in. I'll feel terrible if I ruin Gabe's strongest and longest-lasting friendship. I wonder if he can salvage their relationship if I go another four or more years without visiting. This line of thinking isn't doing me any good, but with no comment from Zach to gauge his reaction, paranoia is setting in. I resolve to have an open and honest conversation with him in the morning, when we're both sober, but it's still hours before I fall asleep.
I replay the kisses in my head over and over. He kissed back. He kissed back!
I must have fallen asleep at some point, because what seems like seconds later, I wake up the next morning, huddled in my hoodie and still groggy from too many beers. I am definitely getting too old to sleep outdoors and on my side. Zach's no longer to my left on the double chaise and I wonder if he's inside or has taken off. I sit up and stretch, the joints in my back pop as I reach out toward the rising sun. I swing my legs off the chaise, knocking over beer bottles. The clanking of them hitting the deck makes my head hurt. I notice that Zach's bag, which had been on my side of the lounge, is gone, and I know he's not here. Fuck. I get up, avoiding knocking over more bottles and carefully tiptoe over the rest on my way inside.
Considering it's just after dawn, I decide to call him in a few hours. I head to my room and the comfort of my bed. I take my jeans off and leave them on the floor next to my sweatshirt. As I crawl in between the sheets, my elbow hits the walkie-talkie. I can't believe it's only been, like, 36 hours since we talked on them. Grateful we'd exchanged numbers because I don't have the patience to find batteries for it, I set it on the floor next to my bed and fall back asleep.
I wake up to sunshine streaming through the windows and across the bed. Looking at the clock, I see it's just after noon and I can't believe I slept through the entire morning. Luckily getting up and out of bed is easier now than it was at dawn. I debate whether to call Zach now, then eat, or eat and then call him. My grumbling stomach answers for me (though it could just be nerves), and I decide to eat. I grab an apple because it's easy and I don't have to prepare it, and sit at the table. Seriously, I am 30 years old. Why am I acting like a goddamn teenager about this? I reflect on this as I bite into the apple, letting its juice drip down my chin, just as child-like as I'm acting. I feel like a kid dealing with this crush, this situation, this whatever-the-hell-it-is for the first time, because it feels like the first time. Not quite like the first time, but simply kissing Zach feels more significant than times when I woke up next to a one-night-stand, or waited for a guy to call, or made the first few tenuous steps before starting a relationship with someone.
The world's slowest apple-eating by Shaun Andrews commences 34 minutes from first bite. I've procrastinated enough. I go grab my phone from my jeans and scroll down to the Zs, pressing "call" when I get to Zach's name. It rings four times and goes to voicemail.
"This is Zach. Leave a message," his voice instructs.
"Hey it's me. You, uh, left before we could talk. So call me back when you get a chance," I leave my message vague. I've done all I can at this point and now I can only wait for him to call back.
I've already wasted two and a half days getting very little writing in. I grab my laptop and open it, hoping the muse that visited yesterday didn't take off with Zach. I open the script as well as the basically blank document that should be notes for my upcoming book. I add some witty back-and-forth dialog between the main character and his arch-nemesis/love interest for the script, as well as some notes on different kinds of hand-to-hand combat weapons that I want to research. I switch over to the book's empty page. This is always the most daunting part: starting. Taped across the top of my computer's screen are instructions any author will tell anyone struggling to find their voice. I look at it now: Write what you know. What do I know? Right now, in this moment, what is it that I know in my heart to be true? I know what it's like to be a full-grown adult who never thought a mere kiss would make his heart skip a beat. That's something I didn't know before yesterday.
What if I write about that? A story about someone who is maybe a little jaded? Who thought he was well-beyond the butterflies-in-your-stomach crazy crush that normally only teenagers get? And what if the object of our hero's affections is someone he's known half his life? And this happens when he least expects it, mere days from ending it with the person he thought he'd spend the rest of his life with? I begin typing, just to see where this goes.
