This is fact not fiction

For the first time in years.

- "A Lack of Color" by Death Cab For Cutie

Zuko

Five days after Uncle and I move into town, I finally make my way down to the beach, mostly at Uncle's insistence.

We've been working nonstop on getting the tea shop set up, and he's been on the phone with vendors and suppliers all morning, and there isn't much else I can do for the moment. Uncle has decided he doesn't like the color of the walls, and he wants to repaint. We ordered the paint yesterday and I'm waiting until it's ready, which mostly means restlessly pacing the loft, so he sends me off.

I walk down to the beach, leaving my car parked in the alley behind the shop.

It's strange. I haven't walked this much since before I got my license. In the city, it's impossible to walk anywhere because it's all just so far. But here, in this tiny coastal town, you can walk the length of the whole village without ever breaking a sweat.

The beach is mostly empty. A couple is strolling along while throwing a frisbee for their dog. An old man is combing over the sand with a metal detector. There's some kids, maybe ten or so, hunting for seashells on the tideline. I wonder if they know that the best time to collect shells is when the tides change, before the seagulls get a chance to scavenge them for the tender flesh inside.

There's some cloud cover today, but they're white and fluffy so I don't think it will rain. But it's cold. The wind is sharp and it buffets my hair and nips at my nose, and I shrink into the hood of my sweater. I bury my hands in my pockets and drift aimlessly toward the jetty on the southern end of the beach.

I still haven't heard from Mai.

I'm trying not to think about what that means. I'm sure she'll get over it and come around. She always does. And we've gone longer without talking before.

I reach the base of the jetty. It stretches up before me, high above my head, and extends out into the ocean. I want to walk down to the end, to feel the spray on my face and clear my head a little.

I look around. If I walk back towards town, I can reach the end of the jetty where the sand slopes up to the top of the rocks, but that seems like more effort than I'm willing to put in. Instead, I find some handholds and start pulling myself up the rock face.

I pull myself up the side of the jetty, feeling the burn in my arms and shoulders. The rocks are slick and damp from the rain that fell last night, and my sneakers struggle for purchase. But I make it to the top, a little out of breath, with raw and numb fingers and sand-crusted sneakers. My forehead is damp with sweat and I mentally scold myself for getting out of shape.

I wonder if there's a gym nearby, I think to myself, and then I snort. Probably not. I'll have to start jogging at the very least, until I find something more suitable.

I start for the end of the jetty. The top is compacted with sand. The water is calm and glitters in the weak sunlight. The waves lap at the shore and the rocks and fill my ears with its rhythm. It's like a heartbeat.

I make it to the end and sit down on the edge of the rocks. The sea salt sprays into my face and I close my eyes, letting the weak sun warm my skin. My jeans are going to be damp and sandy when I stand back up, but I don't really care.

I'm still thinking about Mai. But under that, I'm thinking about what Uncle told me again, about closed doors and opportunities. He's told me similar things before, but this might be the first time I've listened.

Shortly after my fall from grace, when Uncle and I were planning our next move (as in, I was trying to figure out where to go from there, and Uncle was kind enough to uproot his whole life for me), I had blown up.

I was in my room in his house in Washington, the room he had graciously given me after my father kicked me out. I had been tired of hunting for jobs and apartments and cars. I slammed my laptop shut and stormed downstairs. Uncle had caught me just before I flew out the door, and he'd asked me what was wrong.

"I want my old life back!" The words had tumbled out of me before I could stop them, angry tears welling hotly in my eyes.

Uncle pulled me in for a hug and I broke down, like I hadn't broken down since I was a child, his hands warm and soothing on my back and hair as he comforted me in a way no one had since my mother died.

"Zuko," Uncle had said. "I know you want what was, but it's time to look forward to what can be. And always remember, life happens wherever you are. It's a matter of making it worthwhile."

I think of Katara, with her ocean eyes and hair that smelled like rain, sitting in my car. Could she be the open window to all of the closed doors in my life? Is she an opportunity, right at my fingertips, waiting for me to take it? I don't know, but I hope she might be.

I sit on the jetty for a while. Long enough for the ocean spray to seep into my hoodie and jeans and leave me shivering despite the warmth of the sun's rays shining down on me. I stand up stiffly and brush the sand from the seat of my pants.

I see her when I turn to go back.

She's on the other side of the jetty sitting beside a tide pool. She's looking down at the water, trailing her fingers across the surface and causing ripples to shiver across it. I can't see her face, but she's wearing the same blue windbreaker, and her hair is braided down her back again.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I find myself standing at the edge of the jetty and calling out to her. "Hey, Katara."

Katara startles, her head swiveling around to find the source of the sound. Her eyes finally land on me, and even at this distance I can see how startlingly blue they are. She lights up with a smile.

"Hi!" She stands up and brushes the sand from her jeans. "Zuko, right?"

I deflate a little. She didn't remember my name? I think dejectedly, but I push it away and offer her a smile in return. "Yeah."

"What are you doing here?"

"I haven't been to the beach since we've been here. Thought I'd come by."

Her mouth drops open. "Are you serious? How can you live a stone's throw from the ocean and wait days to come and see it?"

