The Counting-Downers (26 page)

A FEW DAYS later and it’s the weekend before college starts back up for our final year. Blaise and I are at a café not too far from the beach. I’ve enlisted his help with my legacy listing for the day, but he’s still struggling to grasp the concept.

“But why would you just give them away, Woodstock? You know you could make money by charging people for them.”

Today, I’m leaving my favorite books and CDs in various locations around town. Attached to each of them is a note that says,
‘I made the most of every minute I spent with this. I hope you do too. When you’ve finished enjoying it, please leave a legacy by passing it on.’

I also have a few disposable cameras in my purse with instructions attached for the person to
‘capture the moments that make you feel alive.’
I’d left one on my dad’s bench as we were leaving to come here, which sparked Blaise’s confusion.

“I know, but that would defeat the whole point. The idea is to pass something good on just because, not so you can get something out of it.”

“But I thought the whole point was to make it part of your legacy?”

“It is.”

“So then you are getting something out of it.”

The icy truth of his words freezes the comeback on the tip of my tongue and reminds me of the selfishness inherent in good deeds.

“I guess so, but money isn’t it.”

“Fair enough. I still don’t see the fun in being a good person.” His teasing words are in direct contrast to his being. He’s one of the best people I know.

We’re interrupted as the waitress comes over to deliver our coffees. I watch with amusement as her eyelash extensions flutter like fairies in flight. Even after her job is done, she continues to hover around Blaise, much to his annoyance and discomfort. The discomfort that swims through his rich, whisky colored eyes has me dismissing the waitress with a friendly but firm, “Thank you.”

Her flirtatious smile dims as she turns and strides off in frustration. Although his posture has relaxed, Blaise’s jaw is still clenched to the point of breaking and his rough, calloused fingers rip the napkin on the table into mosaic fragments. I place my hand over his to halt his movements, forcing apart his fingers before entwining them with my own and squeezing.

“You okay?” I whisper. The café is quite empty considering the time of day and we’re right at the back in a sheltered booth, but I know Blaise doesn’t like to talk about his emotions in public, if at all.

His shrug is morose as he avoids my eyes. “I guess so. I’m not sure I remember what that means. I’m alive aren’t I? That should be enough.” A crack forms in the deep timbre of his voice.

“A big difference separates living and surviving.”

He doesn’t say anything, but as his soulful eyes flick up to mine, he allows me to see the sadness and vulnerability in their depths as he acknowledges the veracity of my statement.

“You know you can talk to me about anything and everything? Completely free of judgment. I’ll even restrain myself from dispensing any ‘hippie’ advice if all you want is someone to listen.”

“I know, but I’m a man. We’re not exactly famous for talking about our feelings.”

“Regardless of gender, I just don’t want you to feel like you have to hide behind a façade of humor. I know you think it is, but your armor isn’t impenetrable. You’re human, Blaise. It’s okay to be vulnerable. It’s okay not to be okay. And I know you think you’ve mastered the art of masquerade, but some of us see the real you beneath it.
I
see and love the man behind the mask. I wish you could love him too.”

He seems startled at my words; as if he thought he was fooling people with his joker act, when the only one he was fooling was himself. I watch as his internal struggle plays out across his face. He’s deciding whether to lower the drawbridge on his defenses and let me in once and for all. Victory flows through me as he sighs in defeat.

“It’s easier said than done, Woodstock. I’ve spent so long playing a character that I no longer know where he stops and the real me begins. At this point, I think we’re one and the same.”

“You’re not.”

“You can’t be sure of that any more than I can. How can you distinguish the man behind the mask when it’s superglued on by years of lies and pain? At least I used to have my brother to remind me who I used to be, who I
should
be. I was someone’s twin, someone’s brother, someone’s
something
. Now I’m no one’s anything. I’m just floating around without an identity, trying out ones from the lost and found to see if they feel right. I’m an actor even without an audience.”

His pain is as devastating as his handsome good looks. At six foot five with a hulking, protective frame and savagely handsome features, Blaise St. Clair is as beautiful outside as he is in. It’s no wonder the waitress was powerless to his imposing presence, which radiates rugged masculinity. He attracts women like moths to a flame. It’s just a shame he’s not interested in them.

Through slips in conversation, gaps through his walls, and fragments from drunken ramblings, Blaise has painted me a picture of a haunted soul, confused and afraid. I know more about him than he realizes.

He used to be the star quarterback at his high school with a professional career shining like a bright beacon on the horizon. Forced to hide his sexuality in the pursuit of machismo, he buried his true self under layers of lies, jokes, and women he felt nothing for.

The only person who knew his secret self was his twin brother, Beau, who died three years ago, leaving him with one-half of his soul. After a career-ending injury wrecked his sporting dreams and ability to exercise the pain away, he turned to his other love of art to help him through his troubles.

His final words to his brother were an elicited promise that he would be true to himself and follow his heart. So even through the murky aftermath of his twin’s death, Blaise came out of hiding and lost most of his macho high school friends and the words of his devout French Catholic parents, who now barely speak to him.

“It’s like both of us died that day,” he says, almost reading my thoughts. “I died right along with him and I don’t know how to rebuild myself out of the ashes.”

