by Jean Haus
Suddenly, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I dig it out in a rush to hear Sam’s voice asking, “Has Seth been drinking?”
“Ah, yeah, he had a few beers.”
“He shouldn’t be drinking,” Sam snaps.
“Um, I didn’t know,” I say slowly. I know he must be freaking out, so I’m trying not to let his angry tone affect me.
“How many did he have?”
“Maybe three or four?”
“Sixteen-ounce drafts?” Sam asks incredulously.
“Yeah,” I answer in a small voice. “I didn’t know he couldn’t drink,” I repeat, though I’m not sure I could have stopped Seth from doing what he wanted, anyway. “I’m sorry.”
Sam sighs. “It’s all right, Peyton, I’m just—they have him in straitjacket, and even drugged up, he’s flaming pissed at me right now.”
“Where are you? Do you want me to come find you?”
“I wish,” he says, his voice sad. “But I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Is Seth going to be okay?”
“After they regulate his meds, he should be as okay as he gets.” The phone is quiet until he says, “Shit, I miss you already.”
“I miss you too,” I say tightly, hearing a forlorn tone in my own voice that matches his before I hang up.
I sincerely hope Seth gets better, but he has always been the wild card. His disease and its implications were things Sam and I haven’t talked about over the past week. We ignored the world outside the bus window, yet Seth has long been an unspoken issue.
That I used to date him is odd enough. However, I’m aware Seth’s schizophrenia adds an entire new layer of difficulty to Sam and me being together. And the instability of his disease, his obvious dislike of our being together, could come between us.
I sit in a row of chairs in front of the huge glass window at the Fresno airport. Justin and Romeo are a few chairs down. Both of them are on their phones. Gabe is hungover from the huge end-of-tour party last night—a party that was totally lame for me because of Sam’s absence. He’s on the other side of the walkway, lying across several chairs.
Sam isn’t with us.
His mother flew in yesterday. They’re staying at a hotel near the hospital. They hope to fly back, with Seth, by the end of the week. Sam says Seth’s doing better, but the doctor doesn’t want to release him until his new medication is working effectively.
I haven’t seen Sam in two days. I miss him every minute, yet him being with his brother is more important than my melancholy, obviously.
As a 747 taxis by the window, my phone vibrates, and a picture of Sam lying on the couch in the back of the bus flashes on the screen along with the text: Can you find somewhere private and call me?
Why? I text back, confused.
Just do it! Please!
I’m suddenly scared that Sam is going to share bad news—Seth isn’t doing well, Sam’s letting me go, or who knows what else. So I stand on shaking legs and head to an area of unoccupied seats. After setting down my carry-on and taking a deep breath, I call Sam.
“Hey, Peyton,” he answers.
“What’s going on?” I quickly and nervously ask.
“I wanted to send you off with a memory of me.”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to put the phone down. Just listen until I pick it back up, okay?”
“Um, okay.”
I hear him set the phone down, then the chords of an acoustic guitar echo. I’m trying to place the familiar tune when he starts singing:
Even amid falling leaves
She was brighter
Than the summer sun
Fell under the spell of her
Smiling brown eyes
Faster than a breath
And when she’s gone
It’s always night
And I’m under a bleak moon
A bleak, bleak moon
She’s more than beauty
She’s a generous soul
Rich with laughter
She makes me
High on life
She makes me whole
But when she’s gone
It’s always night
And I’m under a bleak moon
A bleak, bleak moon
He rolls into the instrumental, and overwhelmed by the song, I draw in gulps of air, imagining his fingers flying over the guitar stem, imagining the tender look on his face, and wishing he were here with me. Then he starts the last verse, and my throat burns.