I look at the time in the corner of my screen. Holy shit, I've been typing for five and a half hours with very few interruptions! And it's good! I stand up to take a break and eat something more substantial than an apple. I grab some hummus and a pita and stand at the counter, eating while my brain continues connecting characters with back stories and making lists of things to get more information on, while a tiny part of it wonders what Zach is doing and why he hasn't called back.
I reason with myself. Considering we spent the past two days together, I imagine he's working today. I only called around noon; if he works nine to five, he just recently got off work, and that's only if he works a normal day shift. Plus it's not like his phone was plugged in last night, so it could be that he hasn't even had a chance to charge it. Oh God, now I'm reasoning why he's not calling, after only six hours. I have got it bad and I'm acting like a teenage girl who's never read He's Just Not That Into You. I shake my head. Save it for the book, Andrews.
I write for another hour and decide to call it quits. Heading back upstairs, I check my phone. No calls. Who am I and what happened to normal, rational Shaun? I turn the TV on and flip through channels; typical, there's nothing that interests me for more than a couple minutes. I must be exhausted because I slip off to sleep.
I wake the next morning at dawn. Grabbing my phone to see if I missed a call, I'm disappointed I have none. I throw my legs over the side of my bed to stand up, and kick the walkie-talkie. The walkie-talkie! Shit, where do Mom and Larry keep the damn batteries? I grab the radio, and my phone, and tear down the stairs, first looking in my mother's craft closet, then the junk drawers: nothing. I raid the cabinets in the kitchen as well as the pantry with no luck. Crap. It's too early to run to the store, in fact it's too early to do much. God knows where in the world and what time zone Mom is so calling is out of the question. But Gabe, that party-animal, might be awake right now. Okay I'm probably being ridiculous at this point, but I push the speed-dial for Baby Brother. It rings three times before he picks up.
"Gabriel's Pussy Palace, Gabe speaking," my brother-ever the gentleman, even at 5:15 AM-answers. "This better be important bro."
"Oh, hey brother," I decide to go for eccentric writer. "What time is it? I didn't even look. I've been writing up a storm and lost track of time."
"The muse has returned! Glad to hear it Shaun," he enthuses. "But seriously dude, what's up? I only went to bed like, an hour ago."
"Oh sorry!" I apologize. "I'm at the beach house and was looking for some batteries. Any idea?"
"For what, bro? Your toys? Needing some self-lovin' so soon after ending it with Rich?" If I didn't love my brother, I'd strangle him. "Hey remember that time I found the purple one in your nightstand?" Jesus Christ. I must have been desperate to call Gabe over some freaking batteries. I decide I'd better end his train of thought before I have to kill him, and suddenly, waiting for a phone call or store to open seems easy.
"Never mind dude. Sorry I woke you," I answer, rolling my eyes.
"Wait, wait bro, hold on," he says, and I can hear him talking to someone on his end of the line. "Sorry,sorry. Had to let Nadia know it wasn't an emergency—oh sorry, Natalia." Gabe Andrews, keeping it classy as always. "Yeah, check the office. I think they're in the top left drawer of the desk."
"Thanks G," I reply. "I'll talk to you later when you're more awake. Be safe with Natalia, okay?" I will always worry about him.
"Yeah, yeah, no glove, mouth love," he answers back with a yawn. I fear for a future where he's in a position of power. I hang up and shuffle to the office, finding the batteries exactly where Gabe said they'd be.
I grab the size I need and open up the walkie-talkie's battery hatch, taking out the old ones and tossing them into the trash can next to the desk. I pop in the new ones and turn it on, satisfied that I now have two methods for Zach to potentially reach me. The writer in me views my crazy morning as great fodder for my story, and I reflect on that. What if, instead of being annoyed with how I am reacting to this crush, I embrace it? Use it as the inspiration in is for my book? I realize I'm justifying acting like a love-sick kid, but if it's also for the betterment my novel and the most authentic story, how can I hold myself back from accepting the fact that I have a full-fledged crush on Zach and not beating myself up over it? Having made this decision, a sigh of relief eases from my mouth as several new ideas hit me. I start the coffee maker and grab my laptop, ready to pound out a good chunk of story while I wait for the boy to call me.
