Note: So I went to Galveston, taking a notepad and pen with me. This
is the result. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but I'll offer it
anyway.
Enough
West of Sixty-first Street, there's no sand, only rocks and waves. He
thinks about this as he climbs down the stairway from the seawall,
kicking off his shoes at the bottom and stepping barefoot onto the
first rock. It's more private here, which is why he chose it, and the
fact that there's no real beach explains why.
He's just found a place to sit down, looking out at the water, when
five small black children follow him down the steps, leaving their
shoes behind as he did. They don't seem to care who he is or even
notice his presence, though, so he doesn't mind the intrusion. They
don't stay long anyway, barely long enough to climb down to the edge of
the rocks and get wet, and then they are gone and Chris is alone.
He'd wanted to feel sand beneath his feet. It was a sudden longing for
that sensation, the body memory of hot grains sliding between his toes,
that led to his impulsive drive from the hotel in Houston to the
island. He's not disappointed, though. The sound of the water
breaking on the rocks, accompanied by the delighted shrieks of another
group of children further down the shore, is enough for Chris.
He lets his mind wander aimlessly, first to the show and the music and
the guys, and then to other things. Dani. His mother's new house, and
the fact that his sisters barely seem to remember that there was a time
when material things couldn't be taken for granted, when they hadn't
had a famous older brother who could give them anything they wanted.
Chris is glad. He remembers enough for all of them.
Several big waves crash with a spray that almost catches Chris, but not
quite. He's too far back, he decides. He didn't bring a suit, not
planning on going in the water, but there's no point in coming to the
beach if you aren't going to get a little wet. Standing, he makes his
way forward. He only plans to scoot up a bit, sit back down where a
few stray drops can hit him every now and then, but he finds himself
moving to the last row of rocks above the water.
He stands there, the slimy feel of algae under his feet, letting the
waves roll over his feet and legs until the legs of his shorts are
completely soaked. He licks his lips and tastes salt.
Another group approaches him, walking down the rocks. The woman looks
at him oddly, like she's trying to figure out if she knows him, but he
doesn't think she'll make the connection. She's too old to be part of
their fan base, and she has sons with her, not daughters. He smiles at
her as they pass, and she smiles back, two passing strangers in a place
people come to get away from too many other people.
He goes back and sits down, watching a flock of seagulls that has
congregated offshore. This isn't a beautiful beach, Chris decides.
The water is brown, and the air isn't the clean, crisp sea air he'd
expected. He's been on plenty, maybe even hundreds, of better beaches
in his travels. But this is here, and he's here, and everything around
him is still except the water. The sound of it lapping against the
rocks at regular intervals is, for the moment, enough to keep Chris
still. That doesn't happen very often.
He doesn't turn around when he hears someone new climbing down the
steps. Even when someone sits beside him on the rock, he doesn't look
away from the water. He knows who it is, of course; the presence next
to him is too familiar by now for him to need a face or a voice to
recognize it. He hadn't told any of the guys where he was going, but
he's not surprised JC found him.
"I called Lonnie," JC says, confirming what Chris had already guessed.
He doesn't turn around and look up at the street, where the bodyguard
is looking between the beach and the cars going by, keeping an eye out
in case he's needed. He's been there since Chris arrived. Like JC's
appearance at his side, it is another thing he doesn't have to look for
anymore to know it's there.
Chris uncrosses his legs and plants his feet on the rock in front of
him, feeling the red imprint where his leg was pressed against the
rough granite. He leans back a little, one hand behind him for
balance, and drops his other arm around JC's shoulder.
It's a risky thing, that arm. Quiet though it may be, this is still a
public place. But it's an ambiguous gesture, one that could be read as
friendship as easily as it could be something else. At any rate, JC
doesn't pull away.
"Did you read the plaque up there?" JC asks. Chris shakes his
head. "There used to be an orphanage here. Like, in the eighteen
hundreds. St. Mary's. Part of it was washed away by a storm, but they
rebuilt it anyway. And then there was a hurricane in 1900 that
destroyed, like, half the city. The nuns tied the kids to themselves
with clothesline, but they were all killed. Ten nuns and, like, ninety
children. They rescued three boys. They were the only survivors."
"Wow," Chris says, staring out at the water. Suddenly it's not
calming, or peaceful. It's a horrible force, something that could wash
the two of them away at a moment's notice and not be affected,
continuing in whatever course it wanted without regard to anything as
small as Chris suddenly feels. He thinks he remembers hearing that
Houston flooded around this time last year. A couple people died that
time, too. Chris shivers, and JC notices, because his arm comes around
Chris's waist and squeezes gently.
"Ready to go back?" JC asks, and Chris nods because he is. It wouldn't
matter if he wasn't; they have somewhere to be, as usual. He climbs
the stairs behind JC, the illusion of privacy disappearing in the face
of the cars whizzing along the seawall.
The rental car Chris drove out is there, and the car JC and the second
bodyguard must have arrived in is equally nondescript. JC tells the
bodyguard to drive his car back and climbs in the back seat with Chris,
letting Lonnie take the wheel. It's getting dark, now, and Chris wraps
his arm around JC again. JC curls against him, almost lying in his
lap. Chris smiles.
They're on the causeway back to the mainland before either of them says
anything. It's Chris. "Thanks for coming to get me," he says, looking
down at JC. He'd come out looking for a moment's solitude, but he
thinks now he's found something even better.
JC's eyes glitter softly, reflecting some light from outside the
car. "Anytime," he says softly.
Chris thinks about kissing him, mindful of Lonnie in the front seat.
Not much is secret from Lonnie, but Chris still settles for holding JC
just a bit tighter, running the fingers of his other hand through JC's
hair. It's enough, he thinks. There will be more later. Later, in
the privacy of their hotel room, there will be kisses, and sighs, and
touches that don't stop at the publicly appropriate places but go on
until they're both moaning with desire. If Chris thought about it, he
could call up an exact memory of how JC will sound, how he will look,
how he will taste. But he doesn't think about it, secure in the
knowledge that it will happen again, and again. At the moment, Chris
is in a car, arms wrapped around his lover, and it is enough.
JC shifts against him, humming slightly, his face briefly caught in the
glow from a streetlight. It's more than enough, Chris thinks.
It's everything.
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