From the shadows
I watched her shine
Trying to be content
That she’d never be mine
Never touch the sun
Never hold her brightness
Now she’s gone
It’s always night
And I’m under a bleak moon
A bleak, bleak moon
The song ends and I wipe the lone tear rolling down my cheek. I don’t deserve such a beautiful song now, much less years ago when he must have written it. I recall being worried about being portrayed as a bitch, but the way Sam sees me fills me with pride, hope, and fear—I want to be what he sees. I want to be what he needs.
“Peyton? You there?” Sam asks, breaking me from my turbulent thoughts.
“Yeah, um, wow,” I say in a rush of air. “I’m sure that’s really not me but thank you.”
“That’s you. It was you even then.”
Someone pokes my shoulder, and I turn to see Gabe. “We’re boarding,” he says loudly.
Nodding to Gabe, I reach for my bag and say, “I have to go. We’re—”
“I heard. It’s okay. I told my mom I’d meet her soon at the hospital.” He sighs sadly into the phone. “Though it will be the middle of the night, text me when you land?”
“Yes. Text me when you wake up?”
“The moment I open my eyes. Have a safe trip, Peyton,” he says in a desolate tone before hanging up.
With a sigh, I turn my phone off.
It feels like I’m turning my connection with Sam off.
Chapter 33
Go out with us!” Jill says, falling onto my bed next to me.
I shake my head. “Don’t feel like it.”
What if Sam was to call? Classes start in three days. He has to come back soon. I haven’t seen him since the night Seth freaked out at their last concert, three weeks ago. There have been a few calls and texts to each other, but I hate the distance between us. He is at his parents’ house right now, but I can’t stop worrying about the last text I got from him. It was days ago, and I’ve been preoccupied with it because it was so utterly impersonal. The short lines won’t stop running through my head and making me apprehensive: Home now at my mom’s. Still straightening things out. Hope to call you soon.
Jill elbows me. “You can’t stop your life and wait for Sam.” The day I came home, I told Jill about Sam and me. Strangely, she wasn’t all that surprised, and admitted she knew back in high school there was something between us. Too bad she couldn’t have told me then, when I was blind to it.
“True,” I say with a sad sigh.
“Forget about the asshole!” Jill says, sitting up. “Let’s go out!”
I smile weakly. Sam being there for his brother does not make him an asshole. Even if Sam decided to end things with me because of his brother, he wouldn’t be an asshole. It would destroy me, but the only thing I’d be angry about would be the unfairness of Seth’s stupid mind-twisting disease. I couldn’t be mad at either of the brothers. They’re both hurting too.
Jill tugs at my arm. “You’ve been moping around for a week now. Enough!”
I let her pull me up, and she goes to my closet, flicking through clothes. Once she’s done, I raise an eyebrow at the outfit laid out on the bed. “Really?”
She nods vigorously. “Hell yeah. Nothing better to get you out of a funk than a multitude of guys hitting on you.” She bends over to search for shoes.
I frown at th
e tiny skirt and bustier top. “I don’t want guys hitting on me,” I say miserably.
“Peyton!” Jill flies up to face me. “You’re going out. You’re going to have a good time. I’m tired of looking at your sad little face.”
It probably has been annoying for her to deal with the despondent expression I must have been wearing constantly the past week.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m not wearing those.” I gesture to the heels in her hand.
“Deal,” she says, tossing the shoes over her shoulder and back into the closet. “You got twenty to get ready and then the party bus is outta here.”
“Your piece-of-shit car is hardly a party bus,” I grumble as she marches out of my room.
“Twenty minutes!” she yells from the hallway.
Of course, twenty minutes later, Jill is applying more makeup to my features. I didn’t put on enough, apparently. Then she’s taking out my ponytail and flat-ironing my hair because “ponytails aren’t sexy.” And then she’s threatening to throw my flip-flops out as she shoves wedge sandals on my feet.
Forty minutes later, we head out the door.
Opening the front passenger door to Jill’s car, I notice someone walking across the parking lot toward us.
My heart starts beating and my body breaks into a sweat, even though I’m barely dressed. Somehow I stay where I am instead of running across the lot.
