Rivers

The sun shines through the window blinding me too early in the morning, reminding me of how I used to spend early mornings in my mom’s arms when I was little.

My mom loved the mornings, especially around sunrise before everyone woke up. With my arm draped over my eyes, a distant memory comes back, one I hadn’t thought of in years.

I can’t sleep, too excited to see what presents I’m getting for my birthday. I climb out from the bottom bunk and tiptoe out of the bedroom, making sure to not wake my little brother on the top bed. As soon as I enter the living room, I see the presents, and my eyes go wide as I count seven—one for each year. My mom’s tradition. I can’t wait until I’m twenty. Twenty whole presents.

Sneaking a closer peek, I’m about to ease the tape off a big box when I see a figure on the front porch. My mom. I thought I’d be up before anyone. Dang. I set the present down and walk to the door that’s cracked open. When I try to spy on her, she says, “Is that my birthday boy?”

Does she have eyes on the side of her head? Nothing escapes her.

I open the door and go out. The sun makes her brown hair golden in the early hours, and her brown eyes shine when she looks at me with her arms wide. I move into her warm embrace and lean my head on her shoulder. While rubbing my back, she says, “Happy birthday, Rivers.”

“Am I bigger like Jet now?”

We maneuver until I’m seated on her lap. She chuckles. “You’re getting there. You’ll be grown before you know it and too soon for me.”

“You don’t want me to get big?”

“I want you healthy and happy.” Tapping my nose, she says, “Boop. To grow old, and yes, big and strong.”

. . . I don’t remember much else from that day. I don’t know what presents I got or what kind of cake I had. I remember her, though. I remember her holding me while we watched the sunrise together, feeling safe in her arms, feeling loved.

Walking to the window, I lean my hands on the sill and bend down to catch the sunrise, wishing I could watch it with her again.

Kids don’t understand the concept of time, life, or death. They shouldn’t have to. Fuck, I still don’t get why she had to die. Seventeen years will never be enough.

I open the window, allowing the slight chill in the air to invade the room. It feels good after sweating out my nightmares.

The sun rises above the trees, and my gaze lifts to the golden-pink skies. The beauty of the heavens makes me wonder if my mom can see the mess I’ve made of my life. I may have all the material things a person could desire, but I don’t have that happiness she wished for me.

I hate that I’ve disappointed the two women I’ve loved more than life.

All the money in the world doesn’t matter when you fail your family, fail yourself, and fail the one person you thought you couldn’t fail. Bestselling albums, sold-out tours, and more money than the devil can sin with are all empty accomplishments when you have no one to share it with. When there’s no one to be proud of you.

No blame falls on Stella for my fuckups. She tried her best to save me. When my mom died on my seventeenth birthday, the pain tormented me. By eighteen, I was trying to drown myself in whiskey. When that wasn’t working, I was looking for any way to take my mind higher than in the depths of hell it normally resided.

Moving back to the bed, I lie down, wanting this constant regret to stop taunting me.

When it came to fights, disagreements, or hurt feelings, my mom used to tell me that hope wasn’t dead until the person we hope in closes the door. Last night, Stella tried to close that door, but my gut tells me she left it cracked open. Her visit gave me a kernel of hope. She’s not the only one who’s riding the line between conflict of the heart and mind. This middle ground I’ve been dwelling in for years is slowly killing me.

My head swims with memories of how Stella and I used to be.

Stella Fellowes, the prettiest girl in school, sits under the big oak tree at lunch, like most days. While I stand at a distance, I wonder if she’s ever noticed me?

I live in Jet’s shadow, and Tulsa snags all the attention when he’s around. As a middle kid, I’ve learned to let them own the spotlight while I tend to disappear in the background. I never really minded until now.

But Stella’s not just a pretty face. She’s smart and talks to anyone, unlike the other popular girls. Jet told me he thinks she’s cute but called her a kid like me and told me to make a move before someone else did.

I take a deep breath, then blow it out, gathering any stupid courage I can muster, and head for the tree because today is the day I find out if she even knows me. Her head is down, her full attention on the book in her lap.

At first, she doesn’t see me standing there beside her. I’m about to go back to the cafeteria, thinking I might have made a big mistake coming over, but before I have a chance to leave, she looks up. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I reply. Not very smooth. Say something. Say something. Say anything. God, I need to fill this deadening silence. “I play guitar.” What the heck? I’m screwing this up so badly.

I turn to leave, knowing I just blew any cool I might have faked. But then she says, “I heard you in the music room the other day. You’re very good. My dad told me there are different types of guitar. Which one do you play?”

“Bass. It’s the unsung hero in a band. There’s no glory in it. That usually goes to a lead electric guitar, but the music’s better because of the bass.” What the hell? I sound so dumb.

She smiles, putting me at ease. “Do you want to eat lunch with me, Rivers?”

She knows my name? She knows my name! Holy, what universe is this? “Yeah.” I sit down before she has a chance to change her mind, and ask, “What are you reading?”

“Pride and Prejudice.” She flips the cover over to show me. It’s been read a few times by appearances. “I’ve read it before. Sometimes I just like to revisit characters.”

“Like they’re real,” I say, chuckling.

“They are to me.” She closes the book without worry of losing her place in the story. “Tell me about your music. Do you play in the school band or take lessons? Have you played long? Who taught you?”

It’s still hot out, though it’s mid-October, but fall is coming. A breeze blows her shiny hair into the air like a little hurricane of brown strands. Trying to tame them, she pats it down and then tucks it behind both ears. She’s one of the few girls who doesn’t cake on the makeup. She wears just enough to highlight what I already find so pretty instead of taking away from her beauty.

Sea green eyes stare into my boring browns, and her curiosity, her genuine interest shines. I reply, “My mom taught me some basics on her acoustic guitar when I was younger, but my brother Jet mostly taught me.” My heart pounds in my chest as I get caught up in her eyes. “What else did you ask?”

She reaches into her brown lunch bag and pulls out a sandwich. “Did you bring lunch today?”

If I told her the truth—I left it on the kitchen table because I was so nervous about seeing her today—she’d laugh at me. “No.”

“You can have half of mine.”

“It’s okay. I can grab a soda from the cafeteria.”

“You need food, Rivers.” I love the way she says my name like it matters.

Stella hands me half the sandwich, which was cut diagonally. She says, “It’s bologna, but it’s what was on sale this week. My mom only buys the weekly special.”

“Yeah, my mom too. My dad’s not around, and there are three boys, so I’m used to bologna. I actually like it, though. Thanks.” I take a bite.

When we finish the sandwich, we talk about her favorite books and my music while eating the chips and sharing an orange.

She didn’t just share her lunch with me. I knew right then that she was sharing her heart. That was the day I fell in love under the oak tree. I’ve only ever loved her since.