WE WALK TO MY HOUSE. It was his idea to travel this way, and I wonder if he is trying to prove to himself that he can. I realize that sometimes we are our biggest critic, and that the person we have the hardest time gaining approval from is usually ourselves. I can see the strain on Rivers' face as we get closer to our destination, but he remains close-lipped about it. If it was anyone else with him, they might not even notice the tightness around his eyes or the way he faintly winces as he moves.
But I do.
I imagine he'll always have some form of soreness or discomfort in his legs. When muscle is damaged as badly as his was¸ it never fully recovers. But at least he's walking. That's what it's all about—continuing on even when it is hard. I glance at his sharp profile, all straight lines and geometrical angles constructed to form beauty.
He notices me watching him. "What?"
"I really hope you do everything in your life that you've ever wanted to do."
A frown line forms between his eyebrows. "Why are you saying this?"
I shrug and itch a bug bite on my forearm. "Because you need to never give up, no matter how bad things get. There won't always be someone around to help you. Sometimes you have to do it all on your own. I want to make sure you remember that giving up is not an option. Not for you, not ever."
He stops walking. I want to keep moving but I know I will be going alone, so I sigh and stop as well, turning back to look at him. He's staring at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. The longer he studies me, the more my skin heats up. He finally breaks eye contact, his face angling up as he watches a group of birds fly overhead.
"You make it sound like you won't be around for it," he finally says, not looking away from the sky.
My answer is simple and true. "I want to be. I can't say I will be—no one knows that. But I know I want to be."
Rivers looks at me, a slow, sweet smile curving his lips. "I guess that has to be good enough then."
I smile back, a charge going up the hand that he clasps with his, continuing into my arm, and pooling around my heart. Warming it, warming me.
Maple and oak trees line the sidewalk in browns and greens—tall and strong. This residential part of town is less busy than Rivers' street. That could be because most of the people are elderly and don't get out much. The air is crisp with summer; a hint of fragrant blossoms, a touch of rain to come, and everything encased in sunshine. We come to my house and I pause, wondering what his reaction will be, and then I feel bad for thinking he would ever judge me based on the place I live. That was the old Delilah thinking she knew the old Rivers.
A buzzing sounds near my face and I swat a mosquito away, noticing Rivers looking at me with a knowing smile on his face. I ask him what he's staring at and his grin widens. "I thought you liked bugs."
"Did I say I like them? I don't remember saying that, exactly."
"Bug killer."
"Only mosquitoes! They have no purpose other than to suck our blood. Little leeches," I grumble, itching at the swelling lump on my cheek.
"What about gnats? I'm sort of partial to them, actually. Swarming masses of tiny bugs that swallow up anything living. They're like teeny, tiny, zombie bugs."
"Ugh," is all I say.
He laughs, swiping the air around him as a cloud of gnats decide that's their cue to make an appearance.
"This is it." I gesture to the Victorian-era house of blue and white; bits of character showing through in the lines and curves of the house. I note the new flowers my mom planted within the last week or so. Two large pots rest on either side of the steps that lead to the porch, flowers of purple and white bursting from the soil and over the rim of the tin tubs. A trace of homesickness flutters through me and I blink against the sting of it.
"I like it," he tells me, glancing at me and grinning.
"Glad you approve." I secretly am.
"The flowers fit you."
"They really don't." I shift my feet and cross my arms. Flowers are my mom's thing, not mine.
He tilts his head. "But they do. Nature becomes you. I was trying to figure out where you fit—"
"Where I fit?" I interrupt. The thought of him trying to decide where I belong rubs me the wrong way. I guess because I thought he was beyond that sort of thing.
"Hear me out. Okay?" I nod and he continues, "I used to fit in with the athletes, right? If I didn't know anything else, I knew that. You never really fit anywhere. Now I know why. There is no way to put you into a category when there is no one way to define you. You're like..." He pauses as he looks at me, smiling when he says, "Sunshine. And rain. Flowers. You're everywhere, everything. The wind. The stars.
"Your eyes reminded me of something and I couldn't figure out what it was. I know now. They're like the sun setting, when the golds and oranges, and even hints of brown, can be seen. I don't understand the red hair dye, but even that seems to work for you. It's like fire. Everything about you is some form of a natural element. It's like...you're the complete embodiment of life. Your laugh, your sense of humor, your personality—you just—you put all of you into everything you do. You know? Even your heart..." He inhales deeply. "You're a beautiful person, Delilah Bana."
Tears are trickling down my face, but I don't try to remove them. He has to see them, he has to know how perfect his words are, how much they mean to me. Each tear I shed is a thank you. I stare at Rivers, trying to burn his image into my mind so that I never forget it, no matter where I am or what happens in the days, or months, to come. I want to remember him looking at me like I could be his air, looking at me like I could be the one thing he cares about more than an image, or a role, or a category. He does, I know he does. In the fracturing of him, he found a better him. And that broken version of Rivers found me. I think I was waiting for him to, in some cosmic way.
My heart is full, so full it aches, but it is a good pain. It is the kind of hurt that comes with the pressure of indescribable emotions, building and building, until they become too much, and they have to be eased or your heart will crack from them all. I cry to alleviate the feelings I cannot put into words right now. I don't think there is a correct word, or words, for what I have in my heart for Rivers.
He uses his thumbs to caress my cheeks, effectively removing the wetness from them. "Are you crying because I ate the last of the ice cream? We'll get more, I promise."
I laugh shakily. "Yes. And because you refused the peanut butter and bacon on toast I offered to make for lunch."
"I can only take so much peanut butter."
"It's like I don't even know who you are," I tell him.
A door creaks, banging as it shuts. "Are you two going to stand out here all night or are you going to come in? The bugs are terrible."
I slowly look up and meet my mother's gaze. I suck in a sharp breath at the yearning that hits me. Sometimes, you don't realize how much you miss something until you see it once more. And sometimes—you don't get that chance. Why have I been wasting time? I feel like that's all I've been doing my whole life; wasting whatever days I get on things that don't even matter instead of focusing on the things that do.
She offers a small smile and I return it as she goes back inside. An invisible cord pulls at me, telling me it is time to make things right with her, even if it is a slow, stumbling process. There comes a point when all the walls seem impossible to break down, when the person you see the most becomes a stranger. Between my mother and I, there is awkwardness where there should be familiarity. Maybe it's her fault for allowing it, but it is certainly my fault for instigating it.
Sometimes when someone tries to push you away, you have to push back.
She has loved me for eighteen years—even when I was in my most unlovable state. I didn't put this clear barrier between us because I don't love her back, or because I wanted to hurt her. Part of the reason I have shied from her over the years is because I was afraid if I got too close, I would see our unattainable past staring back at me. Or what she would see when she looked into my eyes was all that we cannot change nor forget.
But I also kept my distance to protect her. And me. I'm still trying to protect her and I don't know how much longer I can keep the truth from her. And when that day comes, I fear I will break, and everything I have strived to do this summer will wash away like most good intentions do.
Rivers nudges me. "Are we heading in or making a run for it?" he says close to my ear.
