Ashes in March

Chapter 5: How Are You Doing?

"Do you want to go see a movie with me?"

I turn to look at Ash sharply and almost lose my footing in the sand.

We're walking along on the beach in the brisk November afternoon, shoulders bumping in a we-are-possibly-friends-but-my-skin-burns-every-time-we-touch way. He looks straight ahead with a smirk on his mouth, his hands in his pockets and a coy hunch to his shoulders, the ever present cigarette perched between his lips.

"See a movie with you? Like a date?" I manage to choke out. He shrugs and flicks his ash to the side.

"I didn't say it was a date."

I blink up at him. Uh huh, yeah. Totally not a date.

"Oh, right. Um, sure. What did you want to see?" I ask and resume our walking. He shrugs.

"Whatever you want. I just need to get out of the house," he offers.

"Well, does this not count?" I ask, motioning towards the ocean and sand. He laughs and smoke blows out of his nose like a dragon.

"You know what I mean. Just go into town and hang out with you in, like, a formal setting."

I scoff. "So, a date."

He leans his head back and laughs. "Sure, March. If you really want it to be a date, then it can be a date."

I narrow my eyes. "I never said I wanted it to be a date."

Ash smiles a private smile and takes another drag on his cigarette. "Fine. Then we'll go as friends."

I nod and look out at the waves to hide my reddening face. "Yeah, sure. Friends. Sounds great."

"Sweet," he says jovially. "I'll pick you up tomorrow at 7?"

***

If it's not a date, then why did I just spend 2 hours picking out what I'm going to wear? I look down at my ripped jeans and my nicest band t-shirt and realize that I used to enjoy getting ready. Putting on music and doing my make-up, picking out an outfit, fixing my hair. But now I really didn't have anything to get ready for. And I don't think funerals really counted.

But nonetheless, I'm relatively put together when Ash arrives in his red pick-up truck.

"Where are you going, mija?" Mom calls out from the kitchen. I curse silently and yank my converse on. I thought she was in the morgue.

"Um, just going to the beach," I say, grabbing my purse from the coat rack. The sound of running water pauses and I pray to any God that was up there for her to not walk into the foyer and see that I was, in fact, not going to the beach.

After a few silent seconds of agony, the water begins running again.

"Be safe," she says. I release my breath and open the door.

"I will. Love you." I slam the door shut and bound down the steps towards Ash's truck. But as I reach for the handle to the passenger side, my hand freezes, my breath caught in my throat.

I hadn't told my mother that I loved her since my brother's funeral.

I look up and see Ash smiling at me, confused. I close my eyes, willing the tears not to spill.

It was a slip, something I used to say all the time when I left the house but never really did anymore. Not that I didn't love her. I did. It was just that I couldn't bring myself to say those words. They burned.

But I had and I couldn't take it back. It was out in the air, bouncing around the foyer and into the kitchen and on to my mother's ears. Searing and soft all at once. Something about that fact made me uneasy and at peace at the same time. Like something had been lifted from my chest. Minuscule and almost nonexistent but I could almost breath just a little easier.