I TOOK A FEW HOURS off in the morning, deciding I needed to dye my hair again since the red was fading out. While at the salon, I did something really crazy and went with what the beautician determined was probably the closest shade to my natural hair color, adding some faint blonde highlights throughout to add contrast. And then...I did something completely nutso and had a spray-on tan done. I let the sun-bathed masses get to me—I conformed. My skin glows a creamy shade of bronze like it has never glowed before. I feel prettier, brighter, my eyes more enhanced with the color of my face.
I feel like all the other people whose skin tans instead of burning.
Monica called just as I was leaving, and although I was glad to talk to her, the news she gave me put a layer of sorrow on my time with Rivers. Thomas' mother passed away—that alone being sad enough news—and they are returning in two days. I realize nothing can ever truly go back to the way it was, nor would I want it to, but once they are back, it cannot continue on as it has either.
I smile when I see his long frame sprawled out, stomach down, on a blanket on the wood deck, the sight of him enough to make all my dreary thoughts dissipate. Rivers loves the sun and the sun loves him back, turning his skin an attractive shade of copper as the days go by.
“Are you going to sleep out here too?”
"It isn't like we haven't before." He looks up from the book in his hands and stares. “What did you do to your hair?”
I am unusually nervous as I finger a layered lock of chocolate brown hair, stopping beside him. “I dyed it back to my natural color. Or as close as the beautician could get it.”
"And did you sit under a heating lamp while you were there too?"
I splay my fingers wide, liking the color they have never been able to wear before. "I did a spray-on tan. I wanted to know what it felt like to be like all you people who get some color in the summer."
"And? What's the consensus?"
I shrug. "It's fun."
“Fun, huh?" He pauses. "I like it."
My face heats up and I swallow. “Thanks.”
He rolls onto his back, letting the book fall from his fingers to the blanket he lies on. “But I liked you pale too. Anyway, really. You're sort of like a chameleon. You're always changing. Your hair, your clothes, your image. Most people are trying to be like someone else, but you seem to be fighting to be known only as you. But how do you know who you really are, if you're always trying to be different from everyone else?”
“I know who I am.”
“Who's that?”
“Me.” I wink and sit down beside him. “You should go for a walk with me.”
“You should lie down with me.”
I freeze. The sun comes from behind him, illuminating him like a fireball halo, which sort of makes sense. He is consuming, no matter what his mood. Light and dark play as the sun and Rivers collide. He grabs my arm and tugs. I land on my back beside him, feeling out of breath and it has nothing to do with my short fall.
He smiles a half-smile, and my body tingles. “Can I ask you something?”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“Did you purposely try to be different because you wanted to put distance between yourself and others? I mean, was it a sort of defense mechanism? Because seeing you now, I don't think that image you portrayed in school ever really fit you. You're too...” He stops, his eyebrows lowering as he searches for the right word. “I don't know, free.”
“I didn't realize it wasn't okay to be different. I was how I wanted and needed to be. It was other people that had a problem with it.” I turn my face to the sky, not wanting to get into any serious conversations. I am free now, yes. I am free because it is all I can be.
“High school is about conformity. You know that. Everyone knows that. Be anything other than everyone else and it's like putting a big bullseye on yourself. Did you do it on purpose?”
I sit back, scooting to put distance between us. “I didn't do anything. I was just me. That was me then and this is me now. I'm allowed to change, right? Was it so wrong to be the way I was?” His words are flustering me and I'm becoming agitated. I don't want to talk about high school or how I was then and how I am now and why there is no correlation between the two.
I changed, but would I have if things were different than they are now?
Rivers sits up as well, watching me. “Did I ask something wrong?”
“No. I just...I don't want to talk about it.” I look away from the intensity of his eyes.
“I only asked because I want to know more about you. I find everything about you interesting. You sort of rock my world, in an entirely unapologetic way.” He smiles and the sun reflects off his face, blinding me with its beauty.
This is not good. This is not what I want. I look at him and realize that, yes, this is what I want, but I shouldn't. I can't. He can't. Rivers can't care about me. He'll only get hurt if he does. Too late, a voice tells me. I draw my knees up and rest my chin on them, closing my eyes against what is glaringly unavoidable. I'm scared, I realize. I just wanted to help them. I never intended to care about him and I never wanted him to care about me either.