I break out of the spell of nostalgia and tug at his hand. "There is no running away from this." I meant for my tone to be carefree, but even I can hear the ominous taint to it.
"You and your mom don't seem close," he notes as we walk toward the house.
"How can you tell?"
"I don't know. There's this...uneasiness between you. She looks at you and you look away and the reverse."
"You saw all of that within a minute?"
He shrugs.
"We're not," I answer his earlier question.
"Is there a reason for it?"
I glance over my shoulder at him. "Just one? No. There's a lot of them."
"You should have told me this before now."
"Why? Would you have decided not to come?"
His jaw juts forward. "No, but it would have been nice to be prepared."
"Being prepared for things is dull. Spontaneity is more entertaining." I reach behind me and pat his stomach. "You'll be fine. Just don't talk about politics or religion."
"Isn't that the rule for anywhere?"
"See? You're so knowledgeable."
"I get this feeling you're making fun of me."
I open the door and smile at him as we walk into the house. "Never."
The living room is directly ahead—a spacious room with walls the color of a stormy day, the trim looking as though blanketed in snow, and a ceiling high enough that when I was a child I thought it reached the stars. The floors are hardwood and I used to pretend they were an ocean; the furniture was my refuge against the sea monsters. Maybe Rivers is right—I do tend to see nature in all things.
The small entryway we are standing in has a lower ceiling than the living room, but the trim around the floor and windows is still the shade of snow, though the walls are creamy yellow, like butter. Black and white photographs in chipped and faded white frames take over one whole wall, the wall I unconsciously turn away from whenever I enter the house. Plants abound from corners and window ledges. With the sun streaming in through the large picture windows it almost seems like we are in some sort of tropical jungle, or a strange new world where we are the only existing humans. That would be okay with me.
"It smells good in here."
I look at Rivers. "I hope you like garlic."
One dark eyebrow lifts.
"My mom loves it. She puts it in everything, even cake."
His other eyebrow raises to meet the first when my mom appears, giving me a look. "I heard that. And it's not true. I don't put it in cake, although I might have to try that. Maybe for your next birthday," she tells me with a wink.
I try to smile, but my lips are frozen into a stiff line. My next birthday is seven months away. A lot can happen in seven months. My mom catches my reaction. I can tell from the frown on her face that she doesn't understand it, which is logical.
She opens her mouth to say something, but Rivers must have picked up on the tension because he says, "Remember what you told me about trying things? You really don't have a choice. If your mom makes it, you have to eat it."
I shake the blackness away and fight to brighten my tone when I counter with, "You're absolutely correct. I'll make sure you're there too." I smile at my mom. "This is Rivers, Janet. Janet, Rivers. I'm not sure if you've been properly introduced yet."
She offers a genuine smile. "Hello. It's nice to meet you. "
"And you. I've talked to you before at the flower shop."
Janet nods. "I thought you looked familiar." She gestures in the direction of the kitchen. "Come on in. I'll get us something to drink." When Rivers goes ahead of us, she looks at me and mouths, "He's cute."
Heat creeps up my neck, but I can't keep the grin from my face. "I know," I mouth back.
The scent of garlic gets stronger as we enter the kitchen, along with herbs, spices, and a hint of chocolate. I make a beeline for the counter where a cake pan sits. I'm about to pop the gob of chocolate frosting I acquired from the top of the cake into my mouth when Rivers catches my eyes. I grin and instead swipe my finger across his mouth. He pauses, his eyes going black as he slowly licks his lips without his gaze leaving mine. It's dark, smoldering, hot. My breath catches and I forget we're not alone.
Luckily, my mom clears her throat, effectively breaking through the magnetism of our gazes. It would be pretty embarrassing if I attacked him right in front of her. I offer to help with supper, Rivers agreeing almost immediately, and my mom sets us to work preparing a salad. The mood is light as we work and I feel not only connected to Rivers, but also to my mom. He and I tease each other, making my mom laugh, and she embarrasses me with stories about my younger years.
Rivers acts as a buffer between my mother and I, or a single point of continuity that pulls us together so that we take notice of one another and interact in a way we haven't in a long time. He is working the magic he used to in school and I don't even think he is aware of it—it's just a part of him.
He is like a focal point in the darkness of our existence—a beacon. How did the boy swathed in black become my shining light?
At one point, he murmurs close to my ear, "Why do you call your mom by her first name?"
I glance over my shoulder, but my mom isn't in the room. I set down the tomato I was slicing and look at him. "It's sort of a long story. Let's just say...I felt like I needed to grow up at a young age, and I thought calling my mom by her first name was part of that. It stuck."
"I'm surprised she allows it."
"Well, I don't think she particularly likes it, but what's she going to do?"
"Ground you."
I shake my head at him. "And what, take away my bike? Oooohhh." I roll my eyes, a smirk on my face. "Hey! Maybe she'll make me stay at home and then I won't get to sleep with you anymore. No more petting and fondling through the night—"
He slaps a hand over my mouth just as my mom enters the kitchen. When she pauses to take in the scene, he immediately drops his hand, red-faced. He's lucky. I was about to bite it. He gives me a warning look when she turns away and I give one right back.
"How's the salad coming?" is all she asks.
"It's ready." I dump the last of the tomatoes into a small bowl and carry it to table to sit beside a dish of baked garlic honey chicken, cheesy garlic mashed potatoes, a fresh lettuce salad, and garlic butter rolls. I wasn't exaggerating about my mother's love of garlic—just about the cake part. The croutons accompanying the salad are even garlic and herb.
"I made lemonade. Do you like lemonade, Rivers?"
"Yes. Thank you."
He's being so polite that the urge to shake him up emboldens me. Just as we sit down, I announce, "Rivers asked me to marry him."
He spits out the lemonade he just took a drink of. Luckily it doesn't hit any of the food. Unfortunately, it does hit my mom directly in the chest. A squeak leaves her as her arms raise and hover out at her sides.
"I'm so sorry," he says, lurching to his feet and then standing there awkwardly. It isn't like he can exactly wipe her down.
"You should get her a towel. There's one on the stove," I tell him, laughing when he glares at me.
My mom waves him away. "It's fine. Sit down. I'll just go change my top. Really, Del?" she asks in exasperation as she walks by.
"What are you doing?" he demands, eyeing me suspiciously.
"I'm having fun."
"At my expense."
"Well, yeah."
"Stop it."
"No."
"Stop it or I'll be forced to fight back."
My breath catches at the gleam that enters his eyes. "That's what I'm waiting for."
The glint in his eyes turns dangerous and I know he is thinking about all the ways he could get me back, and I also think he is thinking of things that would make me blush—until I realize I already am. My face is on fire and it matches the way my body feels. I gulp down lemonade and tear my eyes away from his, instead focusing on the vines of a plant in a corner of the room.
"You're in so much trouble, and you don't even know it," he promises. "You can always dish it out, but you can never take it, can you?" He rubs a finger over his lower lip just as I return my gaze to him and my pulse careens out of control. "What are you thinking about? Right now?"
