Fly Away Home, - [reading tree .TXT] 📗

OVER TIME, DILLON HAD become my best friend. Our relationship was born out of necessity and convenience. I needed someone to lean on when consumed by feelings of fear and rejection. He was the closest person willing to meet my needs. In return, he benefited from my ability to understand classic literature.

Dillon had three older sisters, so he possessed a natural comfort around girls. As for me? I escaped to one of two places when I had the opportunity—my attic or the library. There were always plenty of books in both locations. As a voracious reader, I consumed the titles on our school’s assigned reading list before anyone else. So ours was a symbiotic relationship. We both had something valuable to offer the other and were both eager to share it.

Near the end of each summer, we’d find ourselves seated in the back corner of Peppi’s with a pepperoni pizza between us. We discussed the merits of Steinbeck, Austen, Twain, and Fitzgerald. In the beginning, it was a chore for Dillon to complete the assignments. By senior year, though, he was a much stronger student, and our time together had developed into something more. I remember it with such clarity. And poignancy.

“Come over here. Look at this.” I slid over and motioned for him to sit beside me in the booth.

Pushing our greasy pizza plates to the side, he sidled up next to me as I creased the book’s spine. I began reciting Robert Frost’s poem: “‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood . . .’”

After each line, I glanced up at him, deepening emotion etched into his facial features. Something was different. We had started communicating through unspoken words nestled between each breath. We were writing a story together, filled with excitement, uncertainty, joy, and travel. On roads forsaken by others in my life.

“‘I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’” I finished the poem, swallowed the lump in my throat, and prepared to share my interpretation of the work.

“You can see . . .” I began my sentence, not wanting to look up and meet his gaze. An unknown fear and anxiety consumed me. When my eyes finally found Dillon’s, it took only a moment for his to lock with mine. He connected with something elemental in the depths of my soul. It was more intimate than any physical connection. I welcomed and feared it in the same breath. Each new inhalation became shallower than the one before it. Dillon leaned in, closing the space between us with deliberate intentions. We were so absorbed in each other’s thoughts. Our eyelids closed and lips joined with impulsive certainty. An electricity coursed through me, more intense than any kiss in my young life.

That euphoric feeling made my ensuing choice unimaginable.

I pushed him away. The heartbroken look on his face crippled me. I didn’t know why I’d done it or what to do next. My feeble attempt to analyze Frost’s poetic form replaced the awkward silence between us.

We never returned to that pizza shop. That dreamlike-turned-distressing moment became a blemish in our relationship. The color-encoded messages subsided. We remained best friends through times of sadness and joy. But there had been an invisible thread delicately intertwined between our souls, and I had severed that connection after pulling away from our first, and only, kiss.

#

I WONDER WHERE HE IS now. My brief stroll down memory lane creates a longing desire for a fresh start. I pick up the shoebox full of childhood memories. It contains only pieces of paper, but it feels heavier, as if it holds more weight than it did a few moments ago.

With it nestled under my arm, I retreat down the attic stairs and sink into the cushion on the living room couch. I grab hold of my wineglass, gazing into the half-empty goblet. A strand of wavy brunette hair drifts into my peripheral vision. Tucking it behind my ear, I refocus on what still rests in that amber liquid. Those small bits of cork remain, but they’re now motionless, as if inviting their retrieval. It might not be so difficult to remove those fragments. While I ponder the possibility, my thoughts wander elsewhere.

#

I HAVEN’T APPROACHED this doorstep in over two decades. Sensing the countless impressions from my knuckles, I knock on the wooden door. The sound triggers pleasant memories.

As it swings open, I offer a tentative greeting. “Hi, Mrs. Darby. You might not remember me . . .” I notice moisture in the corner of her eye before she embraces me in a comforting hug.

“Claire.” She speaks in an endearing