Crash Into Me | ✓

fifteen

In literature, pathetic fallacy was the use of weather to reflect tone or mood. Typically it was applied in a negative way, such as a storm to imply something detrimental or foreboding. But as I sat in a lounge chair beside Brooklyn's pool, the sun warm and high and glinting like diamonds against the water's surface, I thought maybe for once pathetic fallacy could be good. Genuinely good.

A cool breeze came in from the ocean, nearly taking the Yankees cap I had borrowed from Brooklyn off my head. I clutched my purple Moleskin notebook to my chest with a yelp as the wind seemed to threaten to tear the pages from its spine.

"You okay?"

I glanced right up into the sun, where the light casted a halo around Brooklyn's silhouette.

"I'm great," I replied, and the slightest wistful sigh escaped my lips.

He smiled down at me and placed two glasses of sweet tea on the little wrought iron table between our chairs before sprawling out. Sweat glistened on his bare chest, and the way his sternum rose and fell with each breath, so calm and steady, was entrancing. Before I realized I had been gawking at him, he gave me a knowing glance over the tops of his sunglasses.

"You like what you see?"

I stiffened up a bit, but I let the faintest of grins grace my face. "I do," I replied plainly.

He had me under a god damn spell, and boy did he know it. Every time he looked at me, I felt the world come to a screeching halt, almost like the moments before jumping off a cliff into the ocean.

"What are you scribbling over there?" he asked.

"Literally not a damn thing," I sighed out, snapping my notebook shut.

"You sure you're not just writing about me?" he jabbed back with a smirk.

"No," I insisted, and I let out a sigh. "Besides, I'd tell you if I was. The words just aren't coming today. Or this month, for that matter."

That, and the realization that I couldn't even if I wanted to - I didn't know nearly as much about him as I thought I did sometimes, and that stung more than I cared to admit.

"You'll figure it out," Brooklyn nodded, and even in that simple gesture expelled more assurity in me than I ever had in myself. "I mean not that I can really relate, since I was technically supposed to be a forensic accountant, ya know? Words are hard, numbers are easy."

I chuckled. "I just cannot see you as an accountant, all stuffy suits and business meetings and asking your secretary to get your coffee five times a day. You're just too..."

"Wild?" He slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. I shook my head, but he continued. "It's okay, you can say it. My dad does. Like...Brooklyn you'll never succeed in a corporate environment if you can't get yourself under control. Or something to that effect."

I pinched my lips into a frown. "Well...that's not very nice."

"Nice is nothing more than a formality to my dad. In his eyes, that was what I should have been doing with my life, and that's that. Probably why I hated it...because I hate being told what to do."

I sat up straight in the lounge chair and put my finger beside a ladybug that had crawled up the side of the chair. "What would you have done then? Like if you had an honest to god calling, what was it?"

Brooklyn pinched his mouth into a frown. "I used to think it was football. I mean I'm sure at some point someone somewhere told me I was good at it and I should stick with it, but I really did like it. I didn't feel obligated or pressured to do it, I just...played. And I was good, like really good. Now...I have no idea."

The sadness in his voice was jarring, and it clenched at my heart.

"You don't have to know," I said softly, watching the ladybug crawl onto my finger and then flutter away. "I used to think I wanted to be a marine biologist. Then I realized I was totally afraid of the ocean, and that went out the window."

That got Brooklyn to laugh, and just hearing it made a sense of ease wash over me like a wave. It was an ease that I had almost gotten used to. An ease I felt only when I was around him.

"But you know now," he nodded to the notebook still in my lap.

"I guess so," I pulled my knees into my chest. "I just want to tell stories that matter. Even if it only matters to one person."

"Well, that's how I know you'll be great. You can hear it in your voice. You care and you're passionate and..."

Brooklyn paused and slumped back into his chair, running his hands down his face. "I'm sorry. That's way too mushy, and I guess in a backwards way I'm a little jealous that you have the chance to be successful at something you really enjoy and care about, and I fucked that up for myself."

"Don't be sorry. I feel the same way about my aunt. Don't get me wrong, I'm really happy for her and she deserves it but..." I sighed. "Sometimes I get nervous that I'll just blink, and suddenly I'm her age but I've done nothing."

"We're so young," Brooklyn sighed out. "But I definitely don't feel very young."

The air was heavy with heat and humidity, but the silence that followed was heavier. I knew I had to ask him to come to the gallery showing, and I knew he'd say yes. That wasn't what made my stomach turn over. The thought of having to bring him to a family event made whatever had transpired between us too real. How ready was I for real?

I took a long sip of my iced tea to cool myself out. "Speaking of, my aunt actually has this art gallery thing next week. I don't know if the art gallery scene is really your thing, but if you want-"

"I'd love to come." Brooklyn cut me off, a toothy grin stretched across his face. "I've got a really great judgy art face."

He dramatically stroked his chin with his fingers and scrunched his eyebrows before letting out a long sigh. "I find this piece to be very lacking in purpose."

I snorted out a laugh. "You're just missing a pedantic there's too much white space or some other stupid comment like that." I paused and let out a sigh. "My aunt isn't like that though. She's different. All my life, she's been the happiest, most positive person I know. But...you can't be like that all the time, right? Like, all the negativity has to go somewhere, and when you see her paintings, I think you can really feel them. They're raw and vulnerable, and I guess that's better than the right amount of white space or color tone or...anything else."

Brooklyn nudged me. "Now you really sound like an artist."

He stood up out of the chair and offered me his hand, like he already had so many times before.

"Let's go inside, it's getting too hot out here and I'm starting to feel the sweat drip in places I don't want it to be."

I smiled, and I didn't hesitate, but I let our palms linger together for a moment when he pulled me up. Whether I was ready for it or not, real was here in the form of Brooklyn Keller, as bright and brilliant as the sun.

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