Jumping to my feet, I careen close to the edge of the pool and Rivers steadies me with his hands on my waist. “Easy." His touch burns me, making me feels things I have never felt before and know I will never feel again. I want to cry. I think I am going to cry. "Look, I'm sorry if I upset you.”
I pull away from him, hurrying for the house. It isn't my house, so there is nowhere I can really go to get away from him, from my feelings, from my truths. Everything is building and coming at me once—all I have wanted, all I have caught a glimpse of, all I cannot have. I saw it all in Rivers' smile. Tears blind me as I stumble into the cool interior of the house and toward the bathroom, deciding it's as close to my own space as I am going to get.
I lock the door and sink to the floor with my back against the wall, letting the sobs break free. This is the first time I've cried about it since finding out. Somehow, I managed to keep it all in. I was okay with it. I mean, sure, at first I was devastated, more for my mom than me, but I was dealing with it. But now there's Rivers and there's even Monica, and how can I keep telling myself I am okay with this?
I am not okay with this.
Trembles wrack my body and I hug myself, closing my eyes against the pain. The tightness in my throat grows until it is hard to swallow. I hear Rivers on the other side of the door—I can feel him on the other side of the door. He asks me to open it. I know he can't see me, but I shake my head. He is so different from what I really thought. He is...so...good. He is determined, and yes, arrogant, and beautiful. So beautiful. He is strong-willed and stubborn and imperfect and how can I leave him? He is living again. He is smiling and talking and thinking about his future.
And I have his heart clasped between my two hands. If I let it go, it will fall and break. If I squeeze it too tightly, it will hurt. And if I continue to carry it around, I am responsible for it.
I have to quit. July just started and there is August to think about as well, but I can't keep working here. It's going to suck being without the income, but maybe my mom will hire me on at the flower shop, at least part-time. And that isn't even the biggest problem. The problem is Rivers, and what I feel for him. My original intentions got switched around and altered to the point where I should have refused to stay here in Monica's absence. I should have known it was a bad decision.
I never should have asked her about the job to begin with. But she'd looked so sad, and he'd looked so broken, and I figured...I could do this one thing for someone else before I couldn't do anything again. And now look at me—crying in the bathroom of my employer's house with my employer's son pleading with me to come out and tell him what he did wrong.
He did nothing wrong but care about the ghost of a girl.
With the end of my employment at the Young residence set in my mind, I stand on legs that shake, wipe tears from my eyes, and splash water on my face before opening the door. The red eyes and nose can't be hidden. His scent wraps around me and the stinging comes back to my eyes.
I refuse to look at him as I stride for the front door. “I'm going to go for a walk. I'll finish cleaning when I get back.”
“I'll go with you.”
I stiffen by the door with my back to him. “No.”
“Why? I want to go with you. I can keep up.”
I whirl around and glare at him, hateful words I don't mean spewing forth. “No. You can't. You're too slow and you'll only slow me down and I want to be alone.” The openness of his face that I've become accustomed to seeing, closes like a door slammed before my eyes. All expression is wiped from his features, but it stays in his eyes. They're hurt and angry. Pain lashes through me like the burning caress of a whip against my heart. I want to take my words back, but I don't. I tell myself it's better this way, that he has to get used to being without me, but my convictions sound hollow as I walk out the door.
I walk for hours—the sights, smells, and even the temperature are all vague and without form. I walk in a world of gray, my emotions dark and overcast, obliterating anything that could give life to my surroundings. I walk with the hurried steps of a woman who is trying to outrun something she has no control over, trying to escape something complete in its certainty. I am angry and not even sure who I am angry at. Is it Monica for putting me in a position to stay at her house and fall in love with her son? Is it Rivers for being lovable? Am I angry at myself for thinking I somehow had the right to meddle in their lives and yet had the audacity to think I could stay distanced from it all? Or is the anger at my mom, though I am not even really sure why? I guess because it just pisses me off that she is going to be shattered once again and I am the one to blame.
The house is dark when I return. As I walk up to the front door, I realize dusk has fallen while I was lost in myself. Even before I am fully inside, I know he isn't here. It is devoid of his light. This knowledge causes an ache inside me. I fumble with my phone, staring at his cell phone number when I get to it, and slowly put it back in my pocket. I pace the length of the sun room, glancing out at the star-filled night, wondering where he is and if he's okay.
