BY THE TIME I HAVE all of my daily chores done, it is close to four in the afternoon. I haven't seen or heard anything from Rivers since the lunchtime fiasco, and that's okay. He messes up my good vibe. I purse my lips as I shake my head, not understanding his way of thinking.
Quickly changing out of my clothes, I slip on my two-piece, the neon green of it clashing with my dyed red hair as I study myself in the full-length mirror. The overhead light catches the silver stud in my nose, causing it to shine for an instant. My skin is ghastly pale, but there is nothing to be done about it. I touch the spattering of freckles on my nose and turn away, folding my clothes and putting them on top of my tote bag. Phone, sunglasses, sunscreen, and yellow beach towel in hand, I head to my form of liquid heaven.
The sun is relentless under the cloudless sky and I squint against it, thinking of an upside down ocean of calm waters. The humidity isn't bad today and a warm breeze rustles my hair. From my position, I can see the surrounding houses, trees, and parts of varying streets, and yet I feel separate from it all—untouchable. Summer makes me feel free, like there are endless possibilities and the future can hold anything I want it to. Tomorrow is a whole new chance to do something great. I feel the curve of my lips and know a smirk of contentment covers them.
Setting my stuff down on the bench at the far end of the deck, I walk to the edge of the pool and raise my hands above my head. I bend my knees, and push off into a dive, the water sluicing on either side of me in smooth lines. My arms stroke the lukewarm liquid as I balance my breathing with my movements. Time escapes me as I become part of the water, the laps melding into a dizzying line of back and forth.
An awareness tickles the back of my neck and I shoot to a standing position, my heart pounding as I work on steadying my breathing. I look to the chair normally occupied by Rivers, surprised to find it empty. Instead he sits on the bench with his hands clasped together and his arms resting on his knees. The intensity of his gaze singes me, but it only lasts a brief moment before it is replaced by nothingness. How can he so effectively wipe all emotion from his eyes within the span of an instant? Practice, a voice tells me.
I wonder if I should say something, but I am kind of tired of never being acknowledged, so I don't. I go back to swimming, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. It's strange that I find it comforting in a way and I wonder if he gathers comfort from watching me as well. Ludicrous, and yet the brand of his eyes is unwavering the entirety of my swim.
Hours later I am freshly showered and clad in a neon yellow with pink stars tank top and gray shorts, ready for some lounging. I like to be active, but I also like to do absolutely nothing and vegetate just as much. I designated the sun room as my bedroom for the duration of my stay. One, because the couch is comfy. Two, because Monica asked me to. And three, because this room is alive with the sun.
Odd that there are two of us in this house and we are both acting like there is only one—Rivers keeping to his room and me letting him. I wonder if that's how he usually spends his days, just listening to music and watching television, segregated from others by his choice. How boring. I mean, yeah, I keep to myself, but I'm not brooding as I do it.
I'm flipping through the channels on the television when my phone rings with 'Man On The Moon' by R.E.M. I pick it up, asking, “How's everything going?”
The sigh is heavy. “As well as expected. How are things there?”
“Perfect.”
“Don't exaggerate, Delilah. I know my son.”
I twirl a lock of hair around my finger. “I was trying to make you feel better. Not too bad, actually. Rivers has been in his room most of the day.”
“I'm not surprised.” Monica pauses. “He called a little bit ago.”
“Oh?” I can just imagine all the nice things he had to say about me.
“Yeah.” Her tone sounds perplexed as she continues, “He brought up the ice cream.”
I drop my hand. “Oh. Was that off limits?”
“No, no, of course not. It's just...did he eat some of it?”
“Yes,” I answer with furrowed brows. The amount of attention presently being placed on the ice cream consumption is definitely puzzling to me.
“That's so odd,” she mutters to herself.
“That he brought it up to you or that he ate it? It seems kind of strange that that was his reasoning for calling you, definitely. Is he worried about calories or something? Maybe he wanted you to tell him to build the ice fort back up so he stays out of it. It was totally his idea to eat it,” I hurriedly add.
“Rivers doesn't like ice cream.”
I search my brain to remember whether I did, in fact, actually see him raise a spoon of ice cream to his mouth and swallow it. Yes. I did. Why didn't he tell me he doesn't like ice cream? Why did he get himself a bowl and a spoon? Why did he eat it? It isn't like he's sensitive to my feelings or anything. What purpose did any of that have?
“He must have decided he does.”
Her response is slow and not completely confident. “Right. I'll call again tomorrow. And Delilah?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever you're doing, keep doing it.”
I don't want to take credit for something I haven't even done, but I say, “Yeah, okay.”
After getting off the phone with Monica, I give my mom a quick call to assure her I am still alive and unharmed, then find a movie on the television to watch. As the minutes turn into hours and night descends upon the sky outside like a dark blanket with specs of light in the form of stars, my brain continually tries to wrap around what Monica told me. It doesn't make any sense. Why would he eat something he doesn't even like, and why would he tell his mother about it too?