Sex. That's what I'm thinking about. And it's his fault. I always innocently tease; he turns everything into an insinuation. I'm not complaining, I just get flustered by it. Let's just say I am not sauve in the art of flirting, or anything sexual, really.
"Nothing," I answer quickly.
"Mmm-hmm," is his dubious reply.
As soon as she gets back into the room and sits down, I continue with the previous conversation, much to Rivers' annoyance. "I told him no. It's too soon. But, maybe, ya know, in a few more weeks."
She stabs a piece of chicken with her fork and plops it on her plate, offering the dish to Rivers. "Yes, that should be sufficient time." She glances up with a question in her eyes. "What's with you tonight?"
I shrug, taking a bite of mashed potatoes. They melt on my tongue in a perfect combination of butter, cheese, and garlic. "I like teasing Rivers. Look at him. He doesn't know what to do."
"I know what to do, I just don't know if your mother would approve." There is a double meaning there, and his eyes confirm what it is when they meet mine.
My face flushes and I stare down at the salad, counting the dark flecks of seasoning in a crouton as I wait for my face to stop burning. I think I need to admit defeat. I am out of my league here.
I am not sure if my mother is truly aware of what is going on between us, but she chooses to say in response, "If I were you, Rivers, I'd tease back. Delilah needs that once in a while."
And that's all the encouragement he needs.
"Your daughter is obsessed with me," he casually supplies as he cuts into a piece of poultry.
My mouth drops open and I quickly close it before a chunk of tomato falls out.
A smile flits over my mother's lips. "Really? How can you tell?"
"She follows me around, taking indecent pictures of me at every opportunity." He shrugs, a smirk on his face as he looks at me. I promise retaliation with my expression and he laughs, turning back to my mom. "She even wrote me a love song. It's sweet, but sort of embarrassing as well, especially when she serenades me from outside my window at night."
"I can see her doing that. She wrote a song once when she was a child. How did that go?" She looks at me, her eyes alight with happiness.
"I don't remember," I state slowly and firmly, widening my eyes at her.
"It was about peanut butter, I do remember that."
I drop my face into my hands.
"Peanut butter?" Rivers sounds like he is choking.
"Yes. She really loves peanut butter."
"Trust me, I know."
I remove my hands from my face and divide a glare between the two of their smiling faces. "It was for school. I was eight! We had to write a song about something that brought us joy. Peanut butter was an easy answer. Lots of people love peanut butter!" I add when they start laughing.
"Was it called 'Ode to Glorious Peanut Butter'?" he teases, and even I laugh at that, though I fight to keep a scowl on my face.
The meal continues on with Rivers and I tossing words back and forth and my mom being entertained by it. After the meal is finished, we clean up the kitchen. I want to show Rivers the backyard and go in search of a blanket to take with us. My mom follows me into the closet near the living room.
I glance over my shoulder at her. "The both of us are not going to fit in here."
She fidgets with the hem of her top, nibbling on her lower lip. "I know we really don't talk about boys, but...what's going on with you two? I thought you were working there. It seems like you're...dating?"
Pulling a soft fleece blanket from the top of a pile, I back up, forcing her to move away, and face her. "I am working there." I purposely avoid the dating question.
"You seem..." she trails off when she catches my eye, her face reddening.
"What? What do I seem?"
"You both seem really happy, that's all. Like you care about each other."
"I do care about him," I admit, shifting my stance.
Her smile is bright, but also bittersweet. "He seems like a nice kid. Just...what happens after summer?"
I sigh. "You ask me that a lot." I pause, deciding to be honest. "You know, I really have no idea, and I don't even want to think about it right now. I'm just going to enjoy the summer."
She nods. "I've dated a boy or two, if you ever need advice or anything."
"Thank you," I say after an inner debate upon how exactly I should respond to that offer.
"Let me know when you're leaving so I can say goodbye."
"I will."
"I'm going to stop over to Alice's for a bit, but I won't be too long. She found a new recipe and wants me to try it with her."
Alice is seventy-seven years old and lives across the street. The only recipes she ever looks at or makes are for alcoholic beverages. She used to babysit me when I was younger. I associate her with the scent of baby powder, chocolate chip cookies, and a raspy voice brought on by years of smoking. She's nosy and blunt, but also endearing. My mother loves her. I suppose I do too.
"Okay. Tell her hi. Don't have too much fun boozing it up."
She smiles. "There is no such thing as too much fun."
"Or too much booze," I add and she laughs.
Rivers and I are camped outside on a blanket when my mom returns. I scoot over and she sits beside me, looking up at the black sky dotted with little blips of light. "That was a good margarita," she supplies.
I laugh. "What kind was it?"
"Mango with frozen mangos in it. Delicious. I'll make you one when you're twenty-one." She bumps her shoulder to mine. That's over seven hundred days away—too far into the distance to consider.
"Only three years away. It can be your ultimate achievement," Rivers says.
I lift an eyebrow at him, the night hiding certain features of his face while illuminating others. "It's more like two years away. I'll be nineteen in less than a year...and you're saying my goal in life can be to have a mango margarita at the age of twenty-one?"
"You've got to start out small."
I turn my face upward, letting it be kissed by the moon. "I thought the saying was, go big or go home?"
"No one likes a critic," he tells me.
"I wonder if critics even like critics?"
My mom shakes her head. "They probably criticize one another."
I snort. "I would love to see that. The entertainment possibilities are endless."
Touching my shoulder, my mom gets to her feet with popping knees. "I'm going to go in. I think my body is telling me I am older than I want to believe I am. It's past my bed time."
"You look great, Janet," Rivers says, and I shoot him a look. He shrugs with a grin in place.
"Thank you, Rivers."
I hop to my feet, tugging on the blanket before Rivers is off of it. "My babysitting hours start early and the child in question is extremely demanding, so we should be going." My tone is snippy and the gentle squeeze on my hand tells me Rivers caught it. I fold the blanket up and hand it to my mom, following her inside the house.
"Thanks for the grub, Janet. It was really good," I tell her.
Rivers shakes her hand. "I agree. Thank you for having me over."
My mom smiles. "You're welcome. It was nice to meet you. We'll have to do this again soon."
I wave and start down the sidewalk, but am abruptly halted when an arm slings around my waist. "Hey. Stop for a minute."
I go still, scowling at nothing in particular. "What?"
"What just happened? You were awesome and then you were scary. Tell me why." His hold tightens on me before leaving altogether. "Are you—are you jealous that I told your mom that—about her looking good?"
I cross my arms. "No. Of course not."
He moves around me, stopping when he is before me. "What's going on?"
"I'm just...you know..."
He laughs. "I really don't. What are you trying to say?"
I exhale and rub my face, turning to stare at the house I grew up in. With its dark coloring and old architecture, it looks eerie and magical under the cover of night. "My mom's beautiful. It isn't a jealousy thing, not at all. I love my mom and I love her beauty. I look at her in wonder all the time. I just...I just wish I was too." I can't believe I admitted that, especially to him. I hold my breath, my pulse working at a crazy pace, and wait for the mortification that is sure to come with whatever he decides to say next.
