Come June [ h.s. ]

13

13
.

A warm wind swept across Harry's back patio, rustling his clothes as he looked out across the water. It was early afternoon and the sun was shining proudly, suspended in a blue, naked sky.

He reached over his lounge chair and cracked open a bottle of ginger beer that he'd swiped from the fridge. It was light and refreshing, perfect for a day like this. He loosened a few of the buttons on his shirt (the new, silky yellow one), and closed his eyes, a happy sigh falling from his lips.

From where he sat, he could hear the far-off crashing of the waves. At the end of his patio was a sandy path, surrounded by dune grass on either side; if Harry wanted to see the beach, he could walk directly to it from here. It was a really nice feature to have, especially since he didn't have to go far in order to see his early morning sunrises.

As another small gust of warm air hit his cheeks, he thought about taking a quick little stroll up the dunes. One of the things he loved most about the coast was that it always changed. The sea carried driftwood in and out, scattering it — there one day and gone the next.

He remembered the log he sat on with Eileen.

Even now, roughly two weeks later, he could picture almost every detail of that moment; the way she looked, the color of the ocean, the smell of the breeze and the sand breaking beneath their feet.

Harry frowned.

He suddenly missed her.

They'd been talking ever since the aquarium, of course — he still passed by on his morning walks, and she even phoned him once or twice, just to chat about what they'd done that day. In that small amount of time, they left their stranger personas behind for good; they allowed things to develop on their own, into what Harry considered his first true friendship in (what felt like) years.

Eileen didn't know anything about his past.

She liked him — as a person, not an idea.

He saw that, now, and cherished it. Sometimes he would remember the way he acted when they first met; his initial coldness towards her, the twisted nature of his heart. He wanted to believe that part of him was healing, beginning to straighten.

Beginning to flourish.

These very thoughts were running through his mind when he swung his legs over the lounge chair and stood up to stretch. The sun had dipped behind a thin veil of clouds, taking warmth along with it. The afternoon seemed prolonged to Harry, and he realized it was because he hadn't really done anything all day.

He wasn't good at relaxing.

Every time he went on vacation he would set himself up in the perfect position to unwind, only to grow bored within minutes. He needed movement — kicking his legs in the ocean water, walking through the city streets, hitting a volleyball until his wrists turned pink. Those things were far more enjoyable than frying for hours in the sun.

Before he left, he grabbed a jumper from inside, imagining that it would be cooler down by the water. He slipped on the pair of rain boots he'd been keeping by the doorway and began his slow trek across the dunes. The tightly-packed sand broke beneath his feet and created disrupted outlines of each step.

He walked all the way to the rocks, searching the tide pools for life; but alas, found close to nothing. There weren't many people hanging about either, which surprised him slightly. It was typical for children to clamber over the jetty with their parents in search of rocks and shells.