Obviously he didn't bring up his fall in the bathroom or what I am sure he considers bullying. Why would he do that? Bring up the ice cream and not the other stuff? I get him not bringing up his fall, because he probably views that as a sign of weakness, but me forcing the curtains open in his room, what about that? That's the first thing I would have thought he'd bring up to his mom as a reason to get rid of me. He has a growing list of ammunition to use against me and he hasn't used any of it.
Why?
MY EYELIDS FLY OPEN AND I stare at a ceiling blackened by night as I fight to remember where I am and what woke me up. I sit up and look out the windows, realizing I am in the Young house instead of my own. The moon is bathing the night with a faint glow. I hold still, waiting. Nothing moves outside other than bushes and tree leaves in the wind. The only sound in the room is the ticking of a clock, marking off the seconds of time, but I know that isn't what forced me from sleep. I'm about to lie back down when I hear the sound again.
I vault to my feet and from the room, thinking, What now?
Without hesitating, I fling open Rivers' bedroom door. He's writhing on the bed, his back raised as he cries out. The sound is harsh, broken. I flip the light switch up to see if he is in actual pain or in the grasp of a nightmare, my eyes stinging from the sudden light. His eyes are closed, his features twisted in a grimace, and a layer of sweat is covering his face and chest. I watch him struggle, feeling helpless. I don't know what to do. I don't want to make it worse by trying to drag him from a world only he can see, but I also can't leave him like this.
I step back from the bed and bite my lip. “Rivers? Rivers. Rivers, wake up.” I know it's probably not the best idea because he could unintentionally and unknowingly hit me in his sleep, but I can't stand to see him like this any longer, so I step closer. I scan his taut body and rest my eyes on his hands bunched around the blankets of his bed, minutely reassured that they aren't swinging in the air. I'm thinking a punch received from him would be painful, even while in the clutches of slumber.
Placing my cool palm against his hot forehead, I lean close to his ear and speak soothingly, “Rivers, you're okay. You're okay now. I'm here and you're okay. It's just a dream. It can't hurt you. Wake up, Rivers. It's okay to wake up.” For a moment I don't think it's doing any good, but as I continue to talk to him, my words slowly reach him through the blackness of his mind and he settles down.
I give nonsensical details about myself as I kneel beside the bed, taking in the loosening of his muscles, the way his fingers begin to unclench, his breathing evening out. “Have you ever noticed how many different colors of green are in a single strand of grass? There are all these lighter greens that meld into darker ones, even hints of yellow within them. It's amazing. The most beautiful things in the world are right in front of us in the beauty of the actual world. If I had any form of creativity with a paintbrush, I'd try to paint a field of grass and flowers. Sadly, I cannot even draw stick figures.” His fingers relax against the bed.
“My favorite color is a rainbow. In the fifth grade, Mrs. Williams asked us all to come to the front of the room and state what our favorite color was and why. You were in her class too. Do you remember that day? I got up there and said what my favorite color was. She told me not to be silly, that I had to pick one color, and I told her I couldn't, and I wouldn't, because I loved all the colors, and I especially loved all of the colors found in a rainbow.
"She sent me to the principal's office for being insubordinate. I painted my hair in stripes of yellow, orange, red, green, purple, and blue the next day. She hated me from that moment on. Also, my mom threw a fit when she tried to clean it from my hair. It took weeks for all the colors to be completely gone.
“I thought about trying out for choir freshman year. I love to sing. I'm not saying I'm good at it, but I love it. I didn't try out, and not because I was nervous or scared, but because singing is something I treasure, and I didn't want it to somehow be used against me in a negative way. What if I wasn't good enough? What if I was mediocre compared to everyone else? What if people made fun of me just to make fun of me? I didn't want the joy of it to get lost in sharing it with others, or to have it taken away from me by knowing I'm not any good at it. I don't even know if that makes sense. Probably not.
“I feel bad for bugs. I mean, I don't want them swarming me or biting me or anything, but I understand them. I understand how they're judged a lot of the time on the way they look. People don't like ugly things. People don't like things they don't understand. I know what that's like. I've been disliked just because of how I look for a long time—because I chose to dress differently from everyone else. Because I like stuff that doesn't necessarily match or go together, because I didn't want to be like all the other kids. Why try to be like someone else when our individuality is what makes us us?
"I could have let myself get bitter over it, but I really just feel sorry for people like that. I suppose it used to upset me, but the longer it went on, the more immune to it I became. I decided I was above all of that petty shit, although at times, I did lower myself down to respond to situations when I probably should have ignored them. The whole high school scene is bizarre, if you really think about it. Kids are mean, everyone is struggling to find their identity, social status is your life. If you aren't good at sports, you suck. If you aren't popular, you might as well fade into the woodwork. People...” I trail off as I notice how still he is.
I look up and meet his unflinching gaze. It's black, unfathomable. I feel like I could get sucked into his dark eyes and become wrapped in him.
