On the other nightstand were a matching lamp, a combination CD player/alarm clock, and another framed picture. This picture was of a boy (about nine or ten, I guessed)―maybe Will, same color eyes and hair―standing with his arm around a girl (probably at least a couple of years younger than the boy). She was more than a head shorter than he, with long brown hair. It was hard to tell exactly what color her eyes were, but they didn't look blue, or dark enough to be brown. The boy and girl obviously adored one another. She had her arms around his waist and they were looking into each other's eyes with expressions of such warmth and . . . well, love. Even beyond that. It was hard to find a word that fit.
What would it be like to have a friendship―for lack of a more accurate word―like they had? To feel that much for someone, and know that they felt the same for you? I suddenly realized it wasn't working to scrutinize his room any more. Not that I was thinking too clearly, but I was feeling too much. Sorrow, loneliness, envy . . . . Where was all this coming from? Well, it would just have to wait until I was home and alone.
"Ready." Will was coming out of the bathroom. His hair was neater, and he had changed out of the wrinkled shirt. I quickly tried to force my mind back onto the subject of furniture, geometry . . . anything else. "Are you alright, Cassie?"
My face apparently hadn't cleared up as quickly as I'd hoped. "Yeah. Just tired, I guess." Sounded feasible to me.
He studied me for moment. "Well, let's get you home." He offered his hand to me as I scooted to the edge of the bed and slid off. He kept it as he led me out his bedroom door. "Be back soon," he called in Melinda's direction. I thought I heard her mutter something like, "Sure you will." But I couldn't be certain.
Still holding my hand as we went down the stairs, he led the way to the dining room. He held my jacket so I could slip my arms in, then picked up my backpack for me. "Is this everything?" he asked. I nodded. He held the garage door and the car door for me, then put my backpack in the back seat. I liked the way he sort of took care of me―probably too much. I took the opportunity to caution myself that I shouldn't get used to it. It couldn't last.
Gina's car was already in the driveway when we got home. He insisted on walking me to the door. As he opened the storm door and held it for me, he put his other hand on my arm. "See you tomorrow. Sweet dreams." Sweet dreams? Could he possibly know about my nightmares? I hadn't thought specifically about that around him, and I was determined not to. I tried to find the answer in his face, but it wasn't there. At least, not that I could see. But I definitely saw other things. I had better go in. Nebulous.
"Thanks. You, too."
"Oh, I will." He let the door close, then strode back toward his car with his hands in his pockets, whistling. When he reached the car, instead of opening the door, he looked up at me watching him. "By the way, that's a pretty sweater, Cassie. Great color on you," he called to me. Then he was in his car and gone. Now what in the world did all that mean? Probably nothing, and I just needed a serious reality check. Probably.
Gina didn't ask where I had been, but I told her anyway. She thought it was nice that I was willing to help, and was glad that I was being “more social.” And she didn't ask about the impact of my new wardrobe and minimal makeup. I offered that Sam really liked it, but that was about all anyone said―which was true. It's what they had been thinking and feeling that had affected me. And it hadn't been easy. But Will's comments about my eyes and sweater―woe is me―were enough to motivate me to try it for at least one more day.
Mark was home a few minutes later, and we had a typical meal and evening. Only I went straight to my room after helping with the dishes. I really did have homework, but there was something more pressing on my mind that I had to work through now. Before it was too late. If it wasn't already.
Homework came first so my mind would be free from it. Fortunately, my load that night wasn't large or time consuming. I selected my clothes for the next day―my new pale blue blouse with turned up cuffs on the three quarter length sleeves, and black jeans―got ready for bed, then paced my room, thinking.
Up until now, I had quite successfully refused to even consider liking a male-type person. And I hadn't thought it possible that one might like me. Oh, well. "The best laid plans . . . ." Now, I knew I liked (inadequate meaning, but acceptable for this discussion with myself) Will; and, keeping Melinda's comment in mind, he apparently liked me. So far, so good.