And then I stop.
Coldness seeps into me with the knowledge that I do not belong here. This room—with its fire and life—it isn't mine to stand in. This isn't my life. Rivers isn't mine. I've just been pretending. In two days Monica and Thomas will be back, and what then? Then I'll fade back into the corners of their lives where I should have stayed to begin with. I need to get out, before Rivers returns. Because I know, when he comes back, I won't be able to fool myself into thinking that he cares so little for me as to just let me walk away.
With fingers that tremble, I call my employer. As soon as she answers, I tell her, “I'm quitting.” It's blunt and harsh, but effective. I can feel the shock through the phone. I inhale deeply. “I'm sorry for not giving more notice.”
“But...what...why? Did something happen?”
Did something happen? What didn't happen? I can't very well tell her I fell in love with her son and that I know, with absolute certainty, that he will end up getting hurt because of it. Either way, he gets hurt. If I stay, he gets hurt. If I go, he gets hurt. There really is no way around it. But if I put distance between us now, maybe it will hurt him less later.
I respond evasively, “Nothing happened. I just...my mom needs me at the flower shop.” I wince at the lie. I'll have to make it a truth as soon as I can. The wrongness of what I am doing hits me and I feel nauseous. I'm leaving. The fact that I don't want to makes no difference. Does what I want ever matter? Not lately, not when it counts. My heart feels torn in two, like I know I will be leaving a part of myself with Rivers when I go.
“Is it because I didn't pay you more for staying? Because I had every intention of doing so when we returned. I didn't mean to take advantage of you. I hope you know that. And...I don't know, I thought maybe you and Rivers—I mean, he just seems so much better...” she trails off, clearly hesitant to voice her thoughts.
“It's not that—about the money, I mean. I don't want your money.” Getting paid extra for staying here with Rivers would cheapen how much this whole experience has meant to me.
“You're sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“There's nothing I can do to get you to change your mind?” Her voice already tells me she knows I will not budge from my decision. I wish she could get me to take back my words.
“Positive,” I say around a hard lump in my throat.
The pause is heavy with bereavement. “Rivers is going to miss you. I'm going to miss you. I want to say he's back to his normal self because of you, but it's more than that. He's more confident, happier, less serious. He's...he's better since you came, and I will never be able to thank you enough for that.”
“I didn't do anything.” A tear slowly makes its way down my cheek. I clutch the phone tighter to my ear and wipe the pain away.
“I think just being you was enough. You're an exceptional young lady." She pauses. "Is it okay if I stop by your mother's shop when I get back into town? A phone call really isn't a proper goodbye.”
I nod, realize she can't see me, and in a broken voice, say, “Yes.”
“Thank you. For everything.” The sincerity in her tone causes another teardrop to pool in my eyelashes and when I blink, it falls.
I tell her goodbye and end the call, staring woodenly at my tote bag that I need to repack. If only I could pack up the pieces of my heart as well. I decide to wait until Rivers comes back and then I'll go. I owe him that.
I turn around and there he is, standing just inside the doorway, dark and tragic. An aura of pain surrounds him and I am the reason for it. I try to console myself by thinking that if I stay here, that if I continue to live in the present without thinking of the future, he will only be hurt to a catastrophically larger degree.
"Where were you?"
"Walking," he bites out. "I actually know how to do that."
I wince at my earlier words, knowing I deserved that. They were harsh and uncalled for. “I'm sorry,” I tell him. “For what I said. I didn't mean it. I shouldn't have said it.”
He stares at me, not acknowledging my words as he studies my face. “You're leaving.”
“I am.”
His expression twists with something. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing, Rivers. I swear you didn't do anything wrong. You did—you did everything right,” I whisper forlornly.
A sound of disbelief leaves him. “Then why are you going?”
“Because I have to.”
“Right. I overheard. Your mom needs you to help out at the shop. Must be some floral emergency, right?” His tone says he doesn't believe that.
I turn my back on him and grab whatever I can find of mine to shove into the bag. Sadly, there isn't much. That done, I face him once more. “Take care of yourself.” It sounds so lame, so lacking.
He stands unmoving. “You're hiding things.”