The corner of my lips quirk up in a smile. "I've been a little busy."

She nods. "Oh, right. The tea shop. How's that coming along?"

It feels weird with me standing up on the jetty and her down below on the sand. Her neck is craned to look at me, and I'm peering down on her.

"Hold on. I'm coming down."

I scale down the jetty similar to how I climbed up it. I jump the last five feet or so and land softly on my feet in the damp sand. I'd be lying if I said I'm not trying to impress her. When I turn back to Katara, she's been watching me. A blush rises in her cheeks, dusky pink and pretty. She seems a bit shy, and I decide that I enjoy the fact that she's a little shy around me.

"Hi," I say, a bit breathlessly.

She smiles. "Hi." She fidgets, her fingers drumming across the outside of her thighs as her eyes flicker from me to the jetty to the ocean, searching for something to say.

I break the silence.

"So uh, yeah, tea shop's coming along nicely." I clear my throat as heat burns my cheeks. Why is it so hard to talk to her? It's never been this hard to talk to Mai. Or any other girl, for that matter. "My uncle's been putting me to work, so I've been busy. That's why I uh, haven't been down to the beach yet."

I don't tell her that I hate the beach. It seems like she likes it here.

"Is it just the two of you?" She poses the question while her fingers come up to run down the length of her braid. She twirls the ends of her hair around her finger before she lets it go, and her hand drops to her side.

"Um, yeah."

I can see the questions in her eyes. Where are your parents? Where's the rest of your family? This girl is an open book. But Katara doesn't ask any of those questions.

Instead, she asks, "Do you guys need some help? Setting up, I mean."

I think about the work that still needs done. Painting is going to push us back days, since all of the furniture I've so carefully arranged has to be moved to the middle of the floor and covered in tarps. And I'm not exactly a painter.

And, if I'm being honest with myself, I want to see more of this girl who quite literally fell into my life when I least expected it, this girl with ocean eyes and a dusky pink blush and a smile that causes warmth to spread in my belly like a shot of bourbon.

I'm attracted to her, I realize.

"Actually, that would be great." I swallow the lump that has suddenly appeared in my throat at my realization. "My uncle wants us to paint. Only if you don't mind that kind of thing. No pressure."

"Oh no, I'm good at that. I don't mind at all." She flashes her bright smile at me again, and my heart stammers in my chest. "My dad does stuff like that all the time. He owns a boat repair shop down at the marina in Rockaway Beach, but he's kind of a handyman too." Color rises in her cheeks again when she realizes she's rambling a bit.

"Well, that works out, then. Because I'm not a painter. At all." I wince internally. Way to make yourself look like a socially awkward dork, I think. "I mean, I know the basics, and it can't be that hard, so um, I think I'll be alright. Especially if I have your help." I'm rambling now. I bite my tongue.

She makes a sound that's some cross between a chuckle and a giggle. It pierces me like a tattoo needle, embedding its ink into my skin.

"I'd be happy to," Katara says with a shy smile. "When?"

"Uh—" I check the time on my phone. "Probably tomorrow. My uncle is sending me to Tillamook to get the paint this afternoon. I've got a list of everything he wants. I guess there's a hardware store there or something. So it might be too late to paint by the time I get back. What time works for you?"

"I could come by later, after you get back," Katara says. She's got her bottom lip caught between her teeth and when she looks up at me from beneath her lashes, the sunlight reflects in them. Her eyes aren't just the ocean; they're a kaleidoscope too. "I mean..if you wanted to get started tonight."

I wonder if I make her as nervous as she makes me.

"That'd be great," I tell her, and I mean it. "If you're not busy or anything."

Her smile brightens. "No, I'm not busy."

She reaches for her back pocket and pulls out her phone. It's an IPhone, but it's older, dated. At least two generations older than mine. It's in a teal-blue case. She's got one of those pop-socket things on it, with a cartoonish narwhal on it. She taps at the screen for a moment, and then she's looking up at me.

"What's your number? I'll send you a text, then you can text me when you get back into town."

I give it to her, and then she slides the phone back into her pocket. She leaves her hand there, and I can imagine the way her fingers curl into the rough denim. It's like we're in my car again. We're just looking at each other, neither of us saying anything.

Then I realize she's looking at me a little expectantly.

"Right." I clear my throat, a nervous habit. "Uh, do you...want me to give you a ride home again?"

Her eyes widen for a moment. That isn't what she was expecting me to say, and I mentally curse myself. But Katara recovers quickly, and then there's amusement dancing in her eyes.

"It's not raining today, so I think I can walk." The corner of her lips turns up into a teasing grin. "But we can walk into town together, if you want."

I smile back at her. "Yeah, sure. I'd like that."

Katara

The house is empty when I get back. Dad is in Rockaway Beach at the boat repair shop, and he told me he doesn't expect to get back until late—it's the busy season for him. Everyone brings their boats in this time of year to get them ready for summer after months of disuse. So I'm alone again tonight.

It doesn't bother me, not really. I didn't lie to Dad the other day when I told him that I don't mind being alone. There's a certain comfort in solitude. Sometimes, you find answers in the quiet that you didn't know you were looking for.

