I AWAKE TO THE CRASH of thunder, my eyes opening just as lightning flares to life outside. Rain pours down, pinging against the glass doors and windows. There is only the light of the thunderstorm to offer visual assistance. I check my phone to see how long I've been asleep and note the missing calls from Monica and my mom. I slept five hours. My head is free of pain and I am grateful for it, though my mouth feels dry and there is a languidness in my limbs that makes it hard for me to get them moving.
I call my mother first and let her know everything is okay, not mentioning my mega headache that put me out for over five hours. I know I need to tell her, but I just can't bring myself to, not yet. Soon, I silently promise her and myself. Monica informs me Rivers called her a few hours ago, that she knows about my headache, and refers to it as a migraine, telling me rest is the best thing for them. I agree with the assessment, but not the term she uses.
I don't have migraines. I have something much, much worse.
She sounds tired, but her tone is also lighter than usual, and if I had to guess as to why, I would say it's because her son is reaching out to her, if only through the phone. The phone is better than nothing. Thomas' mom is the same and she tells me they may have to stay longer. I tell her that's fine and hang up. And it is fine. I'm not really sure what I'm thinking or doing or why the thought of going home makes me even uneasier than usual, but it's almost like when I am here, I can tell myself this is my reality. It won't last, I know, but it's like a little joy in the midst of tragedy. I watch the tree limbs shudder under the force of the strong winds, taking comfort that even in the middle of nature's wrath, I am safe.
For now.
I find Rivers outside, sitting in his chair just under the roof ledge. Strangely shy after my unfortunate ordeal earlier, I take hesitant steps toward him. For the first time that I can remember, he speaks first. “Do you get them often?”
I wait until a large rumbling of thunder is over before answering. “Recently, about weekly.”
“Before that?”
“I don't know. Rarely.” I bite my lip, hoping he finds a different subject to discuss. Anything would be better, really, even a conversation about ingrown toenails.
He looks up at me, a frown turning his lips down. “And have you gone to the doctor?”
I rub my arms and look into the black depths of the pool. The temperature has dropped considerably with the appearance of the storm. “You sound concerned.” My tone is flippant and I can tell he doesn't appreciate it when he continues to wait for me to answer. I sigh. “Yes. They're just headaches.” Lying is becoming increasingly easy for me lately. Or telling partial truths, I should say.
“Migraines?” he guesses.
I shrug noncommittally and he doesn't press. I pull over a chair and sit down beside him, taking in the rain, the occasional clap of thunder, the way the sky lights up to daytime from atmospheric electricity. We sit in silence, but it isn't tense. There is peacefulness to it, the sound of raindrops pummeling the house and ground calming. I have so many questions I could ask him, but none of them seem important right now. Sitting here like this is more therapeutic than any conversation could be.
Minutes tick by and I jump when he says, “I'm sorry. About earlier.” He glances at me, his eyes glowing in the near dark. “I shouldn't have said what I did. It was mean.”
I pick at an uneven edge of my thumbnail. “Honestly, it doesn't really phase me anymore. I'm used to it. ”
“But not from me,” he tells me roughly.
I meet his gaze. “What does it matter if you're the one saying the words or the one standing there saying nothing to refute them?”
He winces, facing forward. “I thought being popular made me fearless. None of it was real. I'm not courageous. And clearly I wasn't as well-liked as I'd assumed either.” His eyes flicker to me and away as he says this.
“Oh, loads of people liked you. Envied you.” I pause. “But then there were the rest of us.”
The laugh is gruff and cuts off short, but that he laughed at all freezes me in place. It's a deep, rich sound that has a melodious cast to it. It reminds me of a cool breeze to break the unrelenting heat of a smoldering sun—unexpected but appreciated.
“I don't...I don't really remember too much about you. I mean, I remember seeing you, but most of the time, you were just...there,” he says slowly, clearly embarrassed to admit such a thing. “Was I that bad?”
I blow out a noisy breath and focus on the puddle of water my feet are resting in. “Do you really want to get into this? You have a clean slate, you know. School is over. However you choose to be from now on has no correlation to how you used to be. Why bring it up? Why wonder?”
