by Laura Clark
My mouth starts to open, but once again, the words just don't follow.
"The really selfish part of me wants to say fuck it. Kyle will get over it. Let him deal, but you know that isn't me." He shakes his head and laughs, only it's not a happy laugh. It's one of those bite you in the ass irony kind of laughs.
"Laila, you have to understand. Kyle is my best friend. He has been there for me through everything. I can't do this to him. It kills me to have him upset with me. And the thing is, I totally get where he is coming from. I mean if I had a little sister, I'd react the exact same way."
Sam's penchant to always do the right thing is one of the reasons I have always been so fond of him. He is such a good person, through and through. I just wish in this one situation, he would just let go and do what he wants to do, instead of what he thinks he should do.
"But, if I do the quote, unquote, right thing and end things with you, then I just end up hurting you. You are the last person in the world that I want to hurt. I was serious when I said I think I . . . was falling for you." His voice quiets to almost a whisper at the end of his sentence.
My heart tugs at me, conjuring up that familiar burn in the back of my throat. "Was . . . as in past tense? You aren't falling for me anymore?" I ask, forcing the words out of my mouth as if I am choking on them.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his temples, as he lets out a frustrated half sigh, half grunt. "Not was. Am. I am still falling for you, but I can't be. I shouldn't be. We can't be together, Laila. I want to more than anything, but we just can't." His voice sounds like it is plagued with a mix of guilt, frustration, and anger.
He is staring at a couple of kids, scaling one of the ramps with their skateboards on the other side of the park. I know that he is purposely avoiding my eyes. I can feel it. He doesn't want to see how badly he is hurting me. I just want to scream at him. Just because you refuse to look, it doesn't mean it's not there. I am hurting.
"No. I get why you would pick Kyle over me. I mean we only started dating a week ago. You guys have been best friends since you were little." I look down at my hands, as I blink back my tears.
He moves closer to me and almost reaches out for my hand, but pulls his back, as if he is restraining himself. "It's not like that. I'm not choosing him over you. I'm just doing what I know I need to do in order to set things right."
I look up at him through teary eyes. He closes his eyes and looks up to the sky, as if he is silently asking God, "Why?"
"It still feels like that, Sam."
"I know. This all my fault. I should have waited. If I would’ve just . . . waited until you started college, Kyle wouldn't have gone ballistic on me. His biggest problem with us being together is your age. He doesn't think you are old enough, and in retrospect, I think he's probably right. You just seem so much older than you are, Laila."
"Well, I just think you are making a big mistake. Kyle would get over it. He'd eventually see why us dating is okay. He would end up accepting it, but you won't ever know." I can feel the anger building inside of me as I speak. "You'd rather just throw it all away."
He looks away from me again. I hate that he isn't saying anything. I want him to say, "No. I'm not going to give up that easily. I'm going to fight for us." Those words never come, though, and that sick feeling inside me only gets worse.
"Sam, how can something that feels so right be so wrong?" I ask. I reach over and grab his hand, demanding his attention.
He takes a deep breath, but he doesn't pull his hand back this time. "You don't think this is killing me? I meant every word I said in those letters, Laila." Sam's pained expression is a perfect reflection of how I feel. He reaches up and brushes his fingers lightly along my cheek.
"It doesn't have to be like this. You don't have to do this. Give us a chance," I whisper, as I desperately try holding on to the teetering pool of tears in my eyes.
His chest is only inches away from mine, but the electricity pulsing between us makes it feel like I am plugged directly into him, and we are one wire. He leans down and gently kisses me on my lips. It is a hesitant kiss, as if he is trying to fight it, but can't. How can he deny that rush that sweeps through our bodies when our lips meet?
The moment his lips find mine, the force of his pull becomes too great for me. I was trying to hold myself back, but I can no longer stand it. I press my lips against his harder, when I feel him start to pull away.