“People like I used to be,” he says in a rough voice.
I lean back on my heels, letting my hand fall away from his face. “I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
Slowly standing, I push down wayward strands of my hair as I become aware of what I must look like. My hair is a wreck on a good day and I can't imagine what it looks like now. I catch his eyes going up and down my body and face like a warm touch. I self-consciously cross my arms.
“Are you okay now?”
He doesn't answer, turning his face forward.
“All right then.” I head for the door.
“Stay.” Softly spoken, raw with emotion—this one word has the power to halt my steps.
“What?” I turn around to face him, but he won't meet my gaze. I think I must have heard him wrong.
Even with his face partially turned away, I can see the confusion and need warring in his expression. I think he astounded even himself when he said it. “Will you...stay?”
A long minute ticks by, the weight of my decision heavy in the room. Will I stay? What will it mean if I do? What does he expect from me if I do? I glance at him, knowing there was nothing seductive about that request. It was brought on by vulnerability in a hurting young man. I don't think I can leave, not after he said that. Walking away would be a pretty nasty thing to do after he ignored his pride to voice that word, and I am a lot of things, but cruel is not one of them. He needs someone. It probably isn't really even me, but just someone. I can be that someone for the night.
“Yeah,” I whisper, flicking the light switch off before we can gauge each other's reaction to his surprising question and my just as surprising answer.
In the dark I make my way to the large bed, aware of him scooting over to make room for me. The rapid beat of my pulse is proof that this is insane and completely unexpected. We're practically strangers, we are from different worlds, and we don't exactly bring out the best in one another. Yet, here we are, together because of night terrors. I know what nightmares are like. Sometimes they are there whether we are sleeping or awake, unavoidable and inescapable. I suppose Rivers feels like he is in the middle of one, even when his eyes are open. I exhale slowly, knowing exactly how that feels.
I lie on the bed with my hands clasped together over my midsection, my body tense. His body heat seeps into my side, as does his sweet smell that makes me homesick for a home I've never had. It's more of a sense than an actual place—a feeling of wholeness. Where I am and what I am doing sinks in the longer I am in his bed. Me, lying next to Rivers Young. Crazy. This summer has been a collision of disbelief upon disbelief. Strangely enough, this one I don't mind so much.
“What did you dream about?”
“Water,” is his gruff response.
I close my eyes against the dark only to see more dark. I wonder if this is what Rivers feels like he is in—waves of unending darkness, never knowing how to get back to who he used to be, unable to tread forward through them, constantly sucked under them, struggling to breathe. Stuck. Lost. His arm relaxes against mine and he instantly moves it away. I pretend I didn't notice, asking, “Do you have nightmares often?”
The silence is drawn out to the point where I don't think he is going to answer me, but then he says softly, “Every night.”
No words are really appropriate after that admission and I focus on the steadiness of his breathing instead. In and out. Slow and deep. I feel him sinking back into the nothingness of slumber. How do you break through the black and into the light? How does a boy who used to have everything decide he has something to fight for when he's lost all he's known? What will be strong enough to pull him from the waters of his dark abyss of reality? I think he has to do it himself, but he has to want to. I also think it's the scars of his heart that need to be mended, not the superficial outside ones.
It is true that no one can save you, no one but yourself. And sometimes...even you cannot save you, no matter how much you wish it was untrue. Sadly, some things are not meant to be saved.
My limbs melt into the mattress as I fade away.
THE FIRST RAYS OF SUNLIGHT awaken me, warming me from the direction of an uncovered window. I almost smile when I realize he left the curtains open. Then I remember I can only know that because I am lying in his bed with him sleeping next to me, and the compulsion to do so disappears. I lie still for a moment, convincing myself last night really happened and it wasn't just a dream. It was completely innocent—the only time we touched by accident. I guess he just needed to not be alone in order to sleep. I'm sure any warm body would have sufficed.
Slowly turning my head, I take in the body lying next to me. It's long and tanned, the muscles defined in a way only someone naturally athletic and constantly moving can acquire. Studying the olive-toned features, I note the boyishness not normally seen on Rivers' face, the long, black eyelashes that kiss his cheeks, and the slight part between his lips. He looks so young without the lines around his mouth and the frown between his eyebrows he habitually has while awake. A shadow of stubble frames his jaw, adding a roughness to his otherwise youthful features. Rivers is a perfect mix of clouds and sunshine, openness and hardness. He's an impeccable, yet inconsistent being of all that is good and all that is not. And I am in his bed.
If I had a list of things least likely to happen, this could be on it. No—this would be on it. Maybe even number one on the list.