Something I said must have irked him because Rivers is up and glaring at me before I finish my words. “You know what? Never mind. You act like you're so superior, and even though I don't remember a lot about you, I do remember your mouth. Sure, you got a lot of shit tossed your way, but you gave it back just as harshly. Or did you forget about that?”
He's already stalking away when I whisper, “Clean slate.”
I don't know how long I stay outside, the numbness inside me seeping to my exterior as the coldness of night wraps around me. He's right. I didn't really have any friends in school, and part of it was because of how Riley and Crew treated me—no one wanted to be picked on by association with me, but some of it was how I acted as well. I made it hard for others to approach me when I wore a chronic scowl on my face and talked back to anyone who said something I could take offensively. I thought that was the way I wanted to be, that making my individuality prominent was a way of showing strength, but now, I realize maybe I was trying too hard to be different.
You need to be yourself, but you also shouldn't feel like you have to fight everyone, even yourself, to be it.
I didn't want to get hurt, so I didn't open myself up to anyone to even allow for the potential of being hurt. I assumed anyone talking to me had an ulterior agenda and responded in kind. Did that mean I was a backwards bully? Maybe. I never thought about it before. I don't mind solitude, but I guess once in a while it would have been nice to have someone to talk to, had I felt the need to. I had a group of classmates I loosely hung around, but were any of them friends? I don't think so. And the reason for that falls on my shoulders. Apparently Rivers is not the only one who needs to take a look at his younger years and analyze how he was compared to how he should have been. I sort of have. That's why I am choosing to be positive instead of negative, why I want to smile instead of frown, why I decided to not care about anything other than just being me.
This summer is supposed to be my last chance do-over on so many levels.
The chattering of my teeth tells me it's time to go inside. I do, the silence echoing behind me with enormity. I head to the sun room, tugging a book from my tote to settle in for an evening of reading. I don't want to be around Rivers right now, and I am sure the feeling is reciprocated. We both have said things the other didn't appreciate hearing.
Hours pass, my eyelids growing so heavy I can no longer keep them open. I sink into the abyss that is slumber, awakening during the night to a noise that tugged at my consciousness even as I rested.
I already know it was Rivers.
I don't turn on the light. I don't speak. I walk to the bed and touch his clammy brow, his body almost immediately relaxing. I climb into the bed, halfway sitting up, and wrap my arms around his trembling form, holding him. I don't know if he is awake or sleeping, but eventually his breathing evens out and his arms slowly move to lock around my waist, his head of dark hair resting against my stomach. Something weaves its way through me, coming to rest in my heart. I don't put a name to it. It isn't that I don't think I can—it's more that I am not ready.
We sit like this, my fingers gently tracing the lines of the scars that start at the crown of his head and end near his temple, moving on to the short locks of his silky hair. I tighten my hold on him, feeling the hardness of his muscled body, wondering how someone so physically strong can be so emotionally vulnerable, knowing we never truly understand another until we have been in the same place they are at. Maybe that's why I care for a boy I don't want to care for, and deny that I do every other thought.
As I hold Rivers in my arms for the duration of the night, I decide I will fight his demons for him if he can't fight them on his own. It isn't a matter of whether or not he'll allow me to, because I think just being here with him is enough most of the time. Something in him needs something in me. I saw it today and I saw it the first day I saw him after his injury. Rivers needs to know someone cares about him. I can be that person. After all, that is why I originally came here.
WE ARE IN SOME SORT of routine, but it is a strange one. At night we sleep wrapped around one another and during the day, we barely speak. I can't say the sleeping arrangement is all for Rivers' benefit anymore because I sleep so soundly when I am with him, more peaceful than I recall ever sleeping before. I want to rest beside him. I want to close my eyes at night knowing he is next to me. I want to hear his breathing, feel his arms, smell his scent, and get lost in him so that I forget me.
There isn't anything sexual about our sleeping arrangements—although, yes, I should admit I am attracted to him which is absolutely crazy because I'm not even sure I really like him—but it's about the safety I feel near him. I keep his nightmares at bay and he keeps my world at a distance.
It's strange, but even though there is darkness and quiet and little touching between us at night, it is as though the nighttime hours are stitching us together, making us into something we are not consciously aware of. I feel closer to him. I feel like I am starting to know him. We seem to unknowingly gravitate toward one another during the day. He finds me or I find him. Maybe words aren't necessary—maybe that's why we hardly speak. I just need to look up and see him or he just needs to enter a room and feel me.