Then, I take the lead, which I've never done before. Sam has always been the one to show me and guide me through our kisses. He is surprised by my forwardness. He must like it though, because he pulls me hard against his chest and deepens the kiss, matching my movements. After a while when we are all out of breath, he finally pulls away and let's out a deep sigh.
"Shit, Laila. That wasn't supposed to happen. I just wanted to kiss you quickly, one last time. It wasn't supposed to turn into that." He kicks up some gravel and pumps his fist through the air. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Why did you do that? Damn it," he yells, while pushing his fingers through his sweaty hair.
I am so startled by his reaction that I physically jump back a little. I must be looking at him with fearful eyes, because he does a double take and his face relaxes. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to lose it. I just . . . . This is going to be so much harder than I thought it would be."
He sits down on the park bench with his head hunched over in his lap. He is repeatedly grabbing fistfuls of his hair, as he shakes his head. It seems like he is having a debate with himself.
"That can never happen again. This must stop, Laila. I'm sorry, but I need to be the mature one here. I need to put some distance between us."
How can he go through with this breakup after kissing me like that?
"I'm going to stay at my cousin's tonight," he says sternly, before turning around.
"So that's it? We're . . . through?" I ask.
I'm still holding my fingers over my lips in disbelief. The same lips that he had just kissed so hard, so passionately, and for so long that they are now slightly swollen, and almost numb. I'm completely bewildered by the stark difference between his words and actions. The tears aren't even threatening to surface any more, because my body hasn't even had a chance to settle back down. I am beyond confused.
"I'll run back to the house and grab my things. Please let your parents know I won't be back tonight."
I suppose this is his way of saying goodbye, because he doesn't turn around before his feet are jogging away. He doesn't wait to see how I react, or to listen to what I have to say. He just takes off with no regard for me at all. I'm left here alone, too breathless to be broken, too angry to be hurt, and too vulnerable to find strength.
The scraping and scuffing noises in the distance, from the kids scaling ramps and showing off new tricks on their skateboards, drowns out the relentless static in my head. I suppose this is a good thing, considering how I was just dumped by my very first boyfriend, who happens to be the love of my life.
I have this sudden urge to go for a run myself. I am not really a runner, but there is something about the way Sam had described running that I can't seem to get out of my head. Does running really help clear your mind? I could use that myself, right now. Plus, I'm already dressed for the occasion.
I must admit that there is something to be said about the way it feels to have your feet pounding against the pavement as you find your stride. The steady, rhythmic, scuffing sound of my soles striking the pavement helps to drown out the noise in my head. I welcome the aching of my rusty muscles, as they ease into the motion. I move my feet forward again and again, until my body feels like Jell-O.
Even though I push my body way past the state of exhaustion, I am surprised when I see my house. Four miles is a lot of running for someone who never runs, and yet I am somewhat disappointed when my feet land on our driveway. I brace myself with my hands on my thighs, and allow my head to hang between my legs.
The burn that takes over my throat as I try to catch my br
eath is so strong, I feel like I might vomit. I've definitely pushed myself too hard, but the exertion of my muscles and the ache of my body feel really good. It's a physical reminder that I am alive, no matter how dead I feel inside. It's easy to ignore the pain and push past my physical limits. It's the emotional pain that I don't seem to be able to handle.
I kind of get what Sam was talking about. It's almost like the run has somehow scrubbed my mind clean. It's not perfectly clear. The residue from our break-up is still there, but it feels a little lighter and seems less suffocating. Part of me wants to run back to the park and get the car, but as I take a few steps, I notice how my muscles are twitching. I might not be able to walk tomorrow if I continue on.
I open the front door and slip into the house quietly. I want to sneak upstairs unnoticed, so I can take a shower and collapse into bed. As I drag my feet up each stair, my legs yelp in pain, reminding me harshly that I’ve pushed myself too much today.
This is nothing, however, compared to the wrenching ache of my heart when I run into Sam at the top of the stairs. He is freshly showered, wearing a faded, navy, vintage St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. Damn it. He sure looks good in a hat, always has. I love the way the ends of his sandy-blond hair peek out and curl up from under the cap's edge.