It takes another moment for me to realize there is a heavy weight on my stomach. His arm is across my torso with his hand around my waist, keeping me exactly where I am. My fingers slide down the tendons, muscles, and bones of his arm, stopping on his hand. I know I shouldn't enjoy the feel of him so much, but I do. He's made so differently from me. I may be active on a regular basis, but I don't have the hardness to my muscles that he does. A fine dusting of hair covers his arm, glints of blond catching my eye. I am paler and my hand is smaller than his. Everything about him is more, larger, harder—extraordinary. I squeeze my fingers around his for just a touch longer than is necessary and carefully move his hand away, able to breathe only when we are no longer touching.
The process of getting myself out of the bed is methodical, but once on my feet, I run from the room as if I can run from last night. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't do anything but sleep beside him. Still, there was an intimacy to it that I am unsure how to feel about. The only boy I've ever fallen asleep beside is my brother, and that was so long ago that I only know it happened from photographs I've seen. Of course, there is no way to compare the two as they are on completely different levels of understandability.
I shower and get myself ready for the day, deciding pancakes sound good. Homemade pancakes are better than from the box, and I resolve to have it be my mission to make the mouthwatering thought of them a reality. I get out the flour, eggs, milk, and vanilla, placing everything on the counter. Finding a recipe book proves harder than it should. After futilely searching through all the drawers and cupboards, I lean against the counter top and sulk.
Minutes later I hear the precise footsteps of Rivers. I straighten as I wait, heat crashing over me in unrelenting waves as an image of his sleeping form shoots through me. Don't think about it. I decided earlier to pretend like last night never happened, for both of our benefits. We'll see how good I am at pulling it off.
The first thing I say to Rivers when he appears is, “Does your mother not cook?”
He's wiping sleep from his eyes and drops his hand to blink at me. The shirt he's wearing is teal with a silver surfboard on it and his shorts are black and loose—quite a change from his usual camouflaging pants. I wonder if he's even been surfboarding before. I answer myself with, Of course he has. He is one with the water, which makes his accident all the more baffling. I mean, even his name is a connection to water.
"Why were you named Rivers?"
“What?” he asks around the lingering fog of sleep.
I decide to go back to my first question, most likely confusing him, but deciding it's the lesser of difficult questions for him to answer. “Your mom. Does she cook? I can't find a recipe book.”
“Why do you need a recipe book?”
“So I can cook?” I raise my eyebrows.
A frown twists his lips. “Pretty sure my mom isn't paying you to cook.”
“Pretty sure your mom isn't paying me to sleep with you either.” As soon as I say it, I bite down hard on my tongue, tasting blood. So much for my idea to pretend last night never happened.
Shutters close over his face and he turns away.
I make my voice bright as I say, “Forget cooking. Let's go out to eat.”
Rivers pauses long enough to say, “I am not going out to eat with you.”
“Oh? Scared to be seen with me in public?” I ask curiously. It doesn't bother me if he is—that's his problem. I just like to know these things.
He mutters to himself.
“What did you say?”
“I said, you don't get it.”
I reach into the bowl above the fridge and find the rectangular piece of plastic. I also find a set of car keys. I take both. “Well, I'm going out for pancakes. You can stay here. 'Bye!” My arm grazes his as I fit by him to get to the front door.
Clouds obscure the sun as I walk from the house to the detached white garage. The four-car garage is bigger than the whole downstairs of my house, a fact that has me shaking my head. The inside of it is cool and bare except for two cars, a gleaming white Ford truck, and a small stack of totes along the far wall. One of the cars is a reproduction of an original Volkswagen Beetle in pastel green and the other is an older model, gun metal gray Dodge Charger. I stare at the two-door vehicle with something close to awe swirling through me. I don't even care whose car it is, I just really hope I have the right set of keys.
I push a button on the wall and the garage door rambles up. I get in the Charger and put the key in the ignition. Joy abounds within me as it fits, and a wide smile cracks my face. I don't know a lot about cars, but I know I like fast ones. I'm hoping this is one of them, but if not, at least it looks cool. It reminds me of the car used in the television show 'The Dukes of Hazzard', a show my mom used to watch reruns of on a regular basis. I never understood that. As I gaze at the shiny leather interior of the car, I decide it had to have been because of the car.
I roll down the windows as a voice says, “That's my car.”
I just shrug.
Rivers stands in indecision beside the passenger door before wrenching it open and getting in as quickly as his body allows. “If anything happens to this car, Bana, it's your ass.”
“Psssh.” I look in the rear view mirror. “Hold on.” And I hit the accelerator, laughing as Rivers shouts an obscenity next to me.
I find a classic rock station and The Doors play as we zip along the back streets of Prairie du Chien. The car handles a lot more easily than my mom's Ford Taurus. I almost want to say it's touchy. It's sleek and slim-framed, everything inside it formed with a touch of daintiness to it. If I told Rivers that, I'm thinking he wouldn't like it too much. Rivers Young and muscle cars? Never would have thought it. He seems too polished for such a thing. Cars like this make me think of boys covered in dirt who smoke cigarettes and slack off in school.
I know—people and their misconceptions. And I among them.
"How come you never drove this car to school? You always drove that white truck I saw in the garage."