His fingers tip my chin back so that I have nowhere to look but into his eyes. He smiles tenderly, looking like a damaged angel under the radiance of a nearby streetlamp. "Who are you to judge beauty based on how you view yourself? We all look at ourselves and see our flaws. Look at me. I have scars I cannot hide, scars I think make me ugly. Do you think I'm ugly?"
"No," I whisper, my voice like a caress of air.
The back of his hand slides down my cheek, and my breathing turns quicker while my insides warm. "Your eyes are like honey, your lips like the soft petals of a red rose, and your cheekbones are sharply designed to accentuate your unique features."
"Unique?" I repeat, my voice higher than I would like.
Half of his mouth lifts. "Yeah. Sure, you're not classically good-looking, but you have your own form of beauty. It's your light, your heart. You glow."
"Rivers," I begin raggedly, my heart thundering inside me like a million drumsticks beating against a drum.
"Yes?"
"Stop or I'll be forced to write you a sonnet. For real."
Quiet laughter floats over me as he takes my hand in his. We begin to walk. "Don't pretend you haven't already started it. It probably begins with you rescinding your love of peanut butter for me."
"Don't push it."
THE SUN WARMS MY BACK with its blanket of fiery heat as I swim laps in the pool. I have learned recently to take joy in the smallest of things—like the sun shining, the rain, the wind, the colors all around us. I never paid enough attention before. Now every intricate detail is important to me.
Fingers dance along my spine and cause a tingling where they meet my flesh. I jerk away and up, finding Rivers standing beside me.
“Hey. You surprised me.” I splash water at him, grinning when I get him directly in the face.
He wipes an arm across his face and my eyes are drawn to the muscled length of his arms and down to his chest. “Why do you splash water at me when I'm already wet? Doesn't that defeat the purpose?”
“Oh, Wise One, thank you for pointing that out to me.”
He squints through the sunshine at me, water dripping down his face and chest like glistening teardrops. “Your back says Neil.”
I blink, it taking a moment to make the connection between where he touched me in reference to his words. There is a black four-lettered word tattooed down my spine that I got on my eighteenth birthday, along with the nose piercing. It was my tribute to a little boy—my way of saying I will not forget him, not ever. Well, the tattoo was. The piercing was all for me.
“It does, yes.”
“Who's Neil? Was that your brother?”
I swallow and look down, trailing my fingers back and forth through the clear water. “Yes."
"I didn't know his name." He nudges my chin and I look up. Rivers smiles sweetly, his eyes warm.“I bet he thought you were pretty cool, didn't he?”
“Actually, he found me to be quite annoying.” I laugh softly, remembering how I used to follow Neil around everywhere, much to his chagrin. He couldn't even go to the bathroom without me on the other side of the door trying to talk to him.
“If he could see you now—he'd know the depth of your coolness.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I'd still be just really annoying.”
“Tell me about him.”
I take a deep breath, the warm water swaying around me, and I sway in return. Or maybe my legs are wobbly from thinking about my older brother I have missed for twelve years. He would be twenty now, probably in college, in love with some girl and partying it up with his friends. I could see him as a version of Rivers in some ways—he loved sports so much he would have had to be good at them. My older brother that I have surpassed in age, making me the older sibling. It's weird how once someone dies, they are forever frozen at the age they left this life. Everyone around them continues to grow older, but not them. They are forever preserved. It is an abnormality that shouldn't be. In my estimation, we should all have long, well-used lives; not half-lives, or quarter lives.
We all need our chance at life.
“He was on a jungle gym—”
“No,” he interrupts. “I don't want to know about that. I was there that day. I remember. I want to know about him.”
Rivers just gave me a gift without even knowing it. I feel my heart expand and fill as I gaze at him. No one asks me to talk about him, not even my mother—especially not my mother. The death of Neil is this big wall between us, unbreakable because we let it be. And here Rivers stands, asking me to scale it for him. I press my lips to his, tasting water, feeling the warmth of his life through his lips.
And I talk about my brother.
The sun goes higher in the sky as we do back floats, and I tell him about Neil trying to teach me about sports. He loved watching football, baseball, and basketball. He tried to explain the logistics of the games to me, but I was too young to understand. He should have been too young to know what he was talking about, but he seemed to understand the plays. I still don't understand sports.
I reapply sunscreen as I tell him how one summer Neil went an entire two months wearing the same shirt. He would let my mom wash it two times a week, but that was the longest he'd agree to go without it. She had to eventually wrestle it from him when he announced he was going to wear it to school too. The shirt magically disappeared that night. Neil cried. It was a Spider-Man shirt and he thought as long as he wore it, he had spidey senses. I cried with him, thinking my mom had stolen his powers away.
Rivers watches me—not speaking, just listening. I tell him how my brother would play zombies with me and I always had to be the zombie. I got shot a lot with an imaginary gun. One day I squirted ketchup all over the front of a new dress to be a more effective zombie. Neil thought it was real blood and went screaming to our mom. She was not happy, mostly because she'd just gotten the dress and we were supposed to get family photographs taken that day. She rescheduled. He laughs, sweeping hair from my face as we make make a light lunch of roast beef sandwiches and fruit salad.
We eat on the deck under the shade of the umbrella. He steals my grapes and I take his banana slices. And still I talk of my brother, never tiring, never running out of words. I needed this. Rivers somehow knew I needed this. The sky has turned from blue and cloudy to streaks of pinks, purples, and oranges by the time I finally go quiet. I am exhausted, and not just my body, but my mind. I am also empty of some of the sorrow I normally carry around. I feel cleansed, relieved—not fully, but enough. I exhale slowly, turning my head to find his eyes still on me. In fact, I don't think they strayed far from me all day.
“I've been thinking.” he tells me.
“Oh?”
“I've been thinking a lot, actually.” The intensity of his gaze is startling. “There are so many people out there, so many lives unknown because of stereotypes, or because someone doesn't fit in with the majority the way they are expected to. There are so many chances to know amazing people thrown away without people even realizing it.”
I pick at my yellow nail polish. “You just now realized this?”
“Yeah. I guess I'm a little slow. I was always seeing life in one way when I should have been seeing it in another. Apparently getting injured turned out being a good thing for me. Who knew, right?”
A warm breeze caresses my face like a kiss from a loved one and I smile as I close my eyes. He is finally getting it. I lie back on the soft blanket we procured from inside. It's so serene here with the sun setting and our enclosed area behind the fence. I think I could lie here forever and be at peace.
“You're evolving. Be proud.”
“You make me sound like a caveman.”
“Well...”
“Funny.” He lets out a deep sigh. “Anyway, I think...I think I know what I want to do.”
“What's what?” I whisper.
He shifts beside me, lying down with his arm touching mine. “I want to be more like you.”
I laugh. “No you don't.”
“I do. Teach me how.”
I open my eyes and turn my face to look at him. Rivers is grinning. I push at his shoulder. “Well, let's focus on presentation first. You'll have to get your nose pierced. I mean, that's a given.”
He purses his lips, nodding.
“And dye your hair random colors. I would go with pink to start off, personally.”
“Did you ever dye your hair pink?” he asks dubiously.