I notice his duffle bag is slung over his shoulders, as if he is on his way out, but he doesn't move. We just stand there, staring at each other, trying to figure out what to say to one another. Even though I am standing there breathing, I feel like I'm frozen in time, no more alive than the wooden post I am leaning against.
"Did you run home?" he finally asks, his eyes surveying my flushed, damp skin.
"Yeah. I guess I needed to clear my head," I mumble, wondering if he notices how I am throwing his words back at him.
And just like that, the emotional clutter I had worked so hard to remove comes rushing back. As the burn creeps it's way back into my throat, I realize that no amount of running will ever completely dissolve this pain.
Sam's blue eyes seem to be searching for something in mine, but he doesn't ever find the right words to say whatever is on his mind. Instead, he simply brushes past me, and continues on down the steps, as if I were never here.
Him blowing me off like that, pulls the rest of the pain to the surface with so much force, I have to run into my room before the sobbing takes over. Once my door is closed, I lean back against it. I slowly slide my back down the length of the door until I am sitting on the bare, hardwood floor. I finally allow the tears to break free. I hate this feeling. It's like everything is spinning, and I can no longer think clearly.
When I realize that the tears are not likely to slow any time soon, I grab some clean pajamas, a fresh towel, and escape to the refuge of my bathroom. A hot shower is calling me.
The hot, steamy water lightly massages my sore muscles, and helps to relieve some of the tension. My tears continue to pour down my face, as steady as the stream of water that is flowing from the showerhead. I go through the motions of washing my hair and body, but I feel like a zombie. I’m completely detached and disconnected. When my tired eyes run dry from all of the crying, I turn the shower knob until the water stops.
A thick layer of goose bumps has already invaded my skin, no doubt because I have let the water run cold. I quickly wrap my towel around me, and rub it against my body, hoping to erase the bumps to warm myself up.
When I glance in the mirror, I barely recognize the reflection staring back at me. My face is scrubbed raw, revealing a shade of red that matches my stinging, weary eyes. My eyes look dull and lifeless. I run my tongue over my smooth, clean teeth, satisfied with my aggressive brushing. My warm pajamas are on, my mouth is minty clean, my skin is covered in a thick layer of rich, milky lavender lotion, and my brushed, damp hair smells of strawberries.
The safety and comfort of my bed is calling me. The exhaustion that settles in as I lay down is overwhelming. I almost don't notice the small white envelope resting on the pillow next to me. My stomach drops, as I stare at the familiar, messy, hand-written strokes that spell out my name. My fingers immediately find the necklace that is still dangling around my neck.
I run my fingers along the sealed envelope. It mirrors both of the envelopes he gave me last night. I am hesitant to open it because I don't think I can take any more heartache tonight. Instead, I toss it on my nightstand, promising myself to read it tomorrow when my mind is more rested.
Chapter Twenty-Four: We Were Summer
I can feel my body rocking back and forth. Where am I? It's too dark to tell. Am I on a boat?
"Hey, yo. Get up, sleepyhead."
What is that sound? Whose voice is that?
"Hey lil sis, get up."
Sam? Is that you? You came back. Did you change your mind? Why can't I see anything? It's so dark and this boat is too rocky.
"Come on. We're going to be late. Get your sleepy butt out of bed, before I send Mom up here."
I am suddenly falling, and then my eyes finally open. Kyle is standing over me, shaking me. I am so disoriented for a moment that I have to rub my tired eyes and refocus them, in order to realize where I am.
Like a tidal wave, it all comes crashing into me at once; Sam and I on my bed, Kyle walking in on us and flipping out, Kyle and Sam fighting, Sam leaving, dinner with my parents and Sam, Sam at the skate park, our kiss at the skate park. Oh, God. It was our last kiss. My rigorous run after he left, and the final blow, when Sam just left me standing there at the top of the staircase with not even so much as a "Goodbye." or "We'll talk soon."