I flinch, my breath whooshing out of me. “What?”
“Everything has been fine. You like being here. I like you being here. I know you want to be with me, Del. You feel the same for me as I feel for you. Don't try to act like you don't. And now, suddenly, for no reason, you're leaving. Quitting. What happened? What won't you tell me?”
“Nothing. I just...you and me...” I gesture helplessly.
“Me and you what?” he asks flatly.
I can't look at him as I say, “You're all sports and I'm all...whatever I am. You're outgoing. I'm not. We grew up in different worlds. We're just—we're too...different.” It's a poor answer, a poor excuse, and it isn't even accurate. We are different, and I think that is why we are so compatible.
“You can't be serious.”
My face is on fire in shame as I glance at him and away. The stiffness of his jaw is painful to look at. I put that hard edge there and remorse washes over me at my unintentional role in the wounding of him. “I have to go.”
I move toward him and around him. Just as I pass him, his hand shoots out and grabs my arm, halting me. Those dark eyes that see and reveal so much study me. I never understood that about his eyes. In the dark, aren't we supposed to be unable to see? Yet I see everything in them, everything I could ever want or need. My face must reflect my thoughts because his eyebrows lower, like he doesn't understand me and what I am doing.
That makes two of us.
His voice is a rasp when he states, “Instead of thinking of all the reasons why we can't work, why not think of the reasons why we can?”
“You know what I need? I need some space. I need to think.” What I am saying is truthful, but I know that doesn't make it any easier for him to hear. It's the best I can tell him right now.
I think he is going to argue with me, refuse to let me go without a fight, but instead he drops his hand from me and backs away. “You got it.”
A blade of thin, but lethal anguish slices open my heart. He's letting me go. This is what you want. It is and it isn't. It's easiest, yes, but I retract my recent thought that it is best. What is best for me is in this room with me, the room I am walking out of. He lets me walk away. The wound starts with a trickle of an ache and morphs into a steady flow of agony as I walk from the room, out of the house, and away from the boy I cherish.
THE FIRST TEXT COMES THE following morning.
It reads: I had a nightmare last night. But it wasn't about me drowning this time. It was you. I was in the water next to you and I still couldn't save you. I feel like I'm drowning all over again.
I type out: You were never drowning. You never will. You're too strong.
But I can't send it. I erase the text message and set my phone aside, ready to begin my new job and my new life minus Rivers. I am unbelievably depressed about this. And sleeping without him last night? It was torture and in no way restful, because, yeah, is there such a thing as restful torture? No.
I shower, brush and then immediately mess up my hair, put a layer of eye makeup on, and dress in a pink and white striped tank top and a purple flowing skirt that hovers at my knees. I grab a lime green scarf from the full-length mirror and loosely wrap it around my neck before stomping down the stairs to start the day. The scarf makes me think of Rivers, which is equal parts soothing and torment.
My mom gives me a quizzical smile when I grab the coffeepot and pour a large amount into my cup. “I'm glad you're home and going to work with me, but are you?”
“Cleaning rooms is my life,” I deadpan. “How could I not be glad?”
“You quit pretty abruptly. Did Rivers do something?”
Yes. Rivers did something. He was so stinking appealing to me that I found myself falling for him.
“He didn't do anything wrong,” I answer tiredly. “And I don't really want to talk about it, okay?”
She watches me for a moment before nodding. “All right. You want to walk to work together?”
I hear the hopeful note in her voice and my first inclination is to push her away, but she is my mom and she is trying so hard, and pushing her away does nothing now but hurt her. So I nod and I smile, a pain shooting through me at the way her face lights up when she smiles back. I just made her day and I feel awful about that.
"Will you be around for dinner?" she asks as we walk out the door, everything about her hesitant as she interacts with me.
I never realized how wary my distance made her. I can see that she is afraid anything she says or does may cause me to flee. I rub my face, forcing a smile as I drop my hands. "You bet. I'll even cook. What sounds good?"
"Hmm. How about spaghetti and meatballs? We can use some of the canned sauce I made from the garden tomatoes last year. Oh, and how about using spaghetti squash for the noodles? Maybe some garlic bread to go with it."
"It wouldn't be a meal without garlic bread."