He gives me a look. "Right. And have someone bash into it?"
"You're like one of those people with the flashy cars that park all alone in the Wal-Mart parking lot so no one is by their car. They never seem to realize that parking like that just calls even more attention to it." When he doesn't respond, I say, "It's so sad you keep it hidden away so no one can enjoy it."
"Looks like you're enjoying it," he mutters.
I laugh. "Well, yeah, but that's because I commandeered it."
"Is that what it's called?"
Smiling, I ignore that and ask, "How can you afford a truck and a car? And nice ones, at that. Or did you parents buy them for you?"
"I've worked every summer for as long as I could as a lifeguard. Didn't you ever go to the pool?"
Once. Riley and her friends made fun of my ghost skin the whole time. It got old. I didn't return. "Nope. And that's still not enough money to be able to afford something like this."
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his shrug. "I worked at the grocery store during the school year, in between and around sports. And I got this at an auction for a lot less than it was worth. It was a heap. Some friends and I worked on it every weekend for months. The truck is technically my parents. I just drive it."
Knowing that Rivers worked to get this, that he paid for it and made it what it now is with manual labor and not just green paper, makes me soften toward him. It wasn't just given to him and I like that. He earned it.
"What about you? How come you don't have a car?"
"I like my bike, and when I have to, I take my mom's car. I don't need a car for myself." I add, "I'm practical."
"Practical," he murmurs quietly, his tone saying he doesn't understand why anyone would want to be that.
“Where do you want to eat?”
“Whatever is closest,” is his immediate response.
I look over at him and laugh again. Rivers is sitting against the door, one hand gripping the armrest with the other over his eyes. “I'm a safe driver,” I call over the wind and music. After I get the initial zeal for speed out of me, I slow down and pull over, putting the car in park. “Want to drive?”
He just looks at me.
“What? You like me chauffeuring you around?”
“I can't drive.”
“Why not?”
“Didn't you get really good grades in school?”
“Valedictorian,” I supply quietly.
“How can someone so smart not have any common sense? My legs are ruined. I can't drive,” he says harshly.
I fist my hand and thump him on the shoulder. “Are your legs gone?”
“No.”
“Can you walk?”
“Barely.”
“Can you walk?” I insist.
He mutters, “Yeah.”
“Okay. Your legs are not ruined. You just have to figure out how to use them differently, that's all. And you can drive. Unless a doctor told you you couldn't?”
He shakes his head, a scowl on his face.
I open the car door and get out.
“What are you doing?”
I walk over to the passenger side.
“I'm not driving, Bana!”
I reach for the door and he locks it. Shrugging, I sprawl out on my back on the crinkly green grass beside the road and close my eyes, my arms out wide. Luckily, we are in the business part of town and not residential. I suppose people may have an issue with me camping out in their front yard, but the fabric shop probably won't be so quick to notice my prone form in the grass on the other side of their parking lot. Well, hopefully anyway. I have nothing but time right now.
Shadows and light play over my eyelids as the clouds catch and release the sun. I'm wrapped in sunshine and warmth. A stillness comes over me, an awareness of the earth around me, and peacefulness with it. I enjoy it for as long as I can, tranquility taking over and turning my limbs languid. The shadow suddenly holds, though, and I slowly open my eyes. Rivers is glaring down at me, standing in his uneven way.
“Let me guess, you want to drive now?”
“You are unbelievable,” he tells me.
I hop to my feet and bestow my sunniest smile upon him. He blinks, swallows, and walks to the car. The seat has to be moved back to allow room for his six foot two frame and once he's in the seat, he sits unmoving with his hands around the steering wheel. I catch the tremble in his arms as he struggles with his fear.
“Are your legs bothering you right now?”
He glances at me. “There's never a time they aren't.”
“What do you do about it?”
Resting his head against the seat, he closes his eyes. “Endure.”
“You don't take pain meds?”
“No,” he bites out.
“Why not?”
“Because I don't like them. Ibuprofen is the strongest thing I'll take, when I have a choice. Obviously I didn't for part of the time in the hospital because I was unconscious and out of it. I couldn't stand that feeling.”
“What feeling?”
“Of not really being me. I was just some shadow of myself.”
I digest that bit of information before moving on. “Do you want to be able to drive?”
A gruff nod is his response.
“So drive. You don't have to go fast. You don't have to go far. Just prove to yourself that you still can. And whenever it gets to be too much, you pull over and I'll take over,” I tell him softly. “There's no shame in needing a break. What's most important is that you do it again after your break. That's what life and living is about, Rivers. Second chances. Every day is one more blessing we don't know whether we're going to get or not from day to day, so we should make the most of them as they come, right? We should drive.”
