by Foxx, Gloria
She’s firm, but I try to argue anyway. “I feel like such a hypocrite testifying when I’m guilty too.”
“But you’re not guilty Sterling. Testifying will help you to see that.” She moved her hands to my shoulders, giving me a shake. “Now get up.” She pushes on my shoulder refusing to let me wallow. “You need a shower … and brush your teeth. You stink.”
Pushing to my feet, I shuffle around the coffee table, grab some clothes and head to the bathroom. I can smell the coffee brewing.
I feel almost human, showered with clean clothes and half a cup of coffee in me as we head out the door.
When we returned, I had approval from the dean, advance assignments for all my classes and arrangements to take finals a week early.
I have a lot of work to do in the next couple weeks, but life is looking up, and I have Annie to thank for that.
Chapter 19
I press the doorbell and then knock on the door, shuffling my feet and hoping his parents don’t answer.
No such luck. “Hello Mr. Lambert. Is Logan around?”
“Sterling. We haven’t seen you in such a long time.” He pushes open the storm door. “Come in. Come in.”
I step inside, biting my lip so the apology doesn’t tumble out of my mouth.
“Logan,” he hollers up the stairs, “Sterling’s here to see you. We’ll be in the family room.” Mr. Lambert turns toward me and waves his hand in invitation. “Come on back. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thank you. I’m fine.”
“It’s too bad Janine isn’t here. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”
“Please, tell her I said, ‘Hi.’” I hear Logan’s footsteps in his room above me.
“I will. Sit. Sit.” He gestures to the sofa while lowering himself into his chair. It feels like I’ve gone back in time, being here. “How are you Sterling? I heard about your sister. Are you all right? How’s your mother? It’s such a tragedy.” His face is more a mask of polite inquiry rather than an expression of true concern.
The muscles on either side of my jaw tense as I bite back words that are desperate to come out.
The truth is making a ruckus, pounding at the back of my mouth, just waiting for a chance like this to break free. I take control of myself, clenching my laced fingers together where they rest on my knees as I respond with a tight voice. “It’s getting easier over time and I’m adjusting to the new normal.” I hesitate, taking a shaky breath. “Going to college has helped me focus on something new. It keeps my mind busy.” My answer is practiced, the kind of answer people expect to hear in polite company. It’s not the answer I want to give, but I’ve learned people are nice. They ask, but they don’t really want to hear the answer.
“Logan mentioned you’re going to Central. Good for you.” He smiles like a proud father and then he frowns. “Janine and I would appreciate it if you could talk some sense into that son of ours. He’s given up his football scholarship and dropped out. We thought he might be involved with drugs, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. It’s as if something happened and he won’t talk about it.”
“Give him time,” I say, marveling at the irony that the tragedy he doesn’t really want to hear about is the same problem he’s trying to understand in his son, if he only knew. I hope Logan will tell his parents the truth someday.
I can hear Logan’s feet, thumping on the stairs, coming fast as if skipping steps. Mr. Lambert rises from his chair as Logan walks into the room. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”
Logan’s eyes move sideways with suspicion first eyeing up his father and then me. He looks worried that I’ve let slip the truth.
As soon as Mr. Lambert leaves, I reassure him. “I haven’t said anything.”
“We can’t talk here. Come on.” Logan led me back toward the kitchen. I follow past the family dining table. It’s all connected and wide open, so no privacy here. Veering left at the table, Logan heads to the patio doors. The deck is cold but the bright sun makes up for it.
“Why are you here?” he hisses, enunciating every word.
“You know why I’m here.”
“You better not tell them. This is difficult enough, without their judgment.” His face is red, his lips pale with anger.
“I’m not planning to tell them anything, although I think you should.” We’re alone, away from his parents, yet still I whisper.
“Hell no!”
“They care about you Logan and they’re worried.”
“Well I’m not saying anything.”
“Fine, it’s none of my business now anyway.”