She laughs. "Exactly. I think we should make some lemon bars. I've been craving them for weeks."
"That all sounds great."
"It does, doesn't it?" She beams at me, lacing her arm through mine as we walk the mile or so it takes to get to her shop.
I return her smile, forcing a lightness to it I do not feel. Seeing how happy my mom is devastates me. Within the cocoon of her joy I am struggling. I want to mean the smiles I aim her way, I want to laugh with her—to imprint myself upon her mind and heart so deeply there is no chance of her ever forgetting one single detail about me, even though I doubt that is really even a possibility.
You have to tell her.
I promise myself I will, but I cannot promise when.
We get to the flower shop and my mom immediately goes inside to start on her flower orders. I stand outside the small white building, taking it in. There's a large picture window with pink cursive writing that reads 'Flower Appeal' and the surrounding vicinity is bursting with blossoms in vibrant shades of oranges, yellows, and pinks. It's like looking at a sunset in the form of flowers.
I grab the broom from inside the door and sweep the walkway, the sun already attacking me with its hot rays. There is peace in solitude, and there is quiet. And you know what? There is a lot less drama to deal with when the only person you see and talk to is you. There was a handful of people I hung around in school, but if I didn't want to do something with them, I didn't. They were like a security blanket—a permanent fixture I could rely on to be there. We went to an occasional party together, maybe a movie, bowling. I didn't share secrets with any of them and I never had any inclination to show them who I really was. Just a glance into me was all I allowed and that was all I wanted of them in return.
So began the life of Delilah Bana—the high school years. I guess, in a way, I have Riley to thank. She destroyed me, but she also made me stronger. She made me see that friends are impermanent, but how I choose to be, and how I act, and how it affects who I am, is not. I experimented with piercings, hair colors, and clothing. I didn't think being different should have made me odd, but I guess I was wrong. The weight of other people's judgment is heavy if you decide to let it be. And you do have that choice. You can care about you, or you can care about everyone else.
I am more important than any label given to me by others who never really knew me.
When school let out, I didn't contact any of the "friends" I'd had throughout my high school years, and it didn't bother me at all. Summer started and I shed the cape that categorized me as one way, and focused on being any way I chose to be. I guess Rivers is right—I sort of am a chameleon. I think we all are. Circumstances in and out of our control are constantly forming us and reforming us. Does it ever end? No. Not until we pass from this life and into whatever lies in wait beyond.
But this, this void where Rivers used to be, is bothering me. A lot. So now I am thinking maybe it wasn't that I was socially inept or that I would rather be alone than with others, but that there just wasn't anyone I really wanted to be around. I miss him like I think I would miss the sun if it stopped burning in the sky. In fact, he is like the sun to me; glowing, bright, consuming, transcendental.
I set the broom against the side of the building and lift my face to the glowing fireball, inhaling deeply of the summer air, letting the warmth of it wash over my face like a kiss from the sky. I smile, knowing this time apart from Rivers will be short, knowing I have already figured out what I needed. There wasn't anything to figure out, really. I can't push him away. I can't live my days knowing he is close to me and yet unavailable because I made it so. I suppose these little hitches of weakness are normal, and still, I wish I could forever remove them from my thoughts. I want to be strong, and being strong means I can't be scared—or if I am scared, I have to breathe around it and remain centered.
There is a hole inside me. The longer I ignore Rivers, the bigger it grows. I don't want that. Even minutes are adding to the depth of it, widening it. I want to be whole. I can't be unless we are okay. I grab my tote from the pavement and find my phone, my fingers flying over the letters on the mini keyboard.
Me: I had a dream last night too. You were swimming in the ocean, the blues and greens of the sea like a watery blanket around you. You were alone, but you were okay. You knew the water was all you really needed. You were smiling.
The responding text shows up immediately: I was smiling because I knew you were standing on the beach waiting for me.
I laugh, feeling the prickling of tears in my eyes. I text back: You were smiling because you were thinking of peanut butter and ice cream and trains.
His response: That sounds like you.
My reply: You're right. When did you get to be awesome enough to start thinking like me?
Rivers sends back: Is that what you're calling it? Another text shows up: I want to see you. Now.
I want to see him too, but I feel like I should spend time with my mother as well. I just got home and I can't take off already. Plus I have to work. And I really should be going inside to do exactly that.