The sun sets before I notice the day's nearly over. Except for a call from my agent and a text from a friend wanting to meet up for coffee, I've had no communication and I begin to doubt Zach is going to call me back. Instead of belittling myself for caring, I simply decide to try again.
"This is Zach. Leave a message,"
"Hey Zach, this is Shaun. Could you please give me a call when you have a free moment? I would appreciate it. Thanks!"
The next day is another waiting-game, with no call back. Every once in a while, I grab the walkie-talkie and push the "Talk" button, just to see if the static it creates finds anyone on the other side. Nothing. It was a few stupid kisses, for chrissake, it's not like I stole his virtue! At this point, the part of me that's known Zach since he was a little eight year old fist-fighter gets pissed. If he doesn't have the guts to call back, or the good manners to return a phone call, maybe he's not the thoughtful and intelligent person I've always given him credit for.
Day three since waking up alone on the double chaise rolls around. I've got several thousand words down in my book and the script's rough draft is finished; I'm in the tweaking stages. I should be happy, accomplishing what I set out to do by coming where no one would think to find me. Instead, I feel out of sorts and want to crawl out of my skin. Maybe he didn't kiss back and it was my imagination. Am I a predatory creep who took advantage of a situation involving too much beer and an old friend? I'm still Shaun, the same person who taught him how to skate, how to open a beer bottle, how to surf! Things haven't changed that much, have they? I mean, I ride a longboard now, but that's because I don't paddle out nearly as much as I used to.
I can't stay cooped up another day in the house. The physical release of hitting the waves is exactly what I need, I determine. I decide to take one of my regular surfboards instead of my trusty longboard because it will be more challenging physically and I could use the mental stimulation to get me out of this funk. I go to grab my wetsuit, but then I change my mind. If I'm going old-school today, I'm going full-on original surf dude. I rifle through my closet, finding an old, old wetsuit from probably ten years ago. It's cut to the knee with gray sleeves and turquoise legs and the logo on the chest is cracked and peeling off. I definitely feel a sense of vain pride that it still fits. Oh yeah, body of a 20 year old!
I load my board and towel into the Subaru and head to a popular beach about 15 minutes away. I park, and as I pull out my board, I notice a distinctive brown GMC Jimmy decorated with stickers. Oh it's on, Student.
I approach from the side, and he's sitting on the tailgate, getting out of his wetsuit. Perfect timing. I rap my knuckles on the side of the vehicle and he looks up.
"Hi dude. I tried calling you," I begin in an attempt to start a conversation. He looks away as he pulls his wetsuit's legs down.
"Yeah." A one-word response. So that's how we're playing it?
"Listen, I just wanted to, uh…" I begin, but he cuts me off.
"Hey I've been really busy man," he brushes me off. Who is this guy and what happened to the easy-going Zach everybody knows and loves?
"Yeah, that's cool," I try to begin again.
"Yeah, I know," his reply is curt and he kind of throws a fake laugh in and at this point, he's just being an asshole. I attempt my own laugh and try once more.
"Listen man…"
"Just drop it dude," he cuts in again, looking away.
"Okay," he gets a one-word response, but at least I'm not a jerk about it.
I take my leave toward the beach. That didn't exactly go smoothly. Well, at least I know where I stand. My feet hit the sand and I pick up the pace. I need to be in the water and look forward to fighting with the waves today. I pass a girl and a kid, when suddenly my name is called.
"Hey Shaun," yells a female's voice. I turn around to see Tori. Oh, hi Tori, sorry if you on-again-off-again boyfriend has been in a mood the past few days—well, even more so than usual. Feel free to blame me; he certainly does.
"Hey, what's up?" the gentleman in me won't allow me to be rude, unlike some 22 year olds several yards away. I head back up the beach to the blonde.
"I need help!" a tiny voice to my right pipes up. It's the kid she's with, who is in the process of building an intricate sand castle.
"Shaun, this is Cody," she point to him, officially introducing us. I drop my board and crouch down to introduce myself, and nearly fall over from surprise. Looking at Cody is like looking at a younger version of little Zach when I first met him.