But what about this problem I had of not being able to live a normal life? Even if I didn't care as much about Will as I had begun to realize that I really did (a bit confusing, that), I would still believe that it wouldn't be fair for him to have to curtail his activities to accommodate me.
There was also the distinct possibility that he might not be interested in me at all if he knew about my problem.
So, to be fair to him, I wouldn't expect him to do anything different for me. Which meant that I would simply go and do whatever he might invite me to go and do with him.
And, to be fair to me . . . . Wait a minute. Was that really a legitimate consideration? Well, it should be, shouldn't it? I deserved a chance, if it didn't hurt him. And how could my problem hurt him if he didn't even know it existed? After experimenting today, I was pretty sure I could control my thoughts enough to prevent him from finding out that way. (I never really thought about it much anyway. It was just how things were.) And I wasn't going to tell him.
So, the longer I could keep this from him, the longer we could enjoy each other's company. At least, I knew I enjoyed his and it certainly seemed that he liked mine. (Though I still couldn't fathom why. But did it matter? I didn't want it to, and concluded it probably didn't―at least not at this point.) So why not just enjoy while we could?
I had paced enough, and was ready to lie down. And ready to decide―I was going to just let things run their course. I would accept any invitation from him, not expecting him to avoid anything because of me. And I was not going to "tell" him―verbally or telepathically―about my problem. Sooner or later (preferably much later) we would do something where it would show up. And I would then find out whether our relationship would continue, or not.
Decision made. Plan laid out. And I went to sleep focusing again on Will, and trying to convince myself that the "or not" option was not inescapable.
I was just drifting off when it occurred to me―"’Pea" and "Bud"? What was that all about? Hopefully, I would have the chance to ask Will one day.
.Chapter Five
Wednesday was a little easier at school, and a lot easier with Will. Now that I had decided upon a course of action, I felt more sure of myself, astoundingly enough. Maybe part of it was because I was sure of seeing him again. However, that also meant that I would have to be very careful with my thoughts. And that required a lot of effort, particularly because I felt so unreasonably comfortable with him that I was inclined to let down my guard entirely. But I couldn't help feeling he was worth it.
I met Melinda at the parking lot after school. "Sure warm today, isn't it?" she commented as she put her jacket in her backpack.
"Sure is," I agreed, while I did the same. It had been cooler inside the building than it was outside. Backwards for this time of year.
Will had the windows down and the radio on when he picked us up. Once we were in and driving, he started singing with the music. He had a really good voice! Then Melinda joined him, and she was good, too. I didn't dare. That was just not something I ever remembered doing, and I wasn't going to start in this situation. When the song ended, Will observed, "You didn't sing with us."
"I don't sing."
It was a good thing we were stopped at a red light, because Will turned and stared at me with a look of total disbelief on his face. His mouth had even dropped open a little. The light changed and the car behind us honked before he drove on. Maybe the demise of any relationship we might have had wouldn't require his finding out about my problem . . . .
"I'm sorry," I offered, though I wasn't clear on
why I should feel that way. Except that it obviously disappointed him.
"No, Cassie. I'm sorry. I guess I just assumed . . . ." He stopped himself and looked pensive. "Have you ever tried? To sing, I mean."
"Not really. I guess it's kind of odd in a way, since Gina is a music teacher. But I just feel . . . really uncomfortable about it."
"Maybe someday?" he encouraged. Why was this so important to him?
"Maybe." For him? Yes. I would ask Gina to help me try some day. Perhaps soon. But not yet.
The rest of the drive was quiet between us. Melinda kept singing with the radio. We got to the house and it was pretty much the same as the day before, with Will disappearing, Melinda grabbing a snack, and me declining a snack. It didn't take as long for us to get through the chapter this time, which was good. Mrs. Stuart came in to check on us once, and to confirm that I really didn't want anything to eat.