I hesitate, then type: Not yet.
The answer is fast and one word: Now.
I scowl at the phone and quickly text: No. Working. Need time with Mom. Two days.
I can feel his incredulity through the phone screen: Two more days?!?!?!?!?!
I smile. You'll be okay.
I will NOT be okay. Just so you know.
I know.
Sigh.
I burst out laughing, pressing the phone to my forehead and closing my eyes. Warmth washes over me, and contentment with it. I send a smiley face back and head inside to do some heavy duty cleaning. Today will be a good day, I decide. It feels strange to not be at his house; even sleeping in my own bed didn't feel right. Without his presence I am dimmer than usual, but the atmosphere of the shop is light. Carefree. My mom steps with gaiety I don't recall seeing before, talking to me often, smiling just as frequently. I relax and enjoy what is before me.
I FEEL THE SOFTNESS OF the blanket between my fingers, wanting to wrap it around me and use it as a shield. There were days at the beginning of summer when I fought to get out of bed. There were days where I struggled to do the simplest of things. It all seemed so pointless. Why pretend everything is okay when it isn't, when I am merely waiting for the imminence that is to befall me? None of those bad days compare to this ache inside me now. It doesn't seem possible that this separation from Rivers should have the capability to block out my darkest days, and yet it does. I don't know if I can stand another day of this, even if I am the one who requested it.
A knock at the bedroom door announces a visitor. I sit up and call out a greeting, bringing my knees to my chin as my mom enters carrying two mugs.
“Yours is hot chocolate,” she tells me with a soft smile.
I accept it, murmuring a thank you.
Her movements are hesitant as she sits on the edge of the bed. “As much as I love your company at home and at work, I don't like to see you hurting. I know you said you don't want to talk about it, but I can see that Rivers cares about you a great deal and that you reciprocate his feelings. Maybe you need to go back. Whatever happened between you, you two can talk and work through it.”
I blink, surprised by her words, tenderness washing over me that she would sacrifice her happiness for mine. A layer of the sadness falls away and I smile. “I love you, Mom.”
It is her turn to blink. She nervously tugs on her blonde ponytail, looking flustered. I don't blame her. I can't remember the last time I told her I loved her or called her mom. Looking down, she finally says quietly, “Thank you. I love you too. So much.”
I set the untouched hot cocoa on the nightstand and scoot across the bed to her, feeling her warmth, smelling the herbal-flower scent of her skin, and being at peace in her nearness. Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I press my head to hers and lock my fingers around hers as they clutch the cup between her hands. Her knuckles are white and there is a slight tremble to her body. A sniffle escapes her and I tighten my hold on her.
“I was a brat,” I announce.
She laughs, but there is a catch to it. “You were a child.” She knows exactly what I am talking about. It's the conversation we've avoided for years, for far too long. It is time that it was spoken.
“Part of me was guilty that I wasn't there. Even though I was younger and I wouldn't have been able to save him, I thought if I'd just been there, he wouldn't have died. That guilt ate me up, made me distance myself. I am sorry. I'm sorry for pulling away when you needed me.”
A warm teardrop falls from her eye and onto my hand. Her pain seeps into my skin, becoming a part of me. “You have nothing to apologize for. You were only six, Delilah, and no matter how old you were or weren't, or whether you had been there or not, there was nothing you could have done. It was just Neil's time.”
“Is that what you truly think?” I whisper. “That we all have our time to die, and when it comes, everyone should accept it?”
“Accept it? No. Learn to live around the pain, yes. Try to forgive instead of blame? Yes.” She leans away to better look at me, her blue eyes lingering on mine. “Every time I look into your pretty eyes, I see Neil. I never understood how the two of you got the same colored eyes when you didn't have the same father.”
“Must be from some awesome part-cat ancestor of yours. What happened to Neil's father?” I ask immediately, something I have always wondered and never had the courage to question.
My mom takes a moment to steady herself by getting up and placing her mug next to mine on the nightstand. She touches the shimmery cream and white floor-length curtains, pushing one back and allowing sunlight in to silhouette her. Keeping her back to me, she says, “We were high school sweethearts, got married right after graduation, and had no idea what we were getting into or what we were doing. The stress of money and not having enough of it wore us down. We began to fight all the time. We grew apart, realizing we both wanted and needed different things. Our love turned into something ugly, and we came to an agreement that we couldn't keep doing what we were doing to each other. We divorced when Neil was just a baby.”