I glance up at the countdown above his head. 71 years, 9 months, 28 days, 39 minutes and 43 seconds is a long time to live without a sense of self.

“I’ll help you,” I tell him. And although I’m not quite sure what it will involve, I know that I mean every word. Helping Blaise find his way back to himself will be another element of my legacy.

“And how are you going to do that, Woodstock?” His tone is cynical, but his eyes are wide with the flickers of hope that he doesn’t dare turn into a flame.

“
We
, are going to do it together. We’ll rebuild you one brick at a time. One like and dislike at a time. We’ll work out who you are now, and who you want to be, by establishing who you
don’t
want to be.

“And you may not be the same as you would have been before you came out, or gave up football, or before Beau died. But different doesn’t mean bad. Different can be
better
. You’ll be Blaise 2.0.”

“Blaise 2.0, eh?” The mask-less man is giving me one of his rare, genuine smiles, but his eyes are alight with love and gratitude, saying all the words his voice can’t. “Sounds good to me.”

As he leans over to kiss me on the cheek, I resolve to pull my flailing friend out of the embers, happy, healthy, and
whole
.

I SAID GOODBYE to Blaise a few hours ago and I’m now in the meadow with Tristan, setting up a tent for backyard camping. It sounds like something I would come up with, but it was Tristan’s idea as a way to say goodbye to the summer, not mine. Leo is delighted to be in the meadow, running around in the wide-open space chasing butterflies and birds with an instinctive sense of wonder reserved for the simplest of life’s pleasures.

His new best friend, Oscar, is spending the weekend with my mom visiting my grandmother in Morro Bay. The bond between Osky and Leo has to be seen to be believed. Much like with Tristan, the connection was immediate and infinite. As long as he stays outside, mom’s allergies are okay so Oscar pleads with me every day to bring him round. I’ve been replaced by a dog in my brother’s affections.

Tristan’s wild laughter makes me smile as I recount the story of the man who called after me when I left a disposable camera on a sidewalk bench and accused me of littering.

“So how did you leave it?”

“Well, I knew the second we left he would get rid of it and he knew it would stay if
he
walked away, so we all just stood there having a standoff until this girl walking her dog saw it and fell in the love with the idea. She asked me if I was the one who left it there, and with every second, we spoke about the legacy list, the man’s scowl deepened. She thought it was wonderful though and said she was going to create her own list. She left with the camera and the man stormed off muttering about young people and their lack of respect. Blaise was imitating him the whole way home.”

“Inspiring someone in a matter of minutes, not a bad day’s work, Baby Bear.”

Even though it’s not what he’s referring to, I think back to my conversation with Blaise and how much happier and
lighter
he seemed afterwards. His shoulders were almost floating with the lightened load. “I hope so.”

“I know so. I’m looking forward to camping. I’ve never done it in a backyard before.”

I raise a playful eyebrow at the double meaning of his words, which I know he hasn’t even considered. At my reaction, he replays his words then trips and stumbles over them as he tries to clarify. “I didn’t mean…”

Putting him out of his misery, I laugh. “I know, I was just teasing. Backyard camping is the best, especially in a space like this.” I dust off my hands as the final tent peg goes in.

“You want to check on our trees?” I say, referring to the ones we planted two weeks ago.

“Yes, can’t wait. That reminds me of something.” His words are muffled as he bends and reaches into his rucksack, which is lying on the grass. He pulls out a packet of seeds, which he puts into his pocket and a small pocketknife, which he holds up to me. “We still haven’t carved our names into a tree as part of the legacy list yet. The ones we planted are too young, so I thought we could do it on the treehouse oak? It has special meaning for us.”

I’m so touched by the thought that it takes me a moment to settle my emotions. Tristan mistakes my silence for hesitancy. “We don’t have to.” He backtracks. “I know that tree means a lot to you. It’s your tree. Not ours. We can carve our names somewhere else. It was just an idea.”

I shake my head. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.” He beams, holding his hand out for me to take. “Let’s go check on our legacies and then immortalize ourselves in bark.”

So that’s what we do.

The trees we planted are nothing but tiny sprouts in the ground, so there isn’t much to see. Since he’s no stranger to handling and chopping wood, Tristan takes care of the carving. As he stands back to admire his work, I wrap my arms around him from behind and look out at the engraving from his side. I laugh even as tears spring to my eyes when I see what he’s carved. Instead of our first names surrounded by the cliché love heart, he’s written:

‘T.I.M.E.

Tristan Isaacs and Matilda Evans.

Today
–
Forever

Forget-us-not.’

Around the neat woodwork writing, is a large flower that I think is supposed to be a forget-me-not.

“What do you think?” he asks, his voice shaking, “I mean, I did just deface your favorite tree in the world.”

“It’s what was always supposed to be there.” I press my face into his back, wetting his caramel colored sweater. He must feel the water seep into his skin because he turns around and takes me in his arms, pressing my head against his chest.

After a while, we break apart and Tristan tilts up my head to kiss the tracks of my tears.

“So how does it feel to live forever?”

“You’re by my side so it feels pretty perfect.”