The doorbell rang again.
She sighed through her nose. “I think your father must have his headphones in,” she ventured, abstracted by the task at hand. “I’ve almost got them all . . . just a couple more . . . let me give you one last—okay, good enough! Go!”
I took her word for it, flinging myself upright and taking off toward the door again. The added dizziness from being upside down for the last sixty seconds did not help my already poor balance and coordination. This time I did stumble, slamming into the round table in the middle of the entryway. Lucky for the table, it outweighed me by three times and incurred no damage. I on the other hand would have a huge welt on my hip in a few minutes, though I hardly felt more than a dull throbbing right now, adrenaline providing as a natural pain killer.
As I reached for the door handle, I noticed more crumbs collected on my chest. The fabric of my sweater was like a web, catching and trapping everything that landed on it. Quickly, and without much attention, I made to brush them off, lowering my hand as the door swung fully open. My heart had already been racing from the marathon of the last few minutes, but it was a slow drawl in comparison to how it flip-flopped at the sight of Dominic standing on my doorstep, soft porch light and the evening’s shadows drawing on his face.
Built up oxygen poured through my lips. “Hi,” came the whooshed greeting, breaking the word in half. Hai-yee.
A look of stark surprise flashed across his face; every feature went wide like a dilated pupil, then ebbed on the same pulse. The shock was fleeting, submitting to the smile brighter than a thousand suns. I felt not just warmth at its arrival, but burning heat emanating from the center of my body. Despite being powdered from head to toe in red dirt, grass stains splotched on both t-shirt and shorts, he was beautiful. I couldn’t imagine anything that might detract from the kind of beauty Dominic possessed. His mouth relaxed as he took a breath in, released it, then reclaimed a portion of that vibrant smile, crooking at one side.
“Hi, to you, too. Wow . . .” Exhaling, his eyes roved over me so that it felt like being looked at with a magnifying glass. “I can’t believe how good you look. I would never have known you were sick.” I heard it; the bite into the sentence, cutting it short. He crushed the words indefinitely by pressing his lips firmly together. If I hadn’t seen this for myself, my mind finished for him.
“Thank you,” was my reply, a great effort being made not to fidget. “You look . . . like you had a very good time today,” I said. At this indisputable truth, we both laughed.
“Ah, yeah . . .” He glanced down with a moue of distaste. “Sorry to show up looking like this.” One hand came around from behind his back, lifting the collar away from his neck, releasing a hazy cloud of colored dirt. Caught in the beam of light, we watched as it rose lazily into the air, hung in the space between us, and then began its misty descent toward Dominic. It settled on his chest and shoulders, absorbed into the soft material. The shirt was not fitted, I observed, but on Dominic’s wide frame it was left no choice but to be. It gripped the hard flesh where his body pushed back.
Realizing I was staring, a small noise of embarrassment escaped me. I quickly forced my eyes down, as if suddenly enamored by his sneakers.
“I was going to stop by home first to shower and change, then decided to just come straight from the H.O.H.” I raised my eyes, touched by the abbreviation. “Not until just now did I stop to consider how badly I might smell.” He made an expression that had me covering my laughter with a hand. “What do you think?” he asked in serious tones, keeping his eyes on me as he lowered his nose to his shoulder and sniffed. “Is it pretty bad? If you have some Febreeze lying around, maybe we can just spray me down?”
I laughed again and shook my head. “You smell great,” I said without thinking, and broke into a blush.
He pulled his nose from his shoulder, smiling. “All right then,” he said softly. “No shower.” I swallowed. “Everything okay?” He directed his attention to my waist, his brows merged in concern.
“Hm?” I glanced down to find my hand massaging my left hip. “Oh, yes, fine,” I said, dropping it to my side. “I . . . ran into . . . something.”
“So, I wasn’t imagining it, then;” He smiled wryly. “I did hear a thump.”
“That was me,” I admitted, exhaling. “Slippery floor,” I murmured at the marble, as if it was to blame for my injury. It wasn’t.
“Are you okay? Maybe you should put some ice on it?” We’d need a separate freezer if I iced my body every time I ran into something.
“Oh, it’s—I’m fine,” I assured him, “really.”
