Chapter Twenty-Eight

Julia

THERE'S A SMALL STUFFED LEOPARD that sits on my nightstand. I look at it every day, running my hand over the top of its head in a move I'm not sure is entirely conscious. 

That tiny stuffed toy is proof of a change that's crept into my life over the past few weeks. I'm not so sure what any of it means. All I know is that every night, after I get home from work, I get ready for bed in my room, then sneak down the hall and climb into bed with Giles. If anyone saw us, they'd think we were up to no good. If I told anyone, Lex for instance, she'd scold me for playing with fire. And I know I am. 

Giles and I don't talk about it, but there's an energy between us, constantly licking and crackling and threatening to pull us across the point of no return. We try to pretend it's not there, we talk easily and laugh as if we don't have a care in the world, but there's no denying the heat we generate anytime we're near each other.

Other people wouldn't understand our dynamic. I don't understand it myself. I'm attracted to him and I know he's attracted to me, but the friendship we've uncovered, almost accidentally, has been something we both seem to treasure above anything else. And every night that goes by that we manage to sleep side-by-side, without anything happening, is like slaying the head of the beast that taunts us to act on our physical attraction. A beast that regenerates during the day and goes back to full force by the time I settle down beside him at night. It doesn't get easier, but somehow it gets better.

There's a spell that comes over us in the dark, in the twilight hours when the world is asleep and we are free from the chains of what everyone else would force us to explain. We are free to just be ourselves. To talk, openly, freely, and without fear of being overheard. And our voices are magic in the way they are soft and unrestrained, effortless, and honest. Nothing disarms like the truth, nothing cracks you open like a genuine, heartfelt word.

In just the span of those weeks, sleeping in his bed becomes something so normal and expected that there's no longer a question of if.

One night he tells me, "I look forward to this now, you know? Lying here with you. It's my favorite part of the day."

I know what he means by that because I feel the same way. 

On another night, he confesses that the anniversary of his father's suicide is coming up and that the day is a hard one for him to face. 

"You should do something special that day," I say. "Something to commemorate his life. It helps with healing..." I trail off, realizing how awkward I must sound when I know nothing about losing a loved one, other than what my psychology textbooks have taught me.

But Giles just looks pensive. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, that's a good idea."

I think of how he's an only child, with no one else to share the burden of the loss. Then, I whisper a single statement to him that makes him go very quiet. "You never talk about your mom."

Silence stabs at me from all directions and I wish I could reel my words back in. He's already told me about his father, a story which still makes my heart ache for him. But why is talking about his mother harder for him?

Just as I'm about to say something to curb the deafening stillness that's falling between us, Giles says, "I haven't talked to her in a long time."

"Oh." 

"After my father died, we just pulled away from each other. We're alike in that way, my mother and I. We don't know how to deal with the heavy stuff. And between us, there was nothing else we could talk about. My dad was every beat of silence between us. She avoided my calls some days and some days I'd avoid hers. We would make plans to see each other and then cancel them at the last minute. Until we both sort of stopped making an effort."

"You don't think that will ever change?" 

"I don't know. The more time that goes by the harder it is. You mean to reach out, but keep putting it off." He rubs his chin for a few seconds. When he speaks again, his voice is lower and his expression further away. "At first you say tomorrow, but then tomorrow turns into weeks, weeks into distance and distance into...a gap too wide to jump. The waiting turns to resentment. And the gap into an abyss."

Damn. His words slice right through me. That's exactly what I'm doing with my family. Now that I'm on summer break, I've had more than enough time to go visit them, to mend the bleeding relationships I left behind. It's been over a month since I've had any real contact with any of them, and even that was a stiff and formal phone conversation and utterly uncomfortable. The thought of reaching out now really is daunting. 

Listening to Giles and the deep regret in his tone makes me realize that though the distance between my family and me seems wide, it will only get wider unless one of us has the courage to jump over it first. That's all it takes for a reconciliation. One person to put their pride aside and make the leap. 

"You should call your mom, Giles. There's only one person in the entire world that knows what you're going through. Who feels your pain just as acutely. It's her. You two need to lean into each other's pain not avoid it because it's uncomfortable. You two need to help each other heal."

His lashes lower, hiding his eyes from me.

"Go to sleep, little leopard," he says, like he always does when I reach a subject he doesn't want to broach.

I prop up on my elbow and move closer to him. He stiffens as I place a hand on his shirt, on his chest, and lean over to press my lips to his cheek.

"You don't have to be afraid to talk about things. You can tell me anything, okay?"

"You pull it out of me anyway," he says. "I don't know how you do."

"It's sort of my area of expertise," I tease.

"Yeah, but...what if, in all your digging, you find something that scares you?"

Somehow, his question brings me the certainty that there's more to the story with his mother he's not telling me.

"You don't get it," I say. "I like your rough edges and even the not so rough middle you keep trying to hide from me."

"My middle is very rough. Manly and coarse."

"Nah, I bet it's melted caramel in there. Or bacon flavored cotton candy."

He laughs, closing his eyes and yawning widely. I close my eyes, too, but I hear myself say, "What did you do before? Before I came to sleep with you?"

His voice is strained with sleep when he responds.  

"I can't remember. I can't remember anything before you."