He slowly turns his dark head and watches me, his expression neutral. I think maybe he catches a glimpse of something he hasn't seen before, or didn't realize is there until this moment. I think he sees a bit of me for the first time—the real me, not the version he perceived me to be. I study him back, taking in the short ebony locks, the angled jaw with the shadow along its sharp edges—the eyes that are so dark, yet so full of light when they choose to be. The air around us is still as I wait for his perusal to end. When he finally looks away, I hide a smile, feeling a tug in the center of me.
“Where are you going to college at in the fall?” he asks as he angles the car toward a little diner on the outskirts of town.
The smile falls from my face. “I'm not.”
He brakes abruptly and I put a hand out on the dash. “Sorry,” he mumbles, putting the car in park and shutting it off. “Why aren't you?”
I unhook my seat belt and open the door. “It seems like a waste.”
He limps around the side of the car and meets me near the hood. “You're not serious. You were the smartest kid in our class. The valedictorian. And you think college is a waste? What are you going to do, clean houses for the rest of your life?” His tone is incredulous.
I cross my arms. “I wasn't the smartest. I just studied the hardest. It almost seems like you care, for some reason, but that can't be. I sort of thought your life revolved around feeling sorry for yourself. How did you find the time to squeeze the details of my future into your brain?”
Anger tightens his mouth. “I don't care.”
“Great!” I head for the door of the pink and white building. It makes me think of pink frosting over vanilla ice cream. A sign above the door reads 'A Dash Of Delicious'. I turn to him and say, “I'm related to Eric Bana.”
Confusion filters through his eyes. “No you aren't.”
“You're right. I'm not. But you had to think about it for a second, didn't you?”
“Weird, Bana, really weird,” he mutters behind me as we walk inside.
The scents of coffee, bacon, and cinnamon tumble over me as I head toward the booths. The restaurant has six of them, four tables, and a counter for people to sit at as well. It's a small, but popular establishment. The walls are lined in framed black and white photographs of Prairie du Chien throughout the years, complete with the historical Villa Louis and dozens of years worth of rendezvouses. I like coming in here. It reminds me of sitting back in time, observing what once was and meshing it with what is.
I pause as I feel Rivers hesitate behind me. I wonder if this is his first social outing since the accident. I decide to pretend I don't notice his faltering steps, focusing on the Eric Bana discussion instead. “It would be weird if I was related to him. And unfortunate. He's really hot. Sigh.”
“Did you just say sigh?”
I stop beside a booth. “I really did.”
“No one says sigh. They just...you just sigh, okay? You don't say you're sighing. That completely defeats the purpose of sighing.”
I stare at him. “Sigh.”
Rivers looks torn between finding me hilarious and super annoying. He settles for sighing as he angles his body into the booth and I burst out laughing. He rubs his mouth and I think it's to hide the smile he wants to unleash.
“What happens if you smile? Do you turn to stone?”
He grimaces. “No. But you might.”
I grab a pink and white laminated menu and flip it open. I don't understand why he thinks his scars detract from his good looks in any way. Or why he cares so much about how he looks. How you look does not define you as a person. I set the menu down and place my chin in my hand as I study him. He's all dark smoldering looks that attracts one like a moth to a flame. Pretty to look at—deadly to get too close to. He scowls back the longer I stare.
“What?” he finally snaps.
“You're conceited, shallow.” I pause. "Vain."
Rivers blinks.
“I mean, sure, you're not perfect anymore. You have an uneven, gouged-out line that goes from under your eye to your mouth and you have a smaller one that slants down your forehead with a little patch of hair missing around it. And, yeah, your legs are a mess, but at least they still work. Do you think anyone really cares about a few imperfections on your face and legs? Big deal. You're still living. You still have your eye. You still have your mouth in one piece. You still have your legs and you can walk. Be thankful instead of resentful.
“So you have a few scars. You're good-looking regardless, more good-looking than most. No one cares about how you look as much as you do. And anyway, perfect is boring. At least now you have some character to you. Who wants to look at something perfect all the time? It just makes the rest of us feel that much more imperfect. So, really, you're doing everyone else less fortunate in the looks department a huge favor. You should look at it that way.” I suck in a lungful of air and catch my breath.
“I should be glad for the boating accident then, is that what you're saying?” he says with narrowed eyes.
I shrug, turning my attention back to the menu. “I think I'll have pancakes.” I slap the menu down and give him a smile.
His response is a stare.
I raise my eyebrows.
Shaking his head, Rivers takes my menu and looks it over.
The waitress, a sixty-ish woman with pale blonde hair, glasses, and black painted on eyebrows, shows up to take our drink orders. I get orange juice and Rivers orders coffee and water. I kick my feet in beat to 'Son Of A Preacher Man' by Dusty Springfield playing from a radio somewhere in the restaurant, and when that isn't satisfactory, I hop to my feet.
“What are you doing?” Rivers asks worriedly, looking around us.
“I'm dancing.” I spin around and strike a pose, grinning at him over my shoulder.
With a groan, he covers his face. “I swear you have it out for me.”
I shake my shoulders and bend over to bump one against his. “Want to join me?”