I take him to his physical therapy sessions two times the first week and a counselor once. His body is exhausted from the first and his mind from the second. He doesn't speak at all after the counseling session for the remainder of the day. I want to ask him what makes him close up the way he does, but I assume it's from the horror of the accident. Doubt trickles through my mind, asking, What if it's more than that?
Monica and Thomas decide to stay in California until his mother passes on—the doctors say it won't be longer than a week or two more before the cancer irrevocably claims her. According to Monica, any time Thomas mentioned returning home, his mother broke down and cried. It's hard to leave someone you know is dying, when they weep at the thought of your departure. Sometimes I think it would be better for everyone if no one knew when they are dying. Too bad that isn't an option for some.
Each time I talk to Monica, guilt eats away at me. She thinks I'm doing some great thing for her son, but am I really? Sure, he's engaging his mother in conversation and finally acting more like a human being than a robot, but what happens at the end of the summer, when all of this is over? I'll go back to my life and Rivers will go back to his, and these few months spent together will be a piece of the past.
Do they have to be? I answer myself with a resounding, Yes. It's nice to pretend for a while, but the truth always catches up to you. Always.
I'm swimming laps like I do just about every evening. I feel his eyes on me and heat goes through the length of my body. There is nothing predatory or seductive about his gaze; it's more of a studious observance, but knowing he is examining all the dips and curves of my body as I swim makes me self-conscious. The intensity with which Rivers watches the world makes my pulse skip. He doesn't just look at things—he sees things. I don't know how I never noticed this about him. I think I saw all his flaws and didn't even look for his good points. I guess I did exactly what I accused him of doing. I also think I need to admit to myself that I wasn't any better than those around me that I thought were so terrible.
Maybe he never gave me a chance, but did I ever give him one?
I tread water as I face him. “Want to come in?”
Indecision shadows his features.
“Oh, come on. You sit there and watch me almost every day. It's obvious you want to be in here too. What's stopping you?”
“I like watching you,” he confesses.
I brush water from my face because I am suddenly nervous and don't know what to do with my hands. “Why?” I blurt out.
Broad shoulders lift and lower. “You're like a fish. A natural in the water. It's soothing to watch.”
“I'm sure you're a much better swimmer. Haven't you been in some form of body of water most of your life? I've seen the pictures—swimming, jet skiing, surfing, water skiing, boating—you've done it all.” His face darkens, but it's too late, there's no going back now. I trudge onward. “What happened, Rivers? What happened out on the river?”
You shouldn't have gotten hurt, is the unspoken sentence I bite back. Not with his natural prowess on the water. True, accidents can happen to anyone—no matter their level of adequacy, but what if it was something more? Negligence comes to mind. Who was driving the boat? Who was out on the water with him that day? Was he drinking or was he sober? If he was drinking, that would at least make it a little more understandable. Maybe he was intoxicated and misjudged the distance between the boat and the water, or maybe he slipped. Maybe.
The real question is: How did he fall into the water and get injured that bad?
“I don't want to talk about it.”
I open my mouth to push the conversation and then decide against it. With a shrug I return to my laps. I know the exact moment he goes inside. My body cools without the burn of his gaze on me and I feel strangely empty and lonely. I've always sort of been alone, but I've never really felt lonely. Unease creeps through me as I get to my feet in the water. It feels like everything is backfiring on me. I had it all figured out; all the details were sound, unbreakable. I knew what I was going to do. It was a simple plan.
Only nothing is happening the way I thought it would.
THE DOORBELL CHIMES THREE TIMES before I toss my book aside with a sigh and get up to answer it. It's Friday night, and I do realize how lame it is of me to be reading on a Friday night, but I haven't read a book for pleasure since I was twelve. The person at the door is totally interrupting my reading time, and I know Rivers had to have heard the doorbell because his bedroom is closer to the front door than the sun room is. He may be physically compromised, but he isn't deaf. And it isn't like whoever is at the door is here for me. I don't live here—he does. It's a given they've come to see Rivers. So why am I the one answering the door?
