Ashes in March

Chapter 3: Too Late

It's weird seeing people that you went to school with after something tragic happens in your life. Because even if you've never spoken to them, they'll come up to you to offer their condolences or tell you that you're in their prayers. And they always, always, give you that look. You know, the one where their mouths twist into pity and their eyes hold this understanding like they think they know what you're going through but they don't. They can't.

Something I found really refreshing about Ash was that he never looked at me like that. He never said I'm sorry about your brother because he didn't know my brother, he didn't even really know me. He was something new that didn't know about what happened and I think that's why he intrigued me.

Or maybe it was because I needed saving and he was up for the job.

Or maybe it was just because I liked the way he looked at me, like I was something special instead of something fragile.

Either way, when he calls a couple days later, my heart starts racing and my hands start sweating and I realize I had forgotten what it was like to feel like this. Giddy and not so unbearably sad.

"What are you doing?" he asks before I can manage a greeting. I hear the crashing of waves in the background.

"Um," I look down at the mess of papers in front of me. I had been sorting through Union's account statements for hours and my eyes were beginning to water.

"Come down here," he says. "I want to show you something."

"By 'down here' do you mean hell?" I ask, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder. He chuckles. "Because I like you and all, but I've been there and I'm not really up for a field trip into satan's asshole again."

"You like me?" he quips, a smile in his voice.

I cough up the bit of saliva I managed to inhale.

"I mean, like, you know, you're cool and all, but I meant that..." I stutter, red-faced and slightly out of breath.

"Oh I was joking, March. Quit being so bashful," he laughs. Rude, considering that my heart basically stopped.

"Right," I mumble, pressing my cold fingers to my flushed face.

"Now hurry up and get down here. The sun is about to set." He hangs up.

The fact that I'm at the beach in under 15 minutes is no one's business but my own.

When I roll up on my bike, all slick and alluring, slightly out of breath with a pink, runny nose, he's sitting on a bench, an unlit cigarette between his lips. His arm is thrown lazily over the back, the sleeves if his jean jacket rolled up over his forearms. I swallow, completely unrelated to the slant of his jaw and curl of his hair, and pull the cuffs of my sweater down over my hands.

"This doesn't look like satan's asshole," I say, kicking his boot. He looks up at me, his face breaking into a wide smile.

"March. How wonderful it is to see you again," he greets, the cigarette bobbing with his words.

"Don't tell me it's a metaphor," I say, motioning to the cancer stick between his teeth. "Because I'll punch you."

Ash laughs and pulls it from his mouth.

"No, I just didn't have a light," he shrugs and tucks it into his jacket pocket. I wrinkle my nose in halfhearted disgust.

"Those things will kill you," I say, distastefully.