I give him a look.
Sighing, he closes his eyes, looking pained. “What else? Tell me. I can take it.”
“You'll have to hang out with me on a daily basis so my goodness rubs off on you.”
“Goodness?” I elbow him. “Okay, okay. I think I can do that.”
I make my voice stern as I tell him, “It's a deal breaker. Either you can handle my awesomeness or you can't. And if you can't, you have no right trying to be as almighty as me. Got it?”
His eyes pop open. “Okay. But do I have to wear the green bikini? Because I don't want to outshine you in all your pale glory.”
Laughing, I squint my eyes at him even though the sun has all but gone under the horizon. “We'll negotiate that later.” I close my eyes again, going still as his arm slides beneath my head. I am tugged closer to him, his heat seeping into my side, his scent assaulting my senses. The word perfect comes to mind.
“We should sleep out here.”
“We could,” he says. “But what about the bugs?”
“We can spray so much bug spray on us the fumes alone will kill them from a mile away.”
“Or...we could put a tent up and sleep in it.”
I go up to my elbows and look down at him. “Really?”
Rivers laughs as he sits up. “Yeah. You act like you've never slept in a tent before.”
“I haven't,” I confess.
It's his turn to look shocked. “Everyone sleeps in a tent at least once in their childhood.”
I point at myself and shake my head.
“I don't know what to say,” he says with a mournful expression on his face that is totally fake. “We need to fix this. Stat.”
“Do you have a tent?”
“Of course. It's in the garage. Come on.” He stretches his hand out to me and I take it.
“Do you guys do a lot of camping?” I ask as we go through the house and into the garage.
“We did, yeah.” He rummages through a stack of boxes, totes, and bags in a far corner of the room. “We did a lot of outdoors stuff when I was younger—camping, hiking, fishing, hunting. We still do once in a while, just...it isn't the same. It is more like an obligation now than a tradition. Here it is!” He pulls a dark green rectangular cloth bag from the pile, his expression close to gleeful as he holds it in the air.
I think I am not the only one reconnecting with a childhood missed as we struggle to get the dome-shaped contraption into a standing position in the backyard. We tease each other as we work, and when I trip over a stake and land face first in the half-constructed tent, Rivers just laughs as he pulls me to my feet. The tent is caved in, so we start over, but it is of no consequence. It is full dark out by the time we finish. We grab blankets and pillows from his bed and the spare bedroom, throwing them in a disorderly pile in the center of the tent. Then we look at each other.
I grin, he grins, and we start laughing. I am not even entirely sure why, but it feels good. It is like reaching into the past has swathed us in giddiness, and made us in this moment simpler, but happier. We put a tent together. And it made us smile.
“You have dirt smeared across your nose,” he tells me.
“And you have grass in your hair.”
I reach for him as he reaches for me and we collide, which makes me laugh even harder. I tip my head back and let it leave me in a cascade of mirth. When I look at him again, he is staring at me in a way that makes me think he feels like if he doesn't memorize every single detail of my face, he will miss something he will later regret. I go still, wondering what he is thinking as he looks at me.
“Hey there, Delilah,” he says softly, a slow smirk taking over his features.
“Don't even,” I warn. I can tell what he is thinking of doing just by how he said that.
He does.
He sings 'Hey There Delilah' by The Plain White T's. Night holds us in its embrace, but he lights it up with his essence alone. His voice is steady, deep, and touches me in a way I cannot explain. This feeling I have for him, it has washed away anything that has fought to darken my heart and soul. I feel reborn in what he gives me with his mere presence. Before he even finishes the song, I am springing myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck and squeezing him to me. Don't let go, don't let go, I think. I don't know who I am telling that to—him or me. I guess both of us.
“Girls always fall for that,” he says close to my ear.
“How many Delilahs have you sung that to?” I ask, never relinquishing my hold on him. It is always hard for me to pull away from him.
“Just one.”
I inhale deeply and step away, emotions too deep to withstand trying to pull me under. I smile brightly. "Thanks for going with me to my house the other night. My mom liked having us over."
"No problem. I had fun too. We should get our moms together. I think they'd like each other."
"I agree."
He reaches down and grabs the can of bug spray from the ground, putting a layer of it over his bare skin. "This stuff smells horrible," he says, coughing. He hands the bottle to me and I do the same, the scent of it biting to my senses.
I study the can. "It says it's unscented."
"It lies. Think it'll work?"
"Only one way to find out." I crawl halfway into the tent and pull out a sleeping bag.
"You don't really want to sleep outside, do you?"
I unroll the thick sleeping bag. "I do."
Rivers gets another sleeping bag from the tent and opens it up. "Then what was the point of putting up the tent?"
"Practice?" He narrows his eyes at me and I laugh. "In case it gets too cold or the bugs are too bad. It's our back-up plan."
He tosses his sleeping bag back into the tent and looks mine over. "This is for two people."
My pulse picks up. "Oh?"
Glancing at me, he nods. "Yeah. And even if it wasn't, we should try to conserve heat."
I look around us, the air warm even though dusk has fallen. "Right. Because it's freezing out."
He gets this solemn look on his face. "And I'd hate for you to get frostbite." A flash of a grin transforms his face. "Who would clean my room then?"
I punch his arm and he grabs my outstretched hand, tugging me to him. He interlaces our fingers, staring down at me. I study him back, my gaze flitting over the jagged lines of his imperfect face. He goes still, allowing my scrutiny, watching me. His grip tightens on my fingers when I lean up to press a kiss to his temple and another to his cheek.
I whisper into his ear and he grabs my face, only inches between us. "I don't even care about them anymore," he says softly. His thumbs caress my cheeks, tenderness lightening his eyes. Rivers smiles, causing crinkles to form around his eyes, and gently attaches his lips to my lower one, moving his mouth languidly over mine. He pushes into me, his body taut with repressed need as the kiss becomes deeper, more urgent.
The sleeping bag becomes our cushion against the hard ground, his body my blanket as he holds himself over me, putting his weight on his forearms as his lips trail down the side of my neck, each touch sending a spark through my nerve-endings. His hands mold to my upper body as he goes to his knees between my legs, becoming acquainted with me in a way I have not allowed another man. His mouth replaces his hands, touching me with reverence as I arch into him. When his fingers slide up my stomach beneath my top, shivers follow in their wake. A graze here, a caress there. I am struggling to breathe, my limbs nothing but pulsating noodles. I want him. I exhale deeply. But it can't be now.
As though he knows my thoughts, he sighs, pressing a light kiss to my collarbone, and lies down beside me, both of us staring at a starlit sky. "Didn't we just do this?" he asks after his breathing has evened out.
"Do what?" I ask, although I know exactly what he is referring to.
"Watch the stars."
I smile. "We did."
"I used to pretend each star was a spaceship, flying through the sky on some top secret quest to keep peace with unknown aliens."
I turn my head toward him and find him watching me. "I used to pretend they were lightning bugs, lighting up the sky for us to be able to see at night. The imaginations of kids, right?"
"I like your imagination better."
"I like yours." I look back to the darkened atmosphere. "I know you love water, sports, and now camping, but what else do you love?"
