The Bradbury

Young Love

“You won’t stop me!”

He stood up as he spoke, shoving his chair back and rattling the cheese plate I’d just set out with what was left of last night’s barley bread loaf. I'd built the table and chairs myself out of Cypress, so I knew they could withstand this treatment. But the intensity behind his eyes started a growing pit in my stomach. This wasn't going to end well.

“You barely know her,” I said. If his mother were here, she’d talk some sense into him. She was in the Heraklion region and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening.

He scoffed and shook his shaggy, sun-kissed curls.

Just, wait--” I followed as he stomped past the kitchen table and down the hall, intentionally knocking every painting on the wall along the way. By luck, all of them remained hanging, including the watercolor of a beautiful sunset over the canals of Venice. His mother painted that one on our honeymoon, several years before he was born. She’d be devastated if anything happened to it.

“Rus, let’s talk about this.”

“What is there to say?” He threw up his hands. “I love her. I’ve never loved anything more. She is my everything, my lighthouse, my destiny. She calls me to her.”

My son, the romantic. He was about to go off into a full-blown sonnet, if someone didn’t stop him. I could see that he meant it. He did love her, as much as a 16-year-old boy could. I remembered being 16 and feeling the same. Young love is as captivating and addictive as any drug. Then I met my wife-- and that, that was true love. Not this nonsense.

“I’m going to visit her.” He turned again, into the doorway of his room. “Just try to stop me.”

“No! It’s too dangerous.” I put my foot down, both literally and figuratively. “No woman is worth risking your life.”

“Stella is.” He was suddenly calmer, clearer. “Love is.”

He slammed the door to his room so suddenly I had to step back. Teenagers.
If only his door had a lock on the outside. I could keep him here, safe.

“I said no, Rus. You can’t go, that’s final.”

Through the door, I could hear him rustling with something. Packing a bag? Ian appeared from behind me, concerned about the ruckus. “What’s going on, dad? Is Rus leaving?”

“No,” I said, sharply. “He’s not.”

The bedroom door opened again, with almost as much force as he’d closed it. Hung over his shoulder was a half-closed leather bag overflowing with hastily thrown clothes. The flaps folded carelessly over the side, like wings about to be unfurled.

“I can’t stand being so far away from her.” He said, as a moth would describe a flame. “It’s torture. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Rus, stop. Think about what you’re doing.”

“Stella waits for me.” He placed a hand on Ian’s head, which came up past his waist now. “See ya, little guy.”

With that, he pulled open the front door. A warm and salty breeze seeped in, carrying the sound of seabirds with it. There wasn’t a cloud in sight on this spring morning in Crete.

“Icarus!” I shouted after him. “Icarus, get back here!”