One brow rose high on his forehead. “Really? Kind of like how your toe was fine last week, and you were feeling fine when you left school on Monday. I’m beginning to think fine means I should probably start to worry.”
“Why would you worry about me?”
The question was like a gunshot exploding from the barrel; before I even was aware my hand was on the trigger, it was ripping through the stillness, its effects shattering on Dominic’s face. I froze, having no idea what I might say to mitigate the blunt inquiry. I could tell by looking at him that my question had taken him completely off guard. He wasn’t the only one. I hadn’t intended on asking that—especially not in the first few minutes he arrived—however, my entreaty was anything but desultory. All day—or rather for the last two weeks—I had been asking why? As much as I wanted to take it back, I was not at all surprised by the blunderbuss statement. With the forceful blow of a thoughtless question, Dominic actually looked further away than he had been. Now, he opened his eyes, blinking slowly. It was physically painful watching him struggle to find an answer for me. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to take it back. I wanted to reach out and wipe clean the dent between his eyes. I did nothing.
“I don’t—” He raked his hand through his hair, yanking hard. “I want to explain—”
“Dominic.” I didn’t know if I was flooded with relief or consumed with disappointment. “It’s so good to see you again,” my mother said warmly. I turned as she passed behind me and began to ascend the staircase.
“Hi, Mrs. Kelly,” he replied with equal warmth and manner. Buried beneath the polite demeanor was a stiffness, something held together tenuously. “It’s good to see you, too.” I turned back around in time to see him coming forward. “These are for you.” I moved aside so he could pass, wincing at my lack of hospitality and rudeness. I should have already invited him by now. A bit startled, I heard Jake’s voice in my head. Lock it up! These were words yelled often during the more intense moments of a water polo game. Dominic had brought her a small, elegant bouquet of pink flowers. I had neglected to notice he was even holding something.
“For me?” She retraced her steps, bare feet soundless against the marble. She had a smile of genuine excitement on her face. “Oh, they’re Star Gazers. How lovely, thank you!” He handed them off, and she immediately dipped her nose into the fragrant petals. She closed her eyes, made a noise of contentment, then stared up at Dominic through the blooms. “Ah, they smell amazing. That was incredibly thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like them,” Dominic replied. She smiled, glancing between the two of us. Her intuition had been piqued.
“Well”—she laid a hand on my shoulder—“I have the perfect vase for these upstairs. Foster, maybe Dominic would enjoy a tour of the house?” she suggested, already half-turned to leave. “The greenhouse is always lovely at this time of night.” The slightest wink—it would have looked like a defense against dust to anyone else—fluttered circumspectly in her eye. I sent her a silent, but appreciatively fervent, thank you.
“Please, come in,” I invited and then hastily added, “further,” realizing he was already in—no thanks to me. The door sealed softly as I closed it behind him. “You must be exhausted after spending all day at The House of Hope. Thank you for coming by.” Before turning back around, I shut my eyes, and swallowed a cup of air.
<
br /> Just be yourself, Foster. The words were intended to soothe, but quite the opposite resulted. No. Don’t do that! Just be . . . normal.
“And these are for you.”
I wheeled around, meeting his eyes. They were unfathomably sad eyes, and instantly my heart gave a great ache. Prompted by his gaze downward, I did the same with my own, somewhat reluctantly. Blooming from his outstretched hand was a cheerful display of yellow, pink, and purple wild flowers, bound together with twine. It was a bouquet, different from the sunflowers, but with the same charming quality of jubilance. With it, a familiarity roused, though I didn’t get very far in my discerning. Above the highest flowers, our eyes found one another. I struggled to name it, what it was that purled through the glowing blue orbs. Disappointment? Torment? Disdain? Weariness? Maybe all four.
Inside I was panicking. Please, not again.
The pain warped his beautiful features; the mouth that moments ago was smiling and light, now turned taut and stressed, his thick brows merged low and heavy, deep creases lined his forehead like blinds shutting everything and everyone out. Again, I felt desperate to reach out and smooth away the hardness, to coax the gentle and tender from his features. Odd as it was, however, I felt I would be interrupting a moment I wasn’t really part of. There was distinctly a wistful veil keeping him from seeing me. It was last Sunday’s horror all over again, but instead of portending that urgency to hide, to move away where this look couldn’t hurt me, I only wanted to move toward him, to try and make it stop.
