Saving Laurel

28. Perfect

Laurel Gilroy

The trees are starting to change color even though the air is still warm, a sure sign that fall is coming, winter lingering close behind.

Dried sticks crunch beneath our shoes as Wes and I pick our way through the poorly cut path in the woods of the park. No one acknowledged us as we walked off from the group, just the two of us. I can only guess they're all lounging in the playscape speculating.

"So if you're not into music, what are you into?" Wes asks, his hand brushes my arm as he reaches up and touches his nose with it.

I shrug my shoulders, nothing now, but that makes me sound lame so I keep it to myself.

Wes chuckles quietly to himself at my lack of answer and I look over at him as we walk.

Okay, he's really cute. I can admit that.

"So guarded." He muses.

A laugh tumbles out of me but I try to muffle it. I still end up smiling though. "Not guarded. I used to cheer."

"Used to?" He stops to let me step through a couple overgrown bushes as he asks.

"Yeah." I toss my answer over my shoulder, not offering any explanation.

I hope he'll just drop it.

"Are you..." he interrupts himself with a whistle. "...going to try and join the team?"

My answer is automatic as I shake my head and this time he asks "why".

"Don't want to." That's the most basic form of an answer I can give.

And it's true. I don't want to cheer again. I don't want to wear the small tight uniform. I don't want to look like that stereotype. I don't want the attention or the looks or anything that comes with it.

"Fair enough."

He's at my side again as we wander down the path. His jean jacket on, a purple shirt underneath and gray jeans that he cuffs at his ankles with his black and white vans.

"Do you ever wear anything besides that jean jacket?" I ask only because I want the focus on him and not me.

He smirks and for a second, Mason flashes in my mind. All confident and beautiful, a small snippet of a memory of him on a boat. His tan skin on full display even though he wasn't going swimming, fresh tattoo. A beer in his hand as he watched me from across the boat deck. I had a cute little bikini on underneath his T-shirt, he didn't like seeing his friends look at me.

"Yeah sometimes." He laughs. "When I have to."

But my thoughts are on Mason. What is he doing? Is he thinking of me? Does he miss me? Is he remembering how good we could be? Is he's scrolling through my Instagram looking at pictures of us? All the pictures I haven't been able to bring myself to delete.

Surely he is, otherwise he never would have saw that picture I posted in my shorts.

"Let's take a picture." I announce.

"What?" Wes asks as I stop along the path.

He's probably thinking this is silly. He'd be mostly right. And I know, somewhere in my mind how desperate this is. But I want to make Mason jealous. I want him to see a picture of another boy on my Instagram and regret what he did.

So I wave Wes to me, the short distance that's between us. Standing so close that my side is pressed against him as I pull out my phone.

"Here you have longer arms." I say, holding my phone out toward him.

He tics before he says "are you sure? I've been known to drop phones."

Letting out a tense laugh, I nod and shove my phone into his palm before shaking my hair away from my face. I've taken enough selfies to know my angles, it's automatic as I push a smile onto my face and place my palm against the purple material that covers Wes's chest. I can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against my palm.

It takes him a moment to adjust the phone in his hand, whistling once before he manages to take a picture.

He hands my phone back quickly, asking "how's that?"

A genuine smile spreads across my face as I take in the photo. Wes's boyish features and dimpled smile grin back at me, his hazel eyes lit up and full of life.

"Yeah it's perfect." I mumble, my voice not matching my words.

It's almost perfect but then I see myself. My hair spilling over my shoulders, blue eyes distant, a forced smile on face and I wonder if that's how I always look. Of course it is, I'm not perfect. I'm broken.

And I can't stand to look at myself any longer, shifting my gaze to the ground, to our shoes. Wes is still standing close to me, his warmth seeping through his clothes and into mine.

The white canvas of my shoes grimy looking, the white toe scuffed and mud creeping up along the edges. Wes's shoes are fairing better, the black suede as it normally is, only the rubber sole covered in muck from our trek.

"Don't move." I tell Wes, centering my phone between us.

I take a picture of our shoes. Of our shoes that have a story of their own decorating their outsides, a story to tell of the places we've been. Of this walk through the woods and the swing set at the park and the street that we strolled down. Suddenly the stains that cover the canvas no long seem like flaws. They seem right, they're memories, they're life. They're perfect.

So with Wes standing by me, I post the picture to my Instagram with nothing but the word "perfect" in the caption.

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