“I don't, no.” He leans over and hisses, “Sit down. You're embarrassing me.”
“Maybe you're embarrassing me,” I say close to his face. I admire the lush fan of his eyelashes around his eyes, noting the line of chocolate brown around his pupils. His brows furrow as he returns the stare, his eyes shifting over my features.
“You look different without all your makeup on. You're sort of pretty,” he says in a hoarse voice, clearly stunned by this knowledge, or maybe by saying it out loud.
I grin, my stomach clenching and releasing. “You're sort of talking a lot.” I straighten as the waitress stops by our table with our drinks. I sit down and place my hands on the table top, eyes on Rivers. He won't look at me, which is okay. I think he shocked himself with his halfway compliment.
I order pancakes and so does he.
“Have you had the pancakes here before?”
“Who hasn't?” he says after a pause.
I almost sigh, or say the word. I guess it's back to him being all moody and non-responsive. I sit back and look out the window, wondering when the next train will come. I feel his gaze on me and wait for him to ask whatever is on his mind.
“How'd you get hired to clean our house anyway?”
“Your mom apparently thought I was qualified.” I hear the faint roar of an engine, my eyes glued to the window as I wait.
“Why? How? She just saw you on the street and asked you to clean our house? And why would you want to anyway?”
“I need the money.”
“For?”
I glance at him. “I'm going on a trip.”
“You're going on a trip,” he repeats slowly. Leaning back, he crosses his arms over his chest. “What kind of a trip?”
“One that requires money.” The train appears in green and black. I avidly watch it, the sound and speed of it breathtaking.
“Most trips do. You didn't answer me. How did you come to work at my house?”
I turn from the window, the vibration of the locomotive faint from this distance but still noticeable. “We were at the grocery store, in the checkout lane by each other. The line was long and we started talking. She looked frazzled, said the regular cleaning lady who also did the grocery shopping had just gone on vacation and with everything the way it was, she hadn't had time to hire a temporary replacement. She said she had planned on not hiring anyone for the summer and doing it all herself, but realized she didn't have the time because of situations at home. I think she was desperate.” It isn't the full truth, but a close variation of it. Everything I said is true on his mother's part. I just left some details out.
“And you volunteered.” His tone says he doubts this.
I nod. “I did.”
“Again, why?”
I jut my jaw forward, fighting to keep irritation at bay. “I told you why. I needed the money.”
“Did you know it was my house when you offered? Did you know you were talking to my mom?”
I shift my eyes from his and cross my fingers under the table. “No. Not at first.” A partial truth again. Another jolt of annoyance sparks through me. I promised myself this would be a peaceful summer, but there are times—most of the time, I should say—in Rivers' presence that I forget this. “Why are you asking me all of these questions anyway? What does any of it matter?”
“I'm just trying to figure it all out.”
“Well you have. Now you know the mystery behind my employment. Bully for you.”
“Right. You wanted to work at my house so you can get enough money to go on a trip where the destination and activities of it are apparently top secret.” The expression on his face is dubious.
“I like trains.”
He gives me a look. “Okay.”
“I've never been on one before and I've always wanted to go on some kind of trip on one. I'm planning on going on a six-day Amtrak trip to Memphis and New Orleans. It's called 'Blues and the Bayou'. Both are places I've always wanted to see.”
“Oh.” His look tells me he doesn't understand why I would want to do such a thing.
"Have you ever been on a train ride before?"
Rivers shakes his head, his attention captured by those around us. He seems to shrink in size, as though he is trying to make himself as uninteresting as he can. Such a complete reversal of how he used to be. He used to shine when others paid attention to him; now he seems to deflate. Rivers' eyes shift over the other patrons and he looks down, clenching his jaw.
“What is it?”
“People are staring at me. This was a bad idea. We should go.”
I lean against the table top and crane my neck back to look over him. There are five other customers in the diner; all older, and not a single person is looking in our direction. “Who?”
“I don't know. People.”
“Mmm-hmm.” I sit back. “Do you know any of the people in here right now?”
“No.”
“Okay. So they have no reason to be staring at you then. You're imagining it.” I thank the waitress as she sets the white plate of fluffy round pancakes before me. “And if you don't stop thinking everyone is obsessed with your looks as much as you are, I'm going to punch you,” I tell him pleasantly.
He snorts. “Try it.” Rivers smears butter on his pancakes with a knife, his eyes down.
“You always thought you were so important,” I say, carefully setting my fork down. His eyes lift to mine. “I don't think you ever realized how unimportant high school and your role in it really was. High school is what happens before your life begins. You can be the top dog in that big brown building and a nobody outside it. You and your friends thought everyone wanted to be like you, because you were so self-absorbed you thought everyone else loved you as much as you loved yourself. You were wrong.” I pop a straw in my orange juice and sip, the tangy citrus bursting over my tongue.
He puts his knife down and straightens. “That's it? I was wrong? You make this big speech and that's your summary of it? I was wrong?”