I've spent a lot of time alone in the last year, finding those answers.

I move through the house as though I'm floating just above the ground. I can't explain it. I know I shouldn't feel this...happy...about spending time with a guy who is not my boyfriend, but there's something about Zuko that is just warm and inviting, like a crackling fireplace on a snowy night. Maybe it's the scar, because I know that had to have come from a place of hurt, and I've been hurt too. But maybe it's something else entirely.

I go upstairs first and pass by Sokka's room without going in this time. Once I'm in my room, I rifle through my dresser drawers and closet until I come up with what I'm looking for: a worn-out pair of jeans with holes in both knees and a white t-shirt, both of which are splattered with paint. It's what I always wear when I tag along with Dad to work on projects. I don't change into them yet.

I don't know when Zuko will be back from Tillamook. It's a forty minute drive both ways, and the poor guy might have trouble finding the hardware store. Maybe I should have offered to go with him, but that seemed a little too direct. Too bold. Too clingy. AS it was, I'd felt compelled to downplay my happiness about seeing him again. I remembered his name, but I didn't want to seem...I don't know. Too excited, I suppose.

He's probably got GPS anyway, I tell myself. Everyone does.

Instead I take my change of clothes downstairs and leave them in the bathroom, ready and waiting for me. Then I make my way into the kitchen. The breakfast dishes are still there, and I go about loading them into the dishwasher. I pay attention to my phone, nestled into my back pocket, the entire time, but it doesn't vibrate.

When the dishes are loaded, I get out the broom and start to sweep the kitchen. I move into the laundry room to sweep, and then the mud room. I stop just outside of the door that leads to the sanctuary. I stare at the doorknob. It's unlocked. It always is. Part of me wants to go inside, but another part of me thinks—knows—it's a bad idea.

It's too close to the date.

After several moments I turn away and carry the dustpan to the garbage can in the kitchen. As the lid snaps shut, my phone vibrates and I jump. When did I get so jumpy? I ask myself as I pull it out—fast, like his text will disappear before I get to read it and I'll miss my chance to see him again.

But it's not even from Zuko. It's from Aang.

A Toph says she'll apologize if you do

I sigh as I prop the broom against the wall and unlock my phone. My fingers hesitate about the digital keyboard as I try to think of something to say. That is so like Toph I can almost laugh about it. This isn't the first time she and I have had a falling out, but this one has been pretty bad, and it's her fault. I don't see why I need to apologize.

K I don't think I need to. I didn't do anything wrong.

I send the message and put the broom away. I feel bad about forcing Aang to be the messenger between us, but it's not the first time for that, either. By now, Aang should be used to playing the peacemaker between me and Toph. Where us girls are a wildfire, Aang is a cool rain. I've never seen him get angry. I wonder if he's even capable of it.

My phone vibrates again, and when I read Aang's next message, my heart pulls painfully and guilt settles in my gut like lead.

A I just wish you guys would make up. I hate it when you guys are fighting. It sucks being caught in the middle.

K I'm sorry. But this is Toph's fault. She needs to grow up and apologize.

Aang doesn't text me back.

I've got time to kill, and I don't know what to do with myself. The kitchen is clean now, and I just tidied up the living room yesterday.

I find myself in the mudroom again, standing in front of the door that leads into the sanctuary. This time I don't hesitate when I reach out for the door knob and push it open, revealing darkness.

A cold breeze washes over me. It carries the smell of acrylic paint, dust, and disuse. I step over the threshold and reach for the lightswitch. It's muscle memory, and my hand slides over it. The yellow bulb flickers to life, and I'm standing in the small, closet-like space that separates the house from the sanctuary.

When this was a church, this space would have been used as storage for things like the preacher's robes and the sheet music. Now it's our attic, where we keep our Christmas decorations and Sokka's neglected workout gear and other things we can't bring ourselves to get rid of.

I walk across the threadbare carpet. There's another door, the one that leads out to the sanctuary itself. It's cracked open, just a few inches, just enough to let in the grayish light that filters in through the frosted windows. I walk up to it and stare at the open space between the edge of the door and the frame.

It's been a while since I've been in here, but I always shut the door. I wonder if Dad has been in here...but Dad hasn't come into the sanctuary since Mom died. Unless he's doing it when I'm not around, or when I'm asleep. It's not really any of my business, and I won't ask him about it either. There are some secrets we keep from each other, and perhaps this is one of them.

I pull it open the rest of the way and step out into the large open space.

I can imagine what it was like when it was a church. That open space would be lined with heavy pews, filled with church-goers in their Sunday best, hands outstretched and faces turned up toward the ceiling as if they could see the spirits themselves in the wooden beams above. There would be hymns sung and prayers prayed, sermons given and tears shed. Someone might play the piano.

But it's quiet in here now, as silent as a graveyard. It sort of looks like one in here too, with all of Mom's paintings lining the walls or propped up on easels and stands across the floor like headstones. The paint, in lines and swirls and patches, are epitaphs.

This room feels like a held breath.

I turn back and go into the house.