Quiet Angel (2 page)

After lunch, with the sun high in the sky, Layla headed out to the deck and took a few steps in the hot sand, which quickly turned into cool wet mush. The salty breeze whipping her braid, she navigated the buckets of brown and green seaweed that came with the tide, keeping her feet in the mush, which felt good between her toes. Everything felt good here.

She lifted her long cotton sundress just slightly, as she made her way to the edge of the ocean, the churning waves washing her feet. She took a deep breath, taking in the salty air for all its worth, and looked out to the horizon, thinking back to three days ago, though it seemed like a lifetime, when she showed up, in a mad frenzy, to a place she’d never been before, to an island she’d barely heard of, to a sweet elderly grandmother she hadn’t seen in years.

But here she was now, her feet in the ocean, still standing, her mind and body uncoiling a little each day. She walked along the edge of the water for about 30 yards, each step lighter than the last. Then she turned back to the cottage, and her blue eyes popped. Gage was sitting on her back steps kicking at some sand.

In between everything else, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was the hottest boy she’d ever seen, blond hair kissed by the sun, tan skin, deep blue eyes, defined muscles. He seemed different than the other guys. But part of her wondered if he was part of the group of preppy guys, if this was still a game or bet. Her life was uncertain enough; she couldn’t handle any more drama.

She watched him some more. It appeared his lips were moving and his hands were gesturing slightly. Then he shook his head and started again, appearing to practice whatever lines once more. After a few more tries, he lowered his head in his hands, defeated. Her stomach churned for him. No guy would try so hard—agonize like this on summer vacation—in a game he was so bad at.

She started walking to the cottage when he spotted her. She looked down at her sundress, slightly wet from her stroll, and tried to tuck a few loose strands from her braid behind her ears. But the ocean breeze made it impossible. Gage met her half-way with a broad smile on his face.

“I thought of something we could do,” he said, his Southern accent jumbled in nerves, “but I didn’t have your number.”

“I don’t have a cell phone,” Layla said. “What did you come up with?”

“I could take you up in my dad’s glider.”

“
What
?”

His face turned pale. “You don’t want to go?”

“I hate flying.”

“You can’t
hate
flying.”

“Last time I threw up on the man in front of me,” she said.

“No way.”

“Sure did.”

“I can’t believe you hate flying. I was practically born on an airplane. My dad owns a commuter airline. I’ve been flying since before I could crawl.”

“I’ve flown a lot, too, but I hate it.”

“Angels fly,” he said with a wry smile.

“They do,” she said, returning the smile, “but people were made for land.”

“You swim?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Do you throw up on the fish?”

Layla laughed. “No.”

“I promise you won’t throw up in the glider.”

“Not going to chance it,” she said.

“I’ve been certified since I was 14.”

She looked at him curiously, finding it oddly sweet he thought his teenage certification would somehow convince her, somehow comfort her enough to get on a “glider”—which sounded like some kind of flimsy paper airplane—when she’s scared to death to fly on commercial aircraft operated by grizzled vets who’d logged thousands of hours of flight time. “Do you want to be a pilot?”

“Yeah, I’m going to the Naval Academy in the Fall.”

Her grandmother called out from the screen door. “Layla?”

“Do you need to go?” Gage asked.

Layla looked to the cottage then back to Gage. She told herself to relax. There was no way this guy was playing her, no way she could be a bet. And the idea of hanging out with someone sweet, someone close to her own age, sounded pretty good, especially since she didn’t know another soul on the island besides her grandmother. Plus, it could be fun to pretend, at least for a little while, that her life was normal.

“I’ll catch up with you later, Grandma,” Layla called back, keeping her eyes fixed on Gage.

“Does this mean we’re going flying?”

“Maybe when you finish the Naval Academy.”

“OK. I’ve got another idea. Let’s head out to the recreation center.”

Layla nodded. “I’ll meet you there. I need to tell my grandmother.”

*

Gage would’ve preferred
an aerial tour, but a leisurely bike trip would work fine, too. He rented two beach cruisers, a pink one for Layla with a white wicker basket upfront, and stocked it up with water bottles, surrounding them with a bouquet of wildflowers he picked along the way. He figured the flowers were a nice touch. But then he second-guessing himself, worrying the flowers were way too much, way too forward.

While he might consider this a first date, perhaps she just wanted a change of scenery, to get out of her cottage, wanting nothing more than a change of pace from her grandmother. He was about to ditch the flowers when he saw Layla walking towards him, her dimples on full display, so much so they appeared to have their own dimples. He breathed a sigh of relief and handed her a bike helmet. There was no way he was wearing one—he didn’t want to look like a dork—but he wanted her safe. He helped her on the pink bike then began his little tour.

Gage started out along the shore, pointing out the beach shops brimming with new and returning vacationers, many just arriving for the Summer, some getting surfboards to head out to the ocean, some getting t-shirts with their names spray painted on, some swapping out old fishing poles for new ones. He’d gone by the shops a thousand times before, but it all seemed different now, the same sights and sounds that once bored him suddenly made new, given new life through her eyes.

They biked past a soda shop full of retro decor, vintage furniture, and soft pastels and pinstripes. He offered but she didn’t want any ice cream, so they kept going. He took her along a few bike trails, blessed with shade, covered by stately oak trees. He shifted from one trail to another, along one particular path he thought he alone knew, until stopping in front of St. Simons Lighthouse, a popular tourist attraction on the island.

They parked their bikes against a tree, and he began to tell her about the place. He started by pointing out that it was a tall, white cylinder stretching high into the air, maybe a few hundred feet or so, with a flashing light up top.

“You should be a tour guide,” Layla teased.