My head is throbbing, and the way the bright sunlight is filtering through my open shutters is not helping. Damn you, Kyle, for pulling those open so early.
Why does crying give you such an awful, mind-splitting headache? I might as well have drunk half a bottle of vodka because that is exactly how I feel right now. Ouch. My head. Ouch. My legs. What is wrong with my legs? Oh, yeah. I forgot about my run. Shoot. The car is still at the park.
I start to sit up, but quickly fall back down. The sharp pain in my head becomes unbearably intense when I try to move even the slightest bit. Need Tylenol, now. It doesn't help that the one person I do not want to see right now is hovering over me with a stupid, shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
"Laila, were you by chance drinking last night?"
Even Kyle seems to think I am suffering from a bad hangover. I shake my head, grunt, and bury my head under my pillow.
"Where is the car? You had Mom all bent out of shape, you know. She thought you didn't come home last night. She was about ready to call the Feds. I had to calm her down. You owe me. What gives, lil sis?" he asks, while shoving my shoulder hard.
I'm going to kill you, Kyle. Later, when my head isn't hurting so badly. I pull my pillow to the side just enough to get a peek at him. His amused expression just pisses me off.
"I owe you?" This is one of those moments when you ask a question, and you wish you could somehow add the second and third question mark. "Seriously, what in your warped mind could possibly make you think that I owe you anything?" I shout. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. I really need to remember to not yell when my head throbs like this.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because I just saved your ass with Mom?" he says sarcastically. "You really ought to crash at Avery's if your going to drink like that, Laila. You're lucky she sent me in here to wake up your stupid, hung-over butt." There is still a hint of laughter in his voice that makes me want to scream.
"I'm not hung over, Kyle. I didn't drink at all last night," I bark at him through clenched teeth. "I just have a really, really bad headache, and your voice right now, is making it so much worse. Please just leave." I try to keep my voice as even and soft as I can manage, in an effort to keep the pounding from escalating.
"Whatever you say, lil sis. I know a hangover when I see it. God knows I've had enough of them to know. I wasn't kidding. You better get ready fast. We're leaving for church in like twenty minutes." He yanks
the covers off of me, and laughs when I moan. I am more than relieved when I finally hear my door shut. What an asshole.
I pull myself out of bed, and stumble into the bathroom to get myself ready. The last place I want to be right now is church. I try to think of a good enough excuse that my mom would buy in order to get me out of going. Being sick is out. She might suspect a hangover, too, especially with the car MIA.
Once again, I go through the motions of getting ready, but I feel completely removed from it all. It is as if my body is moving independently from my soul. I throw on a dress and slip on some flat sandals, not bothering with perfume, jewelry, or even makeup. My hair is haphazardly piled up into a messy bun on top of my head. Frizzy spirals are springing loose all around my face, but I do not have the energy or interest to secure them back into place. It's hard to care about your physical appearance when you feel so completely wrecked inside.
Kyle pokes his head into my room again to be sure I am up. "Ready?" he asks.
I nod my head, unable to look him directly in the eyes. He doesn't seem to be mad at me for getting together with Sam, and yet he continues to punish his best friend for it. It is completely unfair. I am as much a part of it as Sam is.
"Here," he snaps, tossing me a bottle of Tylenol. The rattling of the pills in the bottle is like heavenly church bells calling me. Oh, thank God. I may still be mad at you, Kyle, but right now, you are my hero.
"Are you sure you're ready?" He asks gruffly. He inspects my disheveled appearance while scratching the back of his head. "I hate to say it, but you kind of look like hell, lil sis." He says before chuckling. Scratch that. He's back to being at the top of my supreme shit list.
I line up the arrows, twist the lid off the bottle, and drop a couple of white pills directly into my mouth. I'm so desperate for relief that I don't even bother waiting for a drink. This is highly unusual since I normally have to do a great deal of coaxing, just to get the pills down my throat, even with water.