It's ridiculous to get upset over this, but I am finding that pretty much everything about Rivers aggravates me on some level. I haven't fully analyzed why just yet. I'll save that self-discovery for another rainy day. I try to calm myself down by saying maybe he has his music loud and can't hear the doorbell, but when I pass by the closed bedroom door, I hear silence. Ear buds. He could have ear buds in. He so doesn't. I know it. He's simply being his moody and difficult self again, like he is prone to be.
I draw my hand toward me when it fists and raises to pound on his door, instead moving on to the front door. Mentally groaning at the sight that greets me, I feign nonchalance as I nod. “Riley.”
To say she is surprised might be an understatement. Her chestnut locks are all wild around her pretty face, her slim body is clothed in a black halter dress, and her eyes continually blink as her mouth slowly closes when only seconds before it was hanging open. And then, of course, there's the scent of her perfume—candy and flowers—in all its cloying enormity to further agitate me.
“Um...” She looks around like she thinks maybe she got the wrong house, finally fixing her blue eyes on me. “What are you doing here?”
I cross my arms. “I work here.”
My action draws her eyes down and her brows furrow as she takes in my purple tank top and black shorts. They're skimpy, I guess, but I am ready for bed. I wasn't expecting a social visit at nine in the evening, but I should have known there was a chance Rivers would have one. My bad. I guess he should have answered the door then.
“At night?”
“Temporarily.”
“I don't understand.”
She really doesn't. I kind of feel bad for her. She is so prettily confused. Then I remember how viperous she can be and stiffen my spine. “Monica and Thomas had to leave the state for a week or so and asked me to babysit.”
“Babysit? Where's Rivers?” She looks past me.
“I don't know.” The irony of not knowing where my charge is or what he is up to hits me and I clear my throat. “So...did you need something?”
Face reddening, her mouth pulls in. “Yes. I'd like to see Rivers.”
"I thought you broke up." Whoa. There was a snarky undertone there. Where did that come from?
Her eyes narrow. "Is it any of your business what goes on between the two of us?"
"The two of you," I repeat slowly, "as in you're a couple...even though you aren't."
Riley's mouth thins as she takes a step closer. "Are you going to get him or not?"
“Does he want to see you?” I know I'm being a bitch, but I have to embrace these little moments of perfection as they come along. Riley, deferring to me as though I am her superior, is classic—and about time. Plus, I don't know why, but I sort of want to rip her apart right now, solely on the basis of her wanting to see Rivers. Not cool for me, not at all.
“Look, Delilah,” she begins in an icy tone, her voice faltering as she looks up and beyond me.
I glance over my shoulder and connect gazes with one of black storms. My stomach swoops and I quickly look back to Riley. “Here he is. Have fun.”
I leave the room, my feet not moving fast enough. They could never move fast enough. I feel like my body is encased in lead and is moving as such. Have fun? Really? Like I want them to be having any kind of fun together—ugh times infinity. What was that swirly feeling in my gut when he looked at me? Nothing. It was nothing. Absolutely nothing. The denial seems lame, even to me. It was something. It was something and that something is not a good idea. Do feelings ever care whether it's a good idea or not to have them? Nope.
Reading has lost its appeal, so I spend the next few minutes pacing the length of the sun room, gnawing on my thumbnail as I wait—for what, I don't know. I guess for Rivers. Or maybe for Riley to leave. And then what? And then the careening of my pulse and the pounding of my heart will relax. I wonder what they're saying to each other. I wonder what Rivers is thinking as he looks at his ex-girlfriend. He has to have lingering feelings, right? I mean, she is amazing to look at, so there is that.
I freeze in the middle of the room. What the hell am I thinking? Since when do I care about Rivers or anything that involves him? I want to say since we started sleeping together at night, and oh, how innocent does that not sound? But it really is. There has never been a moment where the thought of taking it further than actual sleeping has reached me. Well, I mean, it's maybe in the back of my head, but I would never act on it. It's more of a curiosity thing, like wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by Rivers Young. But then, why do I seem almost...jealous? This is insane.
Because Rivers and me? No.
A car door slams and an engine purrs, fading into the distance along with headlights I spot out the window. Riley is leaving. It isn't relief that hits me as I fall onto the couch because there's no reason for it, or any other emotion, to sneak up on me. And I do sort of feel like I am being sporadically pummeled by things when I least expect to be. But really, how can you prepare for something you don't see coming? I rub my face, dropping my hands at a thought. Maybe Riley didn't leave, but took Rivers somewhere with her. Maybe they went off on a date, or to reconcile, or...have sex.