“Fucking really?” Jill says, following my gaze. “He’d better not be here to hurt you,” she grumbles under her breath. “Or so help me, I’ll bitch-slap his fun bags.”
“Shh,” I say, my heart pounding in my ears as he comes nearer.
His gaze glued on me, Sam steps onto the sidewalk. “Hey,” he says a little breathlessly.
“Hey,” I say, also as if slightly out of breath. Shocked, I stare at him in the coming dusk of night.
“You busy?” he asks.
I start to shake my head, but Jill snarls, “Yeah, we were just leaving. Going out.”
Sam glances at her.
“Sort of,” I mumble.
“Dammit, Peyton,” Jill says. “Don’t play hard to get or anything.”
“You have time to talk?” Sam asks, ignoring Jill.
“Sure, of course,” I say, surprised I sound halfway normal, given the anxiety coursing through me. A “talk” doesn’t necessarily mean what I want. And I want Sam.
“Could we go inside?” Sam takes a step closer to me.
Sparks fly through my body at his close proximity, his piercing blue eyes, and the tight swell—I can tell he’s holding his breath—of his sculpted chest. My body wants to jump into his arms, but I simply nod and turn around toward our apartment while reining in the emotions—hope, fear, and love—tumbling through me.
Behind us, Jill yells, “I’ll go over to Mindy’s! Three doors down. Call me if you need anything. My boxing gloves are on my desk, ready to go. You know exactly where I’ll punch him if I have to!”
I bite my lip to stop a giggle, but the moment I step inside, and Sam and I are alone, I feel weighed down and worried. I turn on a lamp by the couch, then move toward the fridge and grab a beer next to the tiramisu I brought home from Tony’s for Jill. I need something to calm my nerves. I hold the beer out for Sam. He shakes his head and watches me from the living room as I pop the top and take a sip.
“So,” I say slowly, “what’s going on?”
He steps closer to the kitchen as his eyes roam over me. “You were going out? Dressed like that?”
I set the beer down with a clank. Now anger mixes with my fear. “Really? I didn’t know I needed to check with you on how to dress. Even if you hadn’t ignored me for the last week, you wouldn’t have a say in my wardrobe.”
He stops at the counter across from me. His fingers grip the edge. “Shit, Peyton. I don’t care how you dress. It just looks like you’re going out on—on the prowl or something when we . . .” He frowns. “I’m not sure what we are, but I didn’t mean to ignore you. Everything just feels so fucked up right now.”
His words pound in my head. I’m not sure what we are . . . I’m not sure what we are . . . I’m not sure what we are.
I take a sip of beer and say nothing. He’s too close, even with the counter in between us. I want to run my hand through his curls and feel his strong arms close around me but it seems impossible. He’s only feet away but might as well be miles from me. Untouchable. Unattainable.
He runs a hand over his curls. “I want to be with you so bad . . .”
As my throat tightens, I somehow whisper, “But?”
He draws in a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “Seth’s adjusting. His meds have started to work, but he still obsessively thinks that we’re cheating on him. The thought of us together makes him angry. I’m not sure if it’s part of his disease, but he just can’t seem to let that grudge go. I want to be with you,” he repeats, looking down at the counter. “Yet I’m being torn in two.”
I swallow tightly, and will myself not to cry, not to make this harder for him. Yet my heart is sinking, shriveling, drying up as I stand in my kitchen holding a beer. I’m staring at the person I finally realized I’m totally in love with, but he’s not mine, and there’s nothing I can do. It may feel like he is choosing his brother over me, but it’s far more complicated than that. And his decision is something I have to respect, accept, and somehow get over. However, the sadness and loss crushing my heart at the moment doesn’t feel like it will ever end.