“Right, so what the hell are you doing at my house?”
“You know why I’m here and I want you to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“C’mon Logan, I know you’re harassing me and you need to stop. Besides, it’s not working anymore.” It’s a small lie after my reaction to the open door. I watch the color on his face fading, cooling back to normal as mine heats in irritation at his denial.
“I’m not doing anything but trying to get through this myself.” He’s angry at my accusation, at the injustice. I see it now. He’s changed over the years, but one thing that hasn’t changed is Logan’s contempt for injustice. He’s quick to stand up for the little guy. He stuck up for kids who were bullied in school. He served as big brother to two or three others.
“You’re not doing it.” I shake my head, my cheeks going pale, my eyes losing focus as I contemplate what this means.
“It’s him isn’t it?”
“Could be.” I struggle to remember when the district attorney tracked me down on campus, my eyes turning up as I visually sift through the memories trying to organize by date. Running my fingers through my hair, I sigh in frustration, disgusted by myself for not putting this together sooner. “He’s out on bail,” I say, my voice quiet, resigned to the truth of it. “The harassment started a couple days before the DA told me he got out.”
“Not exactly on the ball are they?”
“I’d been ducking their calls,” I admitted, not wanting Annie’s friend Rand to take unnecessary blame.
“What are you going to do? He could be dangerous.”
“I’ll let the DA know what’s happened. I have a restraining order, but it looks like Brock isn’t taking it seriously.”
“I can’t believe they let him out. You be careful Sterling.”
The sliding door is heavy as I yank it open. The house feels unusually warm after the cold wind on the deck. I hear Logan closing the door behind us, but I keep going, heading toward the hall that takes me to the front door. Then it occurs to me. I stop, turning toward him to speak. “You should come.”
“Now? With you?”
“No. You should come to the trial. She’s your daughter.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I never met her.” He dropped his head, hunching his shoulders over arms folded across his chest, shame riding heavy in his posture. “I don’t understand why I didn’t want to.”
I pull my wallet from my bag, digging out a photo. “Here.” I held it out, but he didn’t take it right away. “I want you to have this.”
His arm stretched out, taking the photo, not sure he wanted it. His chin tipped down as he studied it. “She has my hair.”
“Yeah.” My smile is tremulous. “Come to the trial. Testimony starts a week from Tuesday. We can ride together.”
“I’ll think about it.”
I nod, nothing left to say. I let myself out the door. When I turn back to pull the door shut behind me, I see Logan still studying the photo cradled in the palm of his hand, big fingers curled around it as if protecting her.
* * *
“Go ask him.”
I’d made a terrible mistake and I can’t fix it. Annie is supportive and encouraging, but she doesn’t understand. Oh sure, she tries. We commiserate while lounging on her bed, me huddled under a blanket. We’d been studying, or should I say she’d been studying while
I daydreamed.
“You don’t understand.” I’m whiny and petulant. “I can’t go back.”
“I’m not telling you to go back. Go forward. Try again.”
“He warned me. No second chances. That’s his only rule. He had to think about himself and he’s not waiting for me.”
“There’s someone else?”
“No, I don’t think so. He doesn’t want me anymore.”
“Sterling.” Annie bowed her head, swaying it back and forth as if in despair. “You’ve made a fine mess of this.” She sounds like a mother or maybe like Lyla.
“I’m just trying to protect myself.” Moisture gathers on my lashes. I will not cry again. I will not cry again. I will not cry again. My mind chants as if saying so would make it so. I’m sinking into myself, my shoulders slumped, my head bowed. I’m falling into that cold place inside of me, the place where I can survive, the place that isolates me from my surroundings, from the people around me. The cold numbs my nerve endings, allowing me to go on, to exist. I’d been here before when Emma died and now that I’ve sent Boston away, its my destiny, the only place I can protect myself from the heat of others.
“You’ll have to ask him.”
I don’t respond. The cold that surrounds me keeps her voice far away.