I gasp from the discomfort that shoots through me, angry with myself for thinking what Rivers does or doesn't do has anything to do with me or that it should affect me in any way. Wanting to distract myself, I decide stuffing myself with ice cream is a good way to go about it. I do not pause when I reach Rivers' closed door and I do not hold my breath in hopes of catching a sound from within the room. And I do not falter in my steps when his dark visage is the first thing I focus on as I enter the kitchen.
“The jig is up,” I tell him, nodding to his bowl. “I know you don't like ice cream.”
He wordlessly grabs another bowl and spoon, scooping chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream into it. The mint chocolate chip was gone days ago. He pushes it across the counter top toward me, one eyebrow lifted as he looks at me.
“Thanks.” I scoop some of the cold deliciousness onto my tongue and swallow.
“I have no idea why I ate the ice cream,” he murmurs. He looks up, a small smile on his face. “I guess I didn't want to put all your effort to waste.”
“Effort? I took apart a wall of frozen peas. It didn't entail a lot of muscle work.”
He shrugs. “Maybe I wanted your company so I suffered through eating the ice cream in silence.”
I laugh. “Why would you want my company? I mean, I know I'm fascinating, but you seem a little slower to have that inevitable epiphany."
His eyebrows lift. "Big words."
"What can I say? I'm super smart." I'm not, but it sounded good.
"Humble as well."
I wink. "It comes with the territory." We both become silent until I pipe up with, "So eating ice cream is considered suffering to you? Clearly you have been spoiled.”
He looks down.
I realize maybe he thinks I'm minimizing his accident. I set the spoon down in my bowl. “Sorry. I mean, I know you haven't had it exactly easy lately. I didn't mean anything by my comment.”
“I know. But you're right.” Rivers' eyes take me in and I feel like he is sucking me into him with those dark, dark eyes. “I was pretty spoiled. It isn't that I didn't have to work at what I got, because I did, but a lot of it also came easy to me. Most of what you say angers me, but once I decided to think about it, I realized why it bothers me so much. Because you're right.”
“I'm right that you secretly love ice cream? I knew it.”
“I don't love it or hate it. I can do with, or without.” He shrugs again.
I widen my eyes at him. “You're not normal.”
He glances at me before walking to the table with his bowl. “And you know a lot about that, right?”
“Enough.” I take my ice cream and sit across the table from him.
“What's up with you and Riley?”
I quickly swallow a mound of cookie dough and wait for it to dislodge from my throat. “What's up with you and Riley?”
“We dated for a long time. It didn't work out. She won't let go. And now that I'm partially helpless, she thinks I need her to baby me, which only makes me even more glad that I am no longer dating her.” The intensity of his gaze singes me. “And you? She's always been particularly nasty to you, more than to anyone else. I never stopped to think there might be a reason for it.”
“Do you even realize how sad that is?”
He ignores that, asking, “What happened with you two?”
“Why did you two break up?” I shoot back.
He won't look at me as he answers, “We grew apart. I realized I didn't like a lot of things about her, or how I was when I was with her, or even why I continued to be with her. I guess maybe I matured. Why did she shove you into the lockers sophomore year?”
“You saw that?” My voice is faint. I can't believe he remembers that. It was over two years ago. And there's the whole idea that I thought I was invisible to him.
Rivers nods, his eyes down as he mashes his ice cream into a melting blob. “Yeah. Saw it, didn't do anything about it, didn't care.” His tone almost sounds remorseful but that can't be.
“She called me a freak, so I called her a slut. Her reaction was to shove me and I landed against the lockers. The principal decided to make an appearance right after that so I couldn't retaliate.” Even now, my fingers tighten with the memory of humiliation and anger.
He squints his eyes at me. “Her tire was flat that day after school. Was that you?”
My bowl of ice cream becomes mesmerizing.
A gruff laugh escapes him. “What else?”
“Freshman year she wrote on the bathroom wall in the girls' locker room that I would screw anything that walked. I wrote back that she already had.”
“Not bad. I mean, not exactly great for me, but not bad.”