Slowly sitting down on a stool, Sam says, “I told you things were all right between Seth and me before. They’re not. I’ve spent the last three years mostly ignoring him. I have to start accepting who he is now. I have to let the old Seth go. And I need to be there for him. My mother feels that my absence is related to some of the way he’s been acting out recently. I don’t know if she’s right. But I’ve promised her to come home every other weekend if possible.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” I say tightly, because it is. Sam should be with his brother more, and should accept him, disease and all. Though I understand him missing the old Seth, this brother needs him now.
He grips the back of his neck. “The people he works for at the diner are allowing him to come back. The girl he dates on and off”—he shakes his head—“who I knew nothing about, really cares about him and is trying to help. Seeing him with her made me aware that he has a chance at a good life. I suspect it will always contain drama, and maybe even periodic hospital stays, but I want him to have a family of his own.”
Feeling cold enough to shatter into a million shards of ice, I force myself to say, “He should have as normal a life as possible.”
He sighs. “And then there’s you. The girl I’ve always wanted.” His tightened lips signal a deep sadness, but there’s a sliver of hope in his eyes. “As things stand, Seth will always be an issue. He could show up at any time, acting like a crazy, jealous idiot and throwing a temper tantrum. I can’t see how being with me is fair to you with my commitment to him. I can’t even take you home to meet my parents. You deserve much more time and devotion than I can give at this point in my life; between my commitment to him and the band signing with the label, I’ll be gone more than I’m here.”
My chest hurts as I take in his twisted, torn expression. I hold the tears in somehow, but slowly, ever so slowly, as I start to understand what he’s saying, what that touch of hope in his gaze means, my desiccated heart starts coming back to life. I set my beer down and a laugh escapes me. “That’s it?”
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
I lean over the counter toward him. “I can deal with not meeting your parents. And I can deal with Seth’s tantrums and your commitment to him. I can deal with your absence so you can be with your brother.” I now push myself up onto the counter and crawl across it, my barely covered butt in the air. Inches from his lips, I insist, “I’m not sure I can deal being without you.”
He doesn’t kiss me. Instead, his gaze searches m
ine. “Are you sure? Think about it, Peyton. If we do this, I’m not going to let you go. I know we’re young, but I’m certain that you’re the girl I want to marry someday. My brother is never going to be easy. He’ll be a constant thorn in our sides. But he’ll always be my brother, so when you get me, you get him and all his shit too.”
Well, if that isn’t a fuckload to contemplate, I’m not sure what is. Marriage to Sam and a lifetime with his crazy brother to boot? And wait—my palms suddenly feeling sweaty—did I just imagine it, or was he actually just talking about a wedding? Wow. Yikes. Wow.
I take a deep breath, but before I can speak, Sam says, “I never want you to regret being with me.”
Peering down at him, I try to stay rational even though I feel like swooning after his words. “Here’s the thing. Your brother is a huge pain in the butt, but it’s not his fault,” I say, knowing it’s the truth. “Maybe he’ll cause a rift or two in your family, maybe sometimes he’ll get crazy and screw things up with us. Yet being without you will feel so much worse than any of that.” I lean forward and bury my hands in his curls. “I’m not expecting everything to be rainbows and butterflies, Sam.” I lower my head, my lips centimeters from his, as he sits there staring at me, still as a photo. “I’m expecting to be with you whenever possible, and that’s all I need. You once said ‘sometimes you have to take the good with the bad. If the good is that freakin’ good.’ ” I grab his jaw and our gazes lock onto each other’s. “Being with you is just that good,” I say, before pressing my lips to his.
He’s frozen for several too-long heart-thumping moments until he pulls me onto his lap, tugging my legs around his waist, and wraps his arms around me. He holds me tight as his mouth claims me. The press of his lips, the strong embrace of his arms, and the touch of his fingers on my back all express a mixture of joy and relief.
My own heart sings.
Soul mates. I’ve come to believe in them again.
As our lips separate, he stares down at me, his pretty blue eyes lit with happiness. He runs a thumb across my cheek, whispering, “ ‘Lovesong.’ The Cure.”