A finger trails down my forehead, over my nose, and pauses on my lips. I swallow thickly, focusing on my heartbeat as I wait. "Campfires, music, thunderstorms, the color red...being with you. What about you?"
My breathing stutters. "Sunshine, this summer, the sound of rain hitting pavement, and the different colors of fall leaves."
"Why this summer?"
"Oh, I don't know. I guess because it's been a warm one." I gently bump my head against his shoulder. "And maybe because of you."
"There's no maybe about it," he argues.
I smile into his arm, giving his upper arm a quick kiss. "You're right."
We become quiet once more, the stars our nightlight, the sounds of crickets our music, and the air our blanket. At some point he moves his arm underneath my head and I rest my arm across his stomach. His breathing evens out and I tighten my hold on him, closing my eyes as I listen to his heartbeat and feel his warmth. This man is becoming everything to me. I fall asleep with trepidation in my core, but it pales when compared to the bliss I feel in my heart.
Your scars are beautiful. That's what I whispered to him.
I DECIDE TO FOCUS ON Rivers—putting all of my energy into knowing all the many facets of him. Maybe I subconsciously already was, because when I saw him on that day when he was fragmented and I was fragmented, it seemed like if I could somehow reach him, maybe I could heal myself in the process of rebuilding him.
To me, learning about him is like luminosity in the middle of a rayless abyss, warmth in the coldness, hope in the face of despair—a crack of light through the nothingness blackness brings.
"How come you don't hang out with your friends anymore?" I pose with the basketball in my hands and release it, watching as it soars into the neighbor's yard, not even close to hitting the basket.
He laughs and shakes his head. "You're terrible at this."
I scowl and retract the basketball from the ground, forcefully throwing it at him.
"Don't take your non-athletic aggression out on me." He dribbles the basketball a few times, pauses in a temporary sculpture of grace, and makes the basket. He hasn't missed a shot since we came out over an hour ago.
"You didn't answer me."
"My friends," he repeats slowly. Rivers flexes his fingers around the ball, squinting his eyes at the sun-filled sky.
"Need me to list them off? Forgotten their names already, have you? So fickle."
He shoots me a look before shrugging. "I don't know. They came over at first after the accident, but I didn't want to talk to anyone. In fact, I couldn't stand the sight of anyone. After a while, they stopped coming over. I get an occasional call or text, but..." He shrugs again.
"But?"
He shoots again and again he makes it. "I don't have anything in common with them anymore. They're all going off to college in the fall and I'll still be here. I live in a different world from them."
"By choice," I point out.
With a sound of frustration, he grabs the ball. "Is there any sport you are good at?"
"You're changing the subject."
"I'm going back to the previous subject. I'm allowed to do that."
"No. I equally suck at all of them. I like to keep things balanced."
"For real?"
I hesitate, and then confess, "I've always been interested in baseball. I've never played it other than in gym class when it was required. I wouldn't mind trying it once for fun. I even think I might understand how the game works."
"You think?" One eyebrow lifts.
"Yes. I don't know for sure." I laugh at the confused look on his face.
It fades almost as quickly as it appeared. "Ever been to a Brewers game?"
I cock my head. "Hmm. Isn't that our state football team?"
"That...what..." he sputters.
"I'm kidding! And no, I haven't."
"You know they're our baseball team, right?"
I blink. "They are?"
Rivers groans, making another shot. "You need some culture. You're all earthy and eau de natural, but you know nothing about the real staples of living in the United States—like sports."
"Eau de natural?" I wrinkle my nose. "That makes me think of someone who refuses to wear deodorant."
"We're going to a Brewers game. I'll even get us tickets today."
I shrug. "Okay. I'm in." I steal the ball from him, kicking my leg up as I shoot. Miraculously, it makes it in and I whoop, jumping around in a circle and clapping my hands. "I just needed the leg kick. You should try it!" I shout, laughing as Rivers shakes his head at me.
"Not in this lifetime," he informs me.
"So there's a chance for the next?"
"Doubtful."
“HERE.” I TOSS THE PAPERS onto the kitchen counter and stand back to observe.
Rivers sets his glass of water down, his eyebrows lowering as he studies the forms. “What is this?”
“Your future. If you choose to make it.”
Glancing up at me, he says, “I'm getting a little 'Mission: Impossible' vibe going on right now.”
“No idea why.” We watched the movie last night. Or rather, I did. He fell asleep halfway through it, blissfully snoring away on my shoulder. The music was the best part, and it was really hard to concentrate on it with him being so noisy beside me. I had to elbow him. I don't regret it.
“Why are you giving me informative technical college and high school forms?”
“You need to contact both places so you can study and take whatever tests you need to get your GED. They'll know what you need to do. Call them. You can be a loser for a summer, but any longer than that, and it's just not kosher anymore. And after you get your GED, you go off to college like the star pupil I know you are.”
He stares at me for a long time, and then something shifts in his expression. “Let me get this straight,” he begins slowly, and I immediately tense at the tone of his voice. I am not going to like his next words. “You're pushing me to go to college, a guy who didn't even graduate—”
“The only reason you didn't graduate is because you were in an accident that made you miss too much school. You could have been done with all of this by now, but instead you decided to mope around for a while instead of getting things taken care of,” I say in a rush.
“Yet you, the valedictorian, are not supposed to do the same?” he continues like I never interrupted. Damn. Should have seen that one coming. He crosses his arms. “Tell you what, I'll go if you go.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Because.”
“All right.” He nods. “I'm not doing it either. Just because.”
I grind my teeth together. “At least I graduated. You can't even say that.”
“You know, I planned on doing this. In time, in my own way, when I was ready,” he says heatedly. “But I want to know why you care so much about it, especially when you're not doing the same. And I want to know why you aren't planning on going to college.”
“Because there's no point to it!” I blow up, startling him and myself with the force of my voice.
He rubs his jaw, a calculating gleam to his eyes. Then he shrugs. “No point for me either. I don't have any talent. The only thing I've ever really been good at is playing football. I won't be doing that anytime soon. So we're at a stalemate. We can be long-time losers together—drink, smoke, talk about how good we had it in high school, how smart we used to be, how good at sports I used to be. How good-looking I used to be. Good times.”
I have this really strong urge to hit him. Not just because of his tone and the words he is saying—although his comment about him being good-looking, insinuating that I am clearly not when I already know he finds me attractive, is enough reason to smack him—but because he is purposely being obtuse and not caring enough about himself and his future. I have logical reasons for my decision. He is simply being bullheaded.
I storm from the kitchen, but not before giving him a lethal glare. I end up in his room, whirling around in a circle of fury, and aim my eyes on the many awards lining the walls and shelves of his room. There are so many they even had to take residence upon his dresser and nightstand. Noting the missing photographs of Riley with Rivers gives me a brief pause, and a tingle in my spine, but I continue on.
“What are you doing?” he asks worriedly from just inside the doorway.
I grab the first one I find and shove the plaque toward his face. “What is this?”
“MVP for football.”
Crap. That just flusters me more and I toss it aside, ignoring him when he shouts at me to be careful with it. “This one?”