The beating of my heart picks up. “And then?” I prompt.
She glances at me. “And then I made a bad decision that turned into the second best thing that ever happened to me.”
“The first being?” I tease. It was Neil. Of course it was Neil. That boy was adventure and laughter and bullheadedness all rolled into one. I miss him still, I miss him always. There is a hole in my childhood that is devoted to the place where he was, and where I wish he could have continued to be.
My mother smiles. “Do you remember Greg Morgan? His father? He picked Neil up every other weekend and on holidays.”
“Sort of.” I have a vague image of wavy brown hair and eyes in my head for Neil's father. “Why didn't you keep his last name after the divorce?”
“Neil had his father's last name, but you had no one's. I went back to my maiden name for you.”
“And you never saw him again, after Neil died?”
Pain, old but no less powerful, flickers over her features and recedes back into her. “Once. I saw him about six years ago. He looked...he looked so sad when he saw me that I just turned away and walked out of the store without even getting what I went there for.”
“Does he still live around here?”
“I don't know. I don't know anything about him anymore. Which is probably best,” she adds.
“Why is that best?”
Turning away, she begins to pick up my clothes. I protest, but the look she gives me silences me. I guess she needs to keep busy as she talks, and I don't really mind her putting my clothes away. We both know I never will. “Because too much time has passed, too much pain, too much of everything. Sometimes it's good to leave the past in the past.”
“Sometimes it's impossible to,” I mutter.
She pauses, and then folds a pile of shirts. “You're right. You can't escape the past, but you can move on from it. You've done that this summer too. I've noticed. You're more like you used to be, before you turned into a typical teen—happier.”
“Happier,” I quietly muse. “Yep.” And sadder. Funny how you can't seem to have one without the other.
“Are you going to talk to him? If you ask me, I think you should. He's such a sweet boy. Nothing like what you made him out to be. Who knows, maybe he's the one.” She smiles and winks, putting my folded clothes away.
He is the one. The one and only. Even if he wasn't the only one, he'd still be the one.
“What did he do to make you so mad anyway?”
I look up at my mom, my eyebrows lowering as I contemplate her question. She waits expectantly, something changing in her expression the longer she waits. And then she exhales slowly and slumps against the dresser. Her mouth opens and closes. She gives me a helpless look, wordlessly saying she knows. She knows, she wants to help, and there is no way to. Funny how one look at my face can tell her all she needs to know about how I feel about Rivers.
“He didn't do anything,” I say when it is apparent she is struggling for words. “He didn't do anything but make it impossible not to love him."
She nods, a touch of sadness in her eyes. Even though she doesn't know the circumstances, she understands how painful it can be to love someone. “You're scared?”
I flop to my back once more, closing my eyes. “Terrified.”
“Loving someone is scary, but it's also wonderful.”
“I'm scared it can't last,” I whisper. I know it can't last.
My mom lies down beside me and strokes my hair. “You know the saying that nothing can last forever? It's partly true. Feelings can stop, people can leave us, but regardless, a piece of them is always with us, in some way. Maybe it's in a song, or a forgotten note, a picture. Even when you no longer love someone or can't be with them, you still remember them, you still remember good parts of them, and you smile.
“Why worry about it lasting or not? Even if it doesn't, you'll still have a part of him. And he'll still have a part of you. And isn't that what's really important? Holding the best pieces of someone in our hearts so that the love never really fades, so that we don't forget that we once knew them, and they were special to us.”
My throat tightens. She said exactly what I needed to hear. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome. I need help in the garden. Quit moping and get your butt out into the sunshine. Don't forget your sunscreen,” she adds as she gets up from the bed. “And call him before he decides to camp out in our front yard.”
I get to my feet. "I will. I promise. I'll be right out."
Alone once more in the room, I turn in a slow circle, not seeing what is before me, but what resides in the form of memories. A sleepover with Riley, reading books with Neil, my mom sitting on the bed behind me as she brushed and braided my hair. This room is full of nostalgia. I wonder what it will hold for my mother in months to come. I rub my eyes and sniffle, closing my eyes against my thoughts. An ache forms in my chest and I swallow, wanting it, and what is causing it, to go away. I head into the upstairs bathroom, layer myself in sun protection, and go about helping my mother in the garden.