“Yep.” I pour a generous amount of maple syrup on my pancakes and dig into them.
“What did people really think about me then?” He takes a sip of his coffee. “What did you really think?”
I pop a forkful of pancakes into my mouth and chew. Swallowing, I say, “You completely missed the point of what I just said.”
Frustration flashes in his eyes. “What was the purpose of putting me down then?”
Sitting up in my seat, I look at him. “You missed the point again. I didn't put you down. You care too much what others think.”
“Maybe you don't care enough,” he retorts.
“I don't care at all,” I answer evenly. “I was making an observation. It wasn't intended to hurt you or make you feel inferior. The point of it was, it doesn't matter. None of it matters. High school is over. So whatever anyone thought of you, whatever I thought of you, you shouldn't care.”
“It's not that easy,” he mutters.
“It really is.”
His fork clanks to his plate as he shoves it away. “You know, maybe for you it is. It's easy not to care when you don't have anything worth losing, when you don't have anyone to disappoint or anyone looking up to you, depending on you to be a certain way.”
I flinch, my appetite dispersing like leaves falling away from a tree. And then the headache starts. I drop my head to my hands, aware of Rivers asking me if I'm okay, but it's background noise to the sharp twinges forming in my temples and progressing all the way to the back of my head. Not now. Don't do this now. My brain is wrapped in throbbing pain. I'm sure he thinks I'm crying or something because he hurt my feelings. He did hurt my feelings, I'm annoyed to realize, but that is minor compared to the agony flashing through my brain like bolts of lightning. I swear I even see streaks of light behind my closed eyelids.
A presence is next to me, a hand strong and warm against my shoulder. “It's okay,” I mumble, massaging my temples. “It's just a headache.” My voice is weak and faraway at the same time it's unusually loud to me. “Just give me a minute,” I continue when he says something else.
I inhale and exhale slowly, counting to sixty. The pain lessens, but doesn't fully go away. I am aware that all kinds of attention is being drawn our way because of me and not Rivers, something he should be grateful for, but will probably be irritated by because attention to me brings attention to him.
A glass is pressed into my hand along with two pills. I carefully raise my head, the scene coming at me in jagged pieces. I focus on the face before me until all the faces of Rivers morph into one, seeing the concern drawing his eyebrows down. I concentrate on him, watching him watching me, until I am able to swallow the pills. They will dull the headache, but only sleep will take it away for good.
Until it comes back.
I didn't want this to happen in front of anyone, especially him. In fact, I wanted to pretend it hasn't happened at all. Part of me was hoping it wouldn't happen again—that the headaches and what they mean was all a mistake. I do feel like crying, but not because of Rivers and what he said to me.
Bravado waning, I stiffen my shoulders and force it back into me by will alone. Be positive. Enjoy the rest of the day. Even try to enjoy Rivers' presence. That last thought eases some of the tension from me and I almost smile. I would, if the pounding in my head would allow me to.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a low voice, his hand dropping from my shoulder.
“Yes.” I'm not, but I am well enough. I thank the waitress for the pain pills and she nods, turning away to help another customer. “I'm sorry I ruined the meal.”
“I think I can take most of the credit for that,” he says, moving to stand. “Do you want to stay and finish or leave?”
“Leave. Pancakes don't really sound good anymore.” I touch my head. “If that's okay?”
“Somehow, I'll manage to return to the solitude of my home.” A ghost of a smile captures his lips and even that semblance of one is enough to make his features turn from handsome to inconceivably exceptional.
I ease into a standing position, dizziness hitting me. I grip the top of the booth until the diner stops moving. “Is this...” I take a deep breath, directing my mind to concentrate on walking in a straight line. I feel drunk. I might not mind it so much if I'd actually consumed alcoholic beverages. One foot in front of the other, Delilah. Distract yourself. Keep talking. Maybe he'll even talk back.“Is this the first time you've gone anywhere since the accident?”
“Anywhere other than various doctors, yes.”
“Was it so bad?” We're almost to the door. I glance behind me, my eyesight in slow motion with my movement, and note his hand hovering by my elbow in case I need assistance.
“Well, it wasn't excruciating, so it was a little better than I had estimated. Your obvious need for attention and melodramatic acting sort of trumped my disfigurement.”
I want to glare at him, but the motion would cause me pain. I settle for mumbling, “Jerk.”
He snorts.
For once, I am thankful for the clouds that have taken over the sky and hidden the sun. Even the gray is sensitive to my eyes. I look down as I walk, feeling incompetent and loathing the fact that I do. Understanding for Rivers scorches me, hot and complete in its burn. He must hate people looking after him all the time, watching over him, trying to help him. I just want this helpless feeling to go away and never return. At least in his case, he will slowly get better, if he lets himself.
That isn't an option for me.
When he opens the passenger car door for me, I tell him, “We make quite the pair right now.”
I don't think he is going to respond, but then he says, “We do, don't we?”