His face turned as red as the setting sun. He tried to think of something more to say, something beyond what their eyes could see, but there was nothing—not with her crystal blue eyes fixed on him. “I’m sure there is a brochure or something that could give you more detail.”

She smiled. “I don’t need more detail.”

“Oh, OK.”

“It’s pretty to look at,” she said, taking in his eyes. “That’s enough for me.”

Gage looked up at the lighthouse. “Sometimes my parents drag me to these jazz concerts they have out here.”

“My grandmother has told me about those. She likes them, too,” she said. “I played piano for about two seconds when I was little.”

“My mom tried to get me to play piano, but I hated it, so I got her to let me play guitar. I wanted an electric one, but she told me Santa only brought acoustic guitars.” He chuckled. “I’ve been playing since I was seven or so.”

“You must be good. Do you write your own music? Or sing?”

Gage felt his face heat again. “I sing a little.”

“Maybe you can play for me sometime?”

“Maybe,” he said, blushing.

“And sing, too?”

“Maybe.”

Layla smiled and looked away. “With the sun going down, I probably should check in back home.” She walked to her bike and thought about what she said.
Home
. She wasn’t sure why she used that word. She wasn’t sure where that was anymore.

“We can go back along the beach,” he said.

They hopped on their bikes, and Gage snaked around the lighthouse, finding an entrance to the white sand. They made their way past the herons and crabs and the last of the sun worshippers, heading all the way down to the water, the rushing of the ocean against their tires, the sand kicking up and swirling in the warm air, the rising tide whipping through the day’s sandcastles.

They pulled into the recreation center. Gage lifted the flowers from the basket and handed them to Layla. She smelled them—some squished, some dirty, all wind-blown—and smiled. Then he walked her to her cottage along the beach.

“Do you need to go inside?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she said and opened the screen door, yelling inside to her grandmother that she was back.

Layla took a seat on the sand, and Gage followed her lead, both looking up at the night sky twinkling above like diamonds. He looked over at her profile, the curve of her neck, her hair blowing slightly, wondering what she was thinking about. She had him thinking about everything he shouldn’t be.

She suddenly looked over at him, catching him staring, but he didn’t look away. To his surprise, she didn’t, either. He felt his body leaning closer to hers, wanting to touch her, wanting to kiss her, both more than anything he ever wanted before. But she broke the moment, turning her head back up to the stars.

“The stars don’t look like this in Houston,” she said. “Too many bright city lights.”

Gage groaned inside. “You miss it?”

“No,” she said. “Things with my family there are, well, complicated. You miss Atlanta?”

“Not anymore,” he said, seeing a dimple on her face. Layla exhaled and stretched out on the sand, looking directly up to the sky. Gage looked down at her, and his mind wandered to his body on top of her. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to stop the fantasy before it became obvious what he was thinking about.

“I used to sneak out into my backyard and sleep under the stars at home,” she said. “Dream about being. . . .”

“Dream about what?”

“You know, the usual stuff,” she said. “What’s the meaning of life? Why am I here? What’s my purpose? Why was the world created?” Layla saw a puzzled look on his face.
I sound like my grandmother.
“Of course, I made wishes, too.”

“For what?”

She sat up. “That’s between me and the angels.”

“
Angels
?”

“Yeah, the stars are really angels.”

“No, they’re not. They’re balls of gas and rock.”

“Hardly.”

“So which one is the Angel Layla?”

She pointed to the brightest star in the sky. “That one.”

Her grandmother called out from inside. “Layla, did you call your parents today?”

“Yes, earlier.”

“It’s dark and cool,” her grandmother said. “Come on inside, honey.”

Layla stood up and brushed off some sand. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Gage,” she said and turned to go inside.

“Good night, Angel.”

Layla smiled over her shoulder, her heart melting, before disappearing through the screen door.

Layla sunk her
feet in the sand, just as the sun peeked through the clouds and the seagulls began their morning symphony. She adjusted her shorts and tank top then pushed her hands together in a prayer pose, taking a few deep breaths.

This was the third morning she tried the yoga meditation class. Her grandmother thought it would be good for her and encouraged her to keep at it, even though Layla thought she looked stupid, surrounded by toned and tanned women, and even a few men, all of whom seemed to know exactly what they were doing, having long ago mastered the strange art of reaching and posing and stretching their bodies.

The soothing voice of the instructor helped calm her nerves a little, its deep sound rolling in as gently as the morning waves. “Bring yourself to the present moment,” he said.

Layla tried to do as he suggested, putting aside she was so young and uncoordinated, but her mind shifted once again—to the cute boy staying down the beach, their bike ride together, the lighthouse, the stars, his eyes, his perfect smile. The instructor told the class to move into a tree pose, and Layla shook her head to focus. She shifted her weight to one leg and moved her other foot to her inner thigh. Then, after a slight wobble, she lifted both arms over her head and pressed her palms together.

“This is a time to find peace and harmony,” the instructor said.

But Layla’s stomach didn’t listen, churning around as a thousand butterflies whizzed inside, thinking back to last night, how he called her “Angel.” A slow smile came over her lips. She thought to look towards his house down the beach, to see if he was out and get a glimpse of him, but she feared she’d fall down if she moved her head just the slightest. She chuckled at how much she sucked at yoga.

Her heart raced at the thought he might be waiting for her in front of her cottage. And if he wasn’t, maybe she’d walk down to his house and knock on his door after class. She tried to tell herself that was a good idea—that he’d like that since he seemed to like her—but then her heart suddenly sank. Perhaps Gage didn’t like her too much. Perhaps he just saw her as a friend, someone with whom to ride bikes. After all, he hadn’t even held her hand, let alone tried to kiss her.