He looks at it and sighs. “Chemistry award.”
“Do you think some dumb jock is going to know anything about science?” I am shaking. I have to get through to him. This is important to me in an almost maniacal way. He has to see this. He has to go on.
“Well...biology, at least.” He smirks and I come unglued.
“This is not funny, Rivers.”
“It sort of is. You're cute when you're mad.”
I grab the first thing I find—the remote control—and I chuck it at him.
A dangerous spark enters his eyes when it connects with his hip and he storms for me. “The hired help attacking the employer's son? Tsk-tsk.” He doesn't really sound upset. If anything, he sounds like I just turned him on. He threads his fingers through my hair and tugs my head back, his eyes hungry as they flit across the features of my face. “I'm going to have to reprimand you for that.”
My knees go weak. Part of me, a part that is growing on a daily basis, wants to scream: Take me already! But I don't. I haven't reached that desperation quite yet, but if he keeps talking like this and kissing me like he has been, it'll happen. One day soon.
"Do it."
He rubs his nose up and down my neck, his breath warm against my skin. "Oh, I will."
"The papers. School. You know what I mean," I reply raggedly.
He drops his hands from me and steps away. "I will. Same time you register for school. They'll make exceptions for you, you know they will. We can do it together." He crosses his fingers. "We'll be like this at college."
"No."
Frustration twists his features. "I don't understand what your aversion to college is. Is this because of school? It won't be like that, you know it won't."
"It's not about that!" I turn my back to him, forcing my lungs to expand as I fight to breathe. I feel like crying. It was easy to say I didn't want to continue my education when I didn't see the point of it. But I do now. I may have shown Rivers a different way to look at things, but he sure as hell has done the same for me too. I am grateful to him for it, but at the same time, I wish I could continue on in my bubble of rigidity.
His hand moves to my shoulder, lingering there. "Then what is it about?"
"I can't tell you."
He spins me around. "Why not?"
"It's personal." I avoid his eyes as I tell him this line of bull shit. It is personal, but that doesn't justify me shutting him out.
His eyes narrow. "It's personal? I've shown you every part of me I could, every part of me I have, whether I wanted to or not—parts of me I didn't even know I had, and you won't even tell me why you won't go to school in the fall?"
"Rivers—" I start.
"Look at my face," he demands. He leans close to me, making his features unavoidable. "Look at the scars. You're the only one—" he breaks off, inhaling. His lips press together. "You're the only one who's never flinched when they looked at them, who never got that look of pity in their eyes as they gazed at me—you're the only one that's touched them, kissed them, acted like they are something good, or even nothing at all, when everyone else has acted like they are something bad.
"Even my mom has this sad look on her face every time she looks at me. I can't stand it. And you, the girl I never would have considered as anything special, mean more to me than—than...anything. More than anything," he breathes. "I have told you so much, so many things, and you won't even tell me this one thing."
He's right.
His eyes are lit up with emotion and I am being filleted with the backlash of it as the blackness of conviction trickles from him to me, knowing everything he has said is true. I rub my face, wondering if I can pull another bit of courage out of me. Do it. Do it for him.
I drop my hands, realizing that, yes, I can. I can do this for him. I slowly nod. "Okay. If you get your GED and get registered for school, I'll sign up for classes too." My heart is pounding in my chest, both in fear and excitement.
"We'll do it together," he says it, but there is a question in his eyes that makes makes me want to cry. He's asking about our future—if we have one.
"Yes," I whisper, knowing I will try my hardest to make it so.
The happiness he aims at me in his beaming smile makes my pulse trip and my stomach roll. He grabs me, giving me a hard kiss, and releases me so fast I stumble back. "I'll call now." He strides from the room, the limp barely noticeable.
I heave a heavy sigh, my shoulders slumping. Don't make a liar out of yourself, Delilah.
I PROMISED RIVERS A NEW flavor of ice cream to try every time we went through a pint of the stuff. I think I may have started him down a destructive path of ice cream consumption. Today the selection is cookies and cream. I peruse the frozen glass for it, unaware of the presence behind me until she purposely bumps into me. I turn, holding a sigh in. Riley stares at me, her pretty features and well-groomed appearance unable to hide the animosity she feels for me. It radiates from her in waves of detestation. I think it's because of Rivers, but I also think it's because of our shared past.
“What's going on with you and Rivers?”
I say, “Nothing,” and turn away. That word, which is the equivalent of emptiness, holds all the weight of insurmountable heartache. Nothing is so much.
She grabs my arm and squeezes. “What are you doing? You don't really think he likes you, do you?”
I pull my arm out of her grasp. “So what if I did and so what if he does?”
Her face scrunches up, twisting her beauty into something ugly. “He doesn't. He couldn't possibly like you.”
“Why?”
She laughs. “Are you for real? I mean, do you really not see? Look at you. Your hair is all a mess and your nose is pierced. You wear ridiculous clothes and you have a smartass mouth. You've never been popular. You don't even have any friends. You never have. Why would Rivers like you?”
“You're wrong.”
Something in my tone must scare her, because she flinches and takes a step back, but not enough to make her shut up. “I'm wrong? You're a joke. He's just using you. He'll use you for the summer, or however long it takes him to get better, and then he'll leave you like you were nothing. Like you are. You're nothing.”
Her words hurt, because they're true, in a way—not that she knows that. This, whatever this is, it won't last. It can't. Whether Rivers wants our association to be temporary or not, it is. All of this will become nothing one day and I will fade from his memories like I had never been a part of him, his world, or anything to do with him. I'll be gone, like a fizzled out spark. Knowing this makes my heart hurt in ways I never thought it could. It won't even matter if he wants it to happen or not; it just will—because there is no outrunning the inevitable.
Taking a deep breath, I decide to say what I have to say and then I'll try to forget her, what she ever was to me, and what she is now to me. “We used to be friends,” I say in a low voice.
She looks around us, as though to assure herself no one heard my words. My mouth tightens in disgust for her. “Shut up,” she says in a strained voice.
I take a step toward her. “We used to be friends,” I say in a louder voice. “You were just as unpopular as me, or maybe I was as unpopular as you. Either way, it never mattered. It never mattered to me because all I cared about was that we were friends. I know why you stopped being my friend. I felt bad for you at first, and then I felt angry, and now...now I just feel exhausted by it all. News flash, Riley—you aren't perfect. No one is. Stop trying to act like you are.”
“You're jealous.” The sound of her voice is weak, so like the girl herself. She doesn't have to be. That's the most frustrating thing of all. She doesn't have to be the way she is and yet she thinks she does.
“Jealous? Of you? The girl so obsessed with her looks she has to make herself puke every time she eats?” Her eyes shift around as she checks for witnesses. She still doesn't get it. No one cares.
“No,” I continue. “I'm not jealous of you. I never have been.” I take another step toward her. “And when I caught you doing that, part of me felt sick. I wanted to help you. I would have helped you. You didn't let me. Instead you pretended we had never been friends. And when you stopped talking to me, I was sad and confused.” Another step. “And when you turned everyone against me, I hated you. And when you relentlessly picked on me every day because I knew a secret about you, a secret you didn't want anyone to know, not even your best friend, I felt sorry for you. But jealous? Not. Once.” We're at the wall now, Riley's back pressed against it.