Puzzle pieces floated circuitously in my head, refusing to connect and bring me clarity. Where or what was the missing piece? Why couldn’t I see it? Even after stumbling upon—quite literally—the conversation between him and Mr. Michaels, I still hadn’t come any closer to figuring out what caused this infernal pain to surge up from out of nowhere. Was it my careless question that distressed him? Something else I had neglected to notice? Why was I incapable of inciting these wretched reactions from him?
I cleared my throat, thick with dismay. “Thank you,” I murmured softly. He didn’t flinch. “They’re beautiful,” I added, when he seemed not to hear me. Still rendering no response, I reached for the flowers. My fingers brushed lightly over his. Expecting him to turn rigid or jolt at my touch, I held my breath. But he did neither, only blinking slowly and then begining to come awake.
“Oh.” He looked at our hands and then understanding, his grip loosened, allowing the exchange. “You’re welcome.” And just like that he was back; there was life coloring his cheeks and the dazzling blue eyes fixed on mine with cognizance and focus. Had it even happened, I wondered. “They’re actually not entirely from me,” he said. He tilted his head, smirking with a mixture of mischief and culpability.
“They’re not?” I asked, speciously keeping my voice light as I stared at him, searching and not finding one trace of sorrow. By all appearances, he was perfectly content. Only I knew better than to believe that. Whatever it was, it was not gone. It would be back; again and again. More questions rose dangerously close to the surface, but I bottled them. Having that conversation here, in the foyer with its absence of privacy, was not ideal. I wondered how much longer I would be able to remain in this state of oblivion.
“No, not entirely.” He dug his hands into his front pockets, rocking back onto his heels. “Some friends of yours thought these flowers would make you feel better. Oh, and this too.” The flippancy in his voice was betrayed by the look of excitement pulling his mouth into a compressed smirk. He pulled out a folded piece of yellow construction paper and placed it on his thigh, rubbing out the wear sustained between there and here. Watching his face as he did this, I couldn’t help but again marvel by how quickly he vacillated between misery and happiness. I tried not to think of this as he handed it to me, that ever present smirk fighting for freedom.
It took only a few seconds of looking at what he was giving me, and then emotion was swelling in my throat, a constricting lump building as I worked to not get choked up in front of him. It was a simple card; the front page had been crudely decorated with misshapen purple hearts, their centers scribbled in green crayon, and the words Git WheLL SOOne. The inside contained the same crooked, loopy writing I would recognize anywhere. There read, Wee LuV yOO loTTs, Miss Foster!
Of the entire thing, only my name had been spelled correctly. I laughed, the breath coming fast and blunt through my nose. Likely this fact resulted from their complete incomprehension as how to spell my name, and without a pinprick of pride, hadn’t thought twice about asking someone to tell them. Everything else for that matter was written with the confidence of absolute certainty. I peeked up at Dominic quickly, then lowered my eyes. That he had not tried to correct them, or push them toward proper penmanship and grammar, I had to wonder . . . most in his shoes would have taken it upon themselves to do the writing portion of the card, or at the very least, gone letter by letter, audibly guiding the correct spelling. Why this made me appreciate him even more, I didn’t quite know, but it definitely did.
On the inside left, a colorful picture had been drawn. There, joined together in a circle, were my most favorite five- and six-year-olds, holding hands. I giggled again, believing I knew just who to credit for rendering our likenesses. Javier had a tendency to draw everyone with enormous heads—egg-like, but tilted on its side—and incredibly tiny bodies. I couldn’t help but continue to laugh—because it was perfect. Two other people stood together in the circle with them, joined by hands as well. I recognized myself immediately from the burgundy-brown noodles of spaghetti spiraling out of my head. The other figure was fairly obvious as well, the only one noticeably taller and larger than the rest, with two blue dots on his egg-head, and a mop of black hair. Below this depiction in orange crayon it read: CuM baK SOOne ANd BreNg Mr. Dom TOO Peas.