Meanwhile, I was feeling pretty unsettled about the singing thing. It seemed that I was missing something significant. But what? Must be me being dense. Maybe I should give up and go straight home from school for the rest of my life. I just wasn't cut out for this relationship stuff.
But that would mean no Will. My whole self immediately and strenuously rejected the mere suggestion (which in and of itself should probably have been an indicator for caution). But, okay. No Will was not an option.
"I know we talked about reviewing today, but could we please do it tomorrow?" Melinda pleaded. "My brain is all used up."
"Sure." Yes! One more tomorrow I could plan on.
"Thanks. Will's probably in his room again. Why don't you go on up and get him? I'm starving," she declared, closing her school bag. "I'm going to go eat."
"Okay." Oh, dear.
This time his door was closed. I knocked three times, softly. And waited. Part of me―a big part―wanted to turn and run away. But, no. That wouldn’t work. Among other things, how would I get home? And, substantially more important, my desire to stay was much greater than any reason to go. So that was not a viable alternative. I was raising my hand to knock again when the door opened. Will’s expression was somber, and his eyes looked . . . well, irritated. Had he been up again last night so they were overtired? That didn't seem right. They had been fine earlier. He couldn't have been . . . crying? And it certainly couldn't have anything to do with me. I shuddered at the thought, then dismissed it as irrational.
"Are you and Melinda finished?" he asked quietly. He seemed troubled. He was usually so cheerful. It bothered me―a lot.
"Yes. I'm sorry to disturb you."
He took my hand and led me to the sofa. "Again, nothing for you to be sorry about. But I am in the middle of something. Could I have a few minutes to finish?" he requested.
"Sure." Whatever you need. Anything you want. Well, that wasn't nebulous at all.
He smiled slightly, his eyes grateful. He had heard. "Thank you," he said, and I knew he was answering both my spoken and unspoken words. He went to sit at his desk. "I'll finish as quickly as possible."
"You're fine." In so many ways. Oops. Was that vague enough that he couldn't pick up on it? Seemed so. He didn't even look my way. Maybe I was getting better at this.
I watched him as he sat there, writing in what looked like a bound book with lined pages. A journal? Whatever it was, he was struggling. His left arm was leaning on the desk, his head on that hand. His eyes were closed and he was rubbing them lightly with his right hand. Then they were open, and the pen he picked up with his right hand was hovering above the page, as if awaiting just the right words to flow through it onto the paper. Next the pen was on the page, writing intently for several minutes. Then Will sat back, released a weighty breath, and closed the book.
He looked up at me. Perhaps it wasn't polite to have been staring at him, but I didn't care if he knew it. For some reason I wanted him to know I had been watching him, and carefully. He came and sat by me on the sofa.
"You look concerned," he said.
"I am. About you." I bit my lip to keep from saying more, though I wasn't sure what I would have said. But things kept slipping out around him.
He took my hand and absentmindedly played with my fingers. I thought for the briefest instant I saw his lower lip tremble.
"Are you alright, Will?" I asked. (This wasn't like me. Other people's business was their own, and I wanted it to stay that way. Why was I just the opposite with him?)
Still looking at my fingers, he inhaled thoroughly, then said quite definitely, "Yes." A few seconds later, still holding my hand, he got to his feet and gently pulled me to mine. "Let's go."
"Okay." He led me down the hall and stairs. He kept my hand as he picked up my backpack in the dining room, and ushered me outside and into his car. He finally let go long enough to get my backpack and himself in. After he started the ignition and turned off the radio, he again took my hand.
Once we got out onto the street, he said, "I am really thirsty. Would you mind if we stop for something to drink?"
"No."
He pulled into the parking lot of the diner where we had eaten two days before. As he drove around toward the back of the building, I could see that the parking lot in the rear was set up as a drive-in, with car hops and all. He parked in one of the spaces. And he still hadn't let go of my hand. "What would you like?"