A smile slowly curves my lips and Rivers returns it. This moment, right now, is going to end up being a bad thing. I can already tell it will mean something to me. I will look back on this moment and I will remember how I feel as he smiles at me and I will miss it. But for now, I just enjoy it. I shove another mouthful of ice cream into my mouth so I don't have to talk.
"You wanted to know why I was named Rivers," he begins, his gaze scorching as it connects with mine.
I nod, waiting.
"My legal name was Benjamin until I was ten months old. Now it's my middle name."
"What?" I scrunch up my face in confusion. "Why would they name you something and then name you something else?"
A faraway look enters his eyes—a touch of sadness with it. "I was born in California and spent the first years of my life there. I guess I was obsessed with water. I wanted to be in it every day and I screamed when my mom or dad took me out of it. I was swimming before I was walking. They didn't want to name me Lake or Ocean or Sea, because those aren't really names, so they settled with Rivers. Most rivers either begin or end with other bodies of water anyway. I was supposed to be a merging of all things watery."
"They could have called you Bathwater," I tell him.
He shakes his head, the hint of a smile softening his face. "That's two words."
"Okay. First name Bath, second name Water. It totally would have worked. They were being selfish, really, taking that possibility away from you. You would have been famous for that name ingenuity. And I like Lake. Lake could be your name. Can I call you Benji?"
"Don't even try it," he warns.
I laugh and shove another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. "I wouldn't. You're definitely a Rivers. Tumultuous, consuming."
"What about peaceful and calm?"
I snort. "Yeah. You're that all right."
He watches me, his head tilted, a curious gleam in his eyes. “I don't know if I deserve you,” he suddenly murmurs, and I go still. I am frozen and he is frozen, our eyes locked. “I mean, we—I don't know if we deserve you. You do a better job than the normal cleaning lady,” he quickly corrects. Rivers' face lowers as though he wants to hide himself from me.
I hastily change the subject, my heart pounding in a frighteningly fast way. “We used to be friends. Riley and me,” I specify when confusion enters his gaze. “We grew apart too.”
He puts his chin on his hand, studying me. “I think there's more to it than that.”
“Isn't there always?” I ask lightly, standing up. “I'm done. Are you done?”
“You're going to ask this time, huh?”
“Last time your behavior didn't warrant you being asked.”
Rivers walks over to where I am standing, quietly taking a dish towel and drying the dishes as I wash them. After a while, he says, “We have a dishwasher.”
“I don't like dishwashers. They're lazy.”
He smiles. I tell myself I can't get used them. They are magical and I slowly unravel a little more each time he graces me with one of them. “The dishwashers are lazy or the people running them are?”
“Either.”
“Are you...do you...” He closes his eyes, shaking his head. Rivers takes a deep breath and starts over. “Want to watch a movie together?”
If I didn't know better, I would think he is apprehensive, but that is ludicrous and I quickly chuck the thought aside. “Sure. What kind of movies do you like to watch?”
Lowering his voice, he says sinisterly, “Scary ones.”
I drain the water from the sink and turn around, crossing my arms as I meet his gaze. “I can handle scary.”
“I'm counting on it.” He walks from the room, his movements a touch closer to smooth than unsteady. He is healing, getting better—emotionally and physically. I won't be needed here much longer, not for him anyway.
I look out the glass panes that lead to the deck and pool, searching for the nightlights in the sky and finding none. For the first time in months, I feel the weight of an unknown future pressing down on me. I have to balance the future with the present. I have to take what I can of the happy moments because, eventually, they will become less and less. I have to remember instances like this, right now, when a broken boy found something in me to smile at, when I went from being just me to him to someone who can make him smile—someone he wants to smile at.
And that is why I skip from the room and sing 'Into The Great Wide Open' by Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers as I spin in a circle in the foyer, laughing when Rivers pops his head around the corner to give me a strange look. I don't mind. He doesn't join me, but he also doesn't leave. He quietly watches me in that smoldering way of his. I can read his eyes and what they are saying is that he is trying to figure me out, that he finds me interesting enough to want to figure out.
The wink I aim at him tells him he'll never solve the complex being that is Delilah Bana so he should just enjoy me while I am here. When he grins at me, I grin back. All we are given as a guarantee, are instances of perfect freedom to say and do exactly what we want. I've realized this. I think Rivers is finally realizing this.
Why let them pass us by?