I tell her about college and she goes still, looking stunned. Then she nods, not saying anything, though the smile on her lips says everything anyway. I pull weeds out on one end of the garden as she tackles the other. The plants rub against my legs, making them red and itchy, but I don't mind.
I go on to tell her about the Brewers game Rivers told me I was going to and she laughs, asking if I know they play baseball. I scowl over that, but it doesn't last long before I am laughing with her. The sun heats my back, dampening my hair and clothing. The bucket fills up with green beans, another with red and yellow tomatoes.
When the garden is weeded and the ripened fruits and vegetables picked, we sit on the outside furniture of the backyard, sipping lemonade and eating chocolate chip cookies. I am exhausted, but in a good way. Sometimes all it takes is some physical work to quiet the chaos of the mind. Birds flitter through the sky overhead, chirping as they go. I watch them dance from limb to limb of the trees in the distance, their innocence and grace causing a smile to swell my chest.
"Where are you going to go to school?"
I push my sunglasses up my nose. "I don't know. Probably the tech school in Fennimore to start. The other day I checked out the classes they offer." I may have agreed to college, but I am keeping my expectations low.
"For?"
I smile. "Cooking. I wanted a fun class and that's what I decided on. Culinary Arts," I announce in a deep voice.
"That sounds like a good time. And Rivers?"
"He's okay with it. He gets perks to my scholarly choice. Like...food."
She bumps her shoulder to mine. "What's he taking for classes?"
I mumble, "Business management."
"You don't sound happy about that."
I straighten in my seat, turning to look at my mother as I say in earnest, "Isn't life about following your dreams? Even if they are impossible, you still strive to reach them, right?"
She slowly nods. "Yes. I think so."
I slump back in my seat, picking at a loose thread in the hem of my shirt. "That isn't his dream. He doesn't belong in some stuffy office. He needs to be outside, or at least surrounded by it. And I can't see him running some business, directing people. That isn't him. He needs freedom." My mouth twists as I tell her, "He's settling."
"What about you? I know you like to cook, but that isn't really what you want to do for the rest of your life, is it? You always wanted to design things, decorate."
Lowering my head, I am thankful for the sunglasses. They hide the pain in my eyes. "I'm not settling. I wasn't even going to go to college."
"I never understood why you made that decision. You're so bright, so creative." I don't respond and she finally says, "Maybe this is his starting point. We all have to start somewhere. It's possible he'll change his mind, or go on to something else that fits him better. It's okay to want more for others, Delilah, but you also have to be supportive if they decide they don't want more, not now, and maybe not ever."
I nod, resting my head against the top of the chair. "I should have listened to you sooner. You have amazing advice."
She smiles, reaching over to pat my leg. "That's the thing about kids and parents. Kids don't listen when they should and parents have to realize that and repeat all the words of wisdom once they grow up. It's a tough job and that's why adults do it and not kids."
"Interesting theory."
She pauses. "I'm not sure if that made sense. I had a glass of homemade blueberry wine earlier at Alice's. I brought her over a flower and she wouldn't leave until I had a full glass of it."
I laugh. "It made enough sense."
"Good." She hesitates, and then smiles. "Want to get ice cream at the Ice Cream Shoppe?"
I'm getting to my feet before she is finished talking. "You don't even need to ask."
As we walk, I tell her, "Rivers tried to lure me over to his house today with ice cream."
She laughs, swiping hair behind her ear. "What flavor?"
I swing my arms as I think. "He had a variety. Chocolate chip, strawberry, and butter pecan."
"Why didn't you go?"
"The selection wasn't that great." At her look, I shrug. "I wasn't ready yet. Tomorrow I will be."
"Tomorrow, huh? You have your bravery set to return on a certain day, do you?"
"No. That's just when I told him I would see him again."
"You're still scared after our talk?"
I stop walking, watching the cars and trucks as they move down the street, the sun reflecting off their windows. "I don't think I'll ever not be scared. I'll just, you know, work around it. That's what you do, right?"
She puts her arm around my shoulders and touches her head to mine. "That's what you do."