“They adore you, you know,” he said, a smile in his voice.
I glanced up and swallowed before speaking. “I was actually just about to say the same thing to you.”
“Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised.
“They’re not as particular as the sixth and seventh graders, but still, they don’t attach to just anybody,” I said with admiration. “Especially not in one day. You must have made a very good impression on them. Actually, I doubt they’ll want me back—now that they have someone who can play sports without injuring themselves every four minutes.”
“Wow . . .” he murmured, his expression registering astonishment. “Four minutes—really? That long in between?”
“Well . . .” I said, then stopped.
“You know,” he interrupted, “you make teasing too much fun for me when you blush like that. It makes me want to see what else might cause that reaction.”
“Oh.” I had not the slightest idea how to take this comment. This must have been abundantly obvious to Dominic. He had already been smiling, but it grew into a deep, full laughter a second later.
“Ah, yes, just like that,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Instant gratification.”
With no way of stopping it, I laughed, somewhat uncomfortable but mostly in futility, and clasped my hands over my cheeks. “That’s completely unfair,” I argued, trying to sound firm, but failing. “I can’t do anything about it.” I turned my back to him then, waiting until the heat drained away and I could trust my capricious skin.
“I’m sorry.” He sounded contrite—mostly. “You’re right, though. I’m not exactly being fair, am I? Not all of us wear our emotions so openly on our face.”
“If there were a way around that, I wouldn’t mind being a little less open,” I replied, finding it easier to be bluntly honest when he wasn’t staring directly at me.
“Then it wouldn’t be you, Foster,” he said.
The propinquity of his voice sent an electric shiver rolling down my back. “It would still be me,” I whispered, my voice shaky, “just not as much, all at once.” I heard myself, and cringed. That made not one bit of sense.
His hand touche
d my shoulder, holding to it very lightly and turning me. As he did, my heart sprang into motion, leaping against my ribs, then pounding the same spot again and again, hard enough to beat in my eardrums. Face to face, he towered above me. I was forced to tip my chin up to meet his eyes. He left his fingers cupping my shoulder, though I had lost track of its touch now focused only on his eyes. The richest blue I had ever known, they crashed into mine with all the subtly of a tidal wave.
“I don’t think there’s anyone who would want less of you, Foster.” Something crumpled; the loud crackling sound actually managed to break the hold his stare had on me. I looked down to see my get well card in a death grip, pulverized inside my white knuckled fist.
“Oh, no . . .” I held it up, displaying its dilapidated state. “I think I ruined it.”
“No, you didn’t,” he said, calm laughter in his voice. “Let me see.”
Without hesitation, I gave it to him, watching his face closely and savoring the exceptional view without the inconvenience of being watched myself. He kept his focus as he worked, smoothing out the wrinkles as he had before. Then his gleaming eyes were back on me, his lips doing that curvy thing to one side. And each time he did, the effect would reach into my spine and slowly push up to the base of my neck.
“How’s that?” Handing it back to me; I had to admit it definitely showed remarkable improvement.
“Thank you. It’s much better.” As I stared at my card, I remembered what I had wanted to say before losing my focus. “Also, about today, with the kids . . . when I realized it was you they would be spending the day with, I—I don’t know, I can’t really explain it. I guess I was very relieved. Not that The House of Hope doesn’t have many caring and qualified volunteers, it’s just . . . I knew with you that they feel safe, and not only that, but how excited they would be to play real sports. Usually, when there’s a shortage of staff, they wind up in front of movies all day. It would have been fine, I suppose . . . but it’s definitely not the same as being with someone who’s able to give them undivided attention.” I smiled, staring at the purple faces crayoned back at me. “They need someone to be there and do the things their parents should be doing. Watching how long they can do a handstand. Cheering when they show you how high they can jump—even if it’s the fifth time they’ve asked.” I laughed, knowing it could go well beyond five times. “They shouldn’t have to miss out on any of those things because their parents or guardians made mistakes. I want them to remember that just because they’re situation is a little different, that just because they might not have a mom or a dad right now, it doesn’t mean they’re not special. Every single one of them is incredibly, incredibly special. People will try—”
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