"You don't know what you're talking about." Her voice is heavy.
"I think I do."
"You don't know what it's like—you can't imagine—"
"Come off it," I scoff. "We all have issues. We all have shit happen to us we wish didn't. We all want to be a certain way we don't know how to be. Part of life is accepting who you are and being okay with it, instead of trying to change yourself."
“I just wanted to be pretty,” she whispers, staring at me with wounded eyes.
“You already were,” I tell her, swallowing thickly.
Her eyes lower, covering her shame and remorse from mine. Seconds pass, becoming minutes, and still she won't raise her head. I suppose there are no words. I exhale slowly, stepping back, saddened by it all. And this is what we have come to. Once best friends, then enemies, and now we can't even think of anything to say to each other to reduce the pain of all the years spent hurting one another. Because it wasn't just her. Sure, she started it every time, but I fought back with words and more. I could have ignored it. I could have tried to talk to her. Instead I let her go, I stepped away, and watched her turn into something I loathed.
"You've changed," she finally says.
I nod, my chest painfully tight. "Yeah. So have you."
She blinks her eyes, and I pretend I don't see the tears in them. "I had to. I thought I had to for Rivers, but..." She glances at me, the pain of being replaced in someone's heart evident in the darkening of her eyes. "I realized I had to for me," she ends quietly.
I nod again, not sure what to say. I hesitate, and then tell her, "You're more important than anyone else. Try to remember that."
"I'm better now," she tells me in a small voice. I don't know if she is telling the truth or not, but for her sake, I hope she is.
"I'm glad."
I turn to go, pausing as she says, “I know why he was drawn to you. I understand even.” I don't speak, watching out the window at the traffic zipping up and down the street. Her voice cracks as she says, “I needed him to need me. You don't. It's messed up, but...I always kind of envied that about you. You were never afraid to be yourself. I was nothing but afraid.”
My eyelids slowly close. I inhale deeply, and walk from the store, leaving a piece of my childhood with Riley.
A collage of memories bombard me as I drive to Rivers' home. The first day of kindergarten when Riley smiled at me, her long brown hair in a braid. I thought she was so pretty with her big blue eyes and soft hair. I especially loved her pink flowered dress. I smiled back and we played on the swings together, seeing who could pump their legs the highest. First grade was a bad year for me. I was only six, but I learned a lot about life and death that year. I can't pretend it didn't change me, because it did. She made me a picture every day for a month. I still have them somewhere in a folder.
Fast forward to second grade when her cat died. She stayed over at my house and my mom made us hot chocolate. We spent the night watching movies and she cried as I rubbed her back. Third grade we fought over a boy for two weeks until we realized we liked each other better than we liked him. Fourth grade, a girl named Avery moved to our school and Riley started to hang out with her as well as me. We were rotated.
It was the end of sixth grade when I caught her with her finger down her throat. At first I didn't understand what I was seeing, but I understood her guilt and fury. Eventually, I understood why she stopped talking to me that summer. And when seventh grade started, I was the school pariah. I even realized why she felt it was necessary to attack me. I had seen her greatest weakness. I had seen that she was flawed just as much as the rest of us. I knew her biggest secret. Maybe she thought by belittling and ridiculing me, that if I ever did tell anyone what I saw, no one would believe it. It was such a shame, such a waste. It was also clear she never really knew me, not like a best friend should.
I never would have told. I never have.
When I get back to the house, it is like a mountain has broken into pieces from my shoulders and fallen down my back. In the removal of Riley from me, I am raw, shattered, but I am also lighter.
"Funny thing happened at the store," I tell him, watching his back muscles flex and lengthen as he tosses a football in the air and catches it.
He turns to face me, juggling the ball from hand to hand as he waits.
"I forgot the ice cream."
His eyes drop to my empty hands. "I see that. That's sort of unusual, right? Wasn't that the whole purpose of going to the store?"
I wince. "Yeah. I got distracted."
The sudden stillness of his body strikes me as odd. "By what?"
Frowning, I toss the car keys toward him. He catches them, his stance and expression not changing. "What do you think I got distracted by?" I ask slowly. Did Riley call him or something? Why would she? What would the point of that be? Unless it was to try to wedge a gap between us. If so, I will have to hunt her down and punch her in her pretty face.
He shrugs. "I don't know." He turns toward the garage, entering through the side door. The garage door rambles up, showing a tense Rivers. "You want to drive the car into the driveway? I need to wash it." His tone is curt and he won't look at me, which I don't like, but what sets me off is when he chucks the car keys back at me without even glancing my way.
I let them drop to the pavement and cross my arms. "You have two seconds to tell me what is going on."
He snorts, snapping the band of his white athletic shorts as he walks farther into the garage. Kneeling beside a shelving unit, he grabs cleaning supplies and walks back into the sunlight, raising an eyebrow at me. "Are you going to move the car or do I need to?"
Hot anger scorches my veins and I charge him, wrapping my arms around his waist and taking him down without much effort. I think his surprise worked in my favor.
He grunts upon impact. "Damn it, Bana! What the hell was that for?"
I climb over the top of him and glare down at him with my palms digging into his warm chest. "You tell me what your attitude is for, right now, or I quit."
Wariness creeps into his eyes, but it doesn't remove the belligerence from his expression. "You wouldn't."
"I so would."
"You need this job. You need the money. What about your Amtrak trip?"
"I'll work for my mom. She pays better anyway."
"She does not."
"Okay, so you're right, but at least I wouldn't have to deal with your grumpy ass."
He scowls up at me. Only when I do not budge nor speak another word, does he sigh, closing his eyes. "Jeff Monroe works there. I thought—I thought maybe you'd seen him and talked to him or something," he mutters.
I sit back, becoming blatantly aware of how my body is straddling his, and digest what I just heard. Part of me wants to laugh, part of me wants to demand what is wrong with him, and the other part of me—is smiling. He opens one eye and closes it again. I push against his chest until he looks at me.
"Are you jealous?"
"No," he snaps.
I lean down, bringing my face inches from his. His lips turn down and I kiss the frown away. "You just made my day," I tell him.
"Glad my stupidity entertains you." His hands rise up to loosely clasp my waist. "You should have tried out for football. That tackle was lethal."
I grin. "Are we going to wash your car or stay like this all day?"
"I'm okay with us like this. Wait—are you going to wear your swim suit?"
"I could be persuaded."
He practically shoves me off of him. "No time for lying around. We've got a car to wash. I'll get you—I mean, the car—sudded up." A twinkle of mischief enters his eyes as he slowly smirks.
I don't mention my encounter with Riley. It has nothing to do with him, not really, and in the letting go of it, I am happier. We end up just as soapy and wet as the car, but we laugh and joke around as we spend the afternoon outside. Again, I am reminded of how the simple things are the best things, and that certain people make the difference between being alone and being lonely—and that Rivers fills me with vitality.