Home > View With Your Heart

View With Your Heart
Author: L.B. Dunbar

 

Dedication

 

Originally dedicated to my alpha and the fab four –

Mr. Dunbar, and MD, MK, JR, and A

 

2020 update

To readers who loved the original Sensations Collection

And gave them a second chance as the Heart Collection.

 

 

Take 1

Scene: The Lake

 

[Gavin]

 

The surrounding view brings a wave of memory.

Blond hair as bright as the sunshine streaming across the water. Blue eyes the color of the deepest portion of the lake.

The soft lull of the lake water lapping at the shore suggests summer, a time reminiscent of light breezes, hurried kisses, and Britton McKay.

Neither she nor I have been in this area in thirteen years, and it feels surreal to be here at all.

Home.

I didn’t exactly grow up on the shores of Elk Lake, but in the surrounding countryside filled with cherry orchards, chirping crickets, and chattering cicadas. My parents still live on the century-old farm, and I haven’t seen them in over a decade.

As I sit on the third-floor balcony of a condominium rental that wasn’t built when I left twenty years ago, I stare out at the glimmer of sunlight rippling across the lake before me. I’m a long way from the place I now call home—California. I’ve rented this condo for the next two weeks, encompassing my business at the Traverse City Film Festival, an event thirty minutes from my current location, and the upcoming nuptials of my childhood best friend, Jess Carter.

I’m honored to stand up for him. Jess was practically another brother. I’ve been thinking a lot about friendships and family this summer. How I’ve been a shitty brother to my real one and even shittier as a son. I pulled away for my own sanity, but now, I feel like I’m missing out on something. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. The last time I was in the area I holed up for the weekend with a beautiful girl. The weekend turned into something wild and unpredicted, and I smile once more with memories of Britton.

My eyes remain on the dancing waves. They don’t crash here like the angry Pacific against the sandy beaches of the West Coast. They softly glide and skitter back. The movement is graceful and reminds me again of Britton. I was eighteen when we met and on my way to the Baseball Hall of Fame, if my father had anything to say about it. In the end, he had no say in the course of my life. I’d been eager to bust from here. Baseball was my future. However, when your world centers on sports, the axis feels unbalanced when you quit.

And I quit, according to my father.

I lean forward in the balcony chair, continuing to gaze out at the slice of lake before me. The liquid expanse runs for miles to my left. The homes circling this lake have certainly changed in the course of my thirty-eight years. Most are huge and valued at close to a million dollars. Who’d have thought?

I wonder if Leo still has a place here.

It’d be a long shot that Britton’s uncle still owned a home on these shores. Swiping a hand through my thick hair, I realize he’d be almost a hundred by now. Slowly, my smile fades when I consider the alternative for an old man.

I’d been thinking of death too much lately. Or perhaps, I was contemplating life. What have I accomplished in nearly forty years? What will I do next?

I sigh, knowing part of the answer. I’m here for the festival to showcase an independently produced film. It’s a passion project, and I’m proud of it.

Swiping fingers through my thick hair once more, I lean back in the rickety outdoor seat. My long legs slide forward, and I stretch. My eyes catch on a woman walking on the beach with her blond hair blowing in the early evening breeze. Her summer dress billows around her thighs. It’s one of those scenes that looks unreal, almost staged, and I’d love to capture her with my camera.

Instead, I freeze-frame her in my mind.

The waves lick at her bare feet as she carries a pair of sandals in her hand. On occasion, she whips her head to clear her face of the loose hairs floating about her. She appears effervescent as if she doesn’t actually exist on this beach. She’s elegant despite the awkwardness of walking on the uneven sand. She has the grace of a dancer.

The thought makes me sit taller and narrow my eyes at her.

Once upon a time, Britton wanted to be a dancer, and I curse myself for thinking of her again. She was a summer girl when we met, which meant she didn’t live in the area. She was only visiting for three months. The timing was after my high school graduation and before I left for college. That was the best June, July, and August of my life. I was reckless, thoughtless even, but not with her. She was all I thought about that summer. We had temporary written all over us, but perhaps that was the appeal. Summer loves are like that—unparalleled because of the limitation on them.

As I have a good view of the woman, I continue to watch her from my seat on the third floor. She stills a second, spinning in a half-circle to again settle that hair dancing around her face. The breeze blows it back as she faces west. With her back to me, I imagine her eyes closing as she feels the sun heat her cheeks. I’m enthralled by her movements, which are nothing out of the ordinary. Any woman might move in this manner to clear her face on a breezy, late afternoon.

It's when she turns back around, dips her head, and brushes only one side of her hair behind her ear that I stiffen. I do a double take and squint harder at her.

It can’t be.

Britton was just as hell-bent on being somebody as I was. New York called her name, she said. We were headed to opposite coasts.

Yet the movement of her hand, the way she holds it on the side of her neck a second after brushing back her hair, feels too coincidental. She begins walking again, coming almost parallel to my view, and stops before the condo building. Putting her back to me again, she looks at the water once more, and more memories rush over me.

A tiny boat, a dark night, and fireworks exploding over the water.

Shaking my head, I realize I’m imprinting, merging my history with reality. I blame it on my emotions, a roller-coaster ride of peaks and valleys at being so close to home and soon to see my family.

Still, I can’t take my eyes off the woman who spins and faces the building a second time. A hand at her brow shields her eyes, and it’s as if she looks up at me. For some reason, I wave. Her hand drops, and I chuckle to myself. I’m an idiot, and I’m relieved she didn’t see me.

Then her hand lifts, and a hesitant, short wave returns mine. My breath catches.

Again, it can’t be, can it?

Because if I could do any imprinting, it would be Britton McKay standing on that beach.

What would be the odds?

Considering this thought, a young boy runs across the sand to her, and she extends an arm to him. He looks older than a youth but not quite a teen. However, I’m not a good judge of ages. I’ll probably never have children. Zoey hadn’t wanted them, and I guess I hadn’t either.

Still, I’ve been thinking so much about family.

My sight follows the woman, wrapping her arm around the kid’s neck. He’s carrying a wakeboard in his hands, a favorite pastime of kids in the area. Surfing isn’t really a thing in these parts. He’s nearly as tall as the woman, and she presses a kiss to the side of his head. Quickly, he slips out from under her arm. Her head tips back as though she’s laughing as he runs off before her, drops the board, and skims a few feet in the inches-deep wave. He stumbles, and she bends forward, laughing harder.

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