"What are you having?"
"A slush, I think."
"That sounds good. Do they have grape?"
"Let's see. Yup, they do. What size?"
"Small, please."
"You've got it." He pressed the button to order my small grape slush and a large one for himself. Then he unfastened his seatbelt, leaned back against the headrest, and closed his eyes. He absent-mindedly stroked my hand with his thumb as he continued to hold it.
"You don't seem to eat much," he commented after a few minutes.
"Well, sometimes I do. It depends."
His eyes opened and looked at me. "On what?"
On whether or not I’m around you, for one thing, with my insides all wound up. Nope, don't go there. Don't complicate things now. Nebulous. "Oh, different things."
The car hop walked up right then. Will managed to hand me my drink, place his own in a cup holder between the seats, pull some cash out of his left front pocket, pay the car hop and put the change in his pocket, all without letting go of my hand.
I hoped he wouldn't pursue his previous line of questioning. He didn't. Instead, he looked at his watch. "Do you mind if we just sit here for a while?"
"No."
He rested back against the seat again, his eyes looking through the windshield, far away into the distance. I unfastened the seatbelt with my free hand and turned sideways in the seat. And again found myself staring at him. I did not want to miss one minute of him. After all, how much longer could this possibly last?
So we sat, silently, peacefully, for several minutes. And he still had possession of my hand, exploring the size and shape of my fingers, the feel of the skin on the back and palm. Then I watched as our fingers intertwined, and he lightly brushed the length of my thumb with his, over and over. When he stopped, I looked up and realized he was watching me.
"Most people seem to think silence has to be filled up. I'm glad you don't."
"I like quiet."
"Yeah. Me, too." He paused. "But not all the time, of course. I like to hear you talk, for example. You have a delightful speaking voice―clear and, somehow, musical."
Of all the peculiar and lovely compliments to offer! My voice? I had absolutely never thought of such a thing. Surprise was undoubtedly evident in said voice as I responded with, "Why, thank you."
"I take it no one has told you that before?"
"No."
"There are probably a lot of other things you haven't been told, either. And should have been. For example, your face is very sensitive and expressive. Your genuineness is very attractive to me."
I had no idea how to respond to that. But he didn't really seem to
expect a response. He just gazed contentedly into my eyes, his eyes warm, his face at peace.
After a time, he spoke again. "You must be trying to figure me out. I've only been around a few days and . . . ." He raised our clasped hands. "You don't seem to mind, though. Do you?"
His question struck me as totally unnecessary, and tremendously considerate. I shook my head benignly. "No."
"You will let me know if you do mind something? Anything? Won't you?"
"Yes." What could he possibly do that I would mind?
"Good." He shrugged. "The only explanation I have to offer right now is that you feel very familiar to me, as if we'd known each other for a long time." He looked at me intently. "Does that seem odd to you?"
Whether it did or not, I couldn't deny that I thought I felt the same about him. But I wasn't sure enough to really express that much yet. "No, it doesn't. Should it?"
He smiled. "Perhaps." He again lifted my hand with his. "Does this?"
Wonderfully different, yes. But, odd? "No." I probably should have stopped with that, but my tongue seemed to have a mind of its own all of a sudden. It continued, "My hand feels at home in yours, Will."
His face brightened. "It feels that way for me, too." Then he leaned over and kissed my hand. "Alright with you?"
I smiled back at him. "Alright with me."
"Thank you."
It came out before I could stop it, "For what?"
He considered briefly before answering. "Being you."
"Oh." Another new one. "You're welcome, I guess." Who else could I be? In any case, it was exhilarating to be so noticed and . . . was “appreciated” the right word? No, but I couldn't really think of a better one. And it didn't matter.
He chuckled, kissed my hand again, and finally let it go. He got his drink out of the holder and tried it. "Kind of watery, but still tastes like grape." He took a long drink through the straw. "Good enough. Is yours okay or would you like another one?"
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