“Sterling!”
“Hmm?” I lift my head, my frosty cloak in place separating me from my surroundings. Moving outside of me, sharing myself can be dangerous and I’ve learned my lesson.
“You have to ask him.”
“Ask him what?” I’m really missing something here.
“Ask him why he’s named Boston.”
“Oh, I already know. That’s where he was conceived.”
“That’s not all of it. Ask him why his parents named him after the city. Everyone is conceived somewhere, but very few are named after the city unless there’s a reason. Ask him.”
“What difference does it make? We’re through. There’s no going back.”
“This isn’t about you anymore. It’s about him. Go ask him.”
“If it’s so all-fired important, why don’t you just tell me? Obviously you know something.”
“Of course I know.”
“So tell me.”
“It’s not my story to tell. You’ll have to ask him.”
“Fine, I’ll ask him,” I snap and she stops pestering me.
I’m not going to ask. My icy cloak is in place. I can face the world again, protected. I’m not coming out and I sure as hell am not letting anyone else in, especially not Boston.
* * *
We’d discussed want versus need in philosophy. For some reason the lesson comes back to me now as I wonder if I want Boston or if I need him.
I walk down the hall to his room. I move slowly, not strong enough to do any more than wander. That’s not true. I’m procrastinating. The hallway is long with what looks like hundreds of identical doors. Oh, there aren’t that many and they’re not so identical. Many have posters and signs and, of course, they all have different numbers, but my tunnel vision extends the length of the hallway as if it might go on forever.
Of course it doesn’t. All too soon I’m outside his door and I just stand there. I can’t bring myself to raise my hand and knock. The longer I stand, the more I hear, doors slamming, muted voices, laughter, music, thumping like someone is jumping or pounding. There are other sounds too that I can’t identify, but Boston’s room is quiet.
I can walk away without knocking and pretend that he isn’t there, although I can’t really be sure unless I knock. I raise my hand, fingers curled in, knuckles facing forward. I don’t knock. I can’t.
The door behind me opens, just as lower my hand, giving up, because it’s easier than stepping outside of my frigid wrap. I hear them coming, but I can’t see. They aren’t watching either because they crash right into me as they tumble into the hall.
“Sorry.” One says as he continues down the hall while the other closes the door.
Now it’s too late to leave. Their jostling had knocked me forward into Boston’s door, my lowering hand and my forehead both knocking against the wood.
“Yeah.”
That’s all he says. Maybe I can still get away. I pull myself from the door and turn to follow the guys from across the hall just as Boston whips his door open. “What? Oh.”
I don’t look up; afraid his eyes will see all that I hope for, all that I want. I’m not going to let him reject me before I have a chance so I don’t look up and that turns out to be a mistake too.
He’s wearing jeans, kind of. They’re on, but not buttoned or zipped. The belt, threaded through the loops, hangs open framing black boxer briefs. The weight of the buckle pulls his jeans low. I can see hip bones cradling an inverted triangle of muscle. It points south and disappears into his underwear, drawing my eye along with it. He doesn’t have a shirt and his muscles are even more defined than usual.
“Ohh,” I breathe, realizing why. He’s always been lean, but today he’s thinner than usual. My eyes float upward. He’s much thinner, his collarbone sharp, his cheeks hollow, eyes soft and dark and a little sunken. “Are you sick?”
“No,” he snaps, the muscles on the sides of his jaw bunching, two or three days growth shadows his jaw. “Whaddya want Sterling?”
He regains his composure, bracing an arm against the door, over his head, fingers curling over the top of the door. Man he’s gorgeous. Even thinner than usual, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bulge. His abs ripple as he crosses one foot over the other. He’s barefoot, his sagging jeans bunching at the ankles.
I clear my throat. “I ... I need to ask you a question.”
“No. I don’t give second chances. I warned you.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“It’s personal. Can I come inside?” I’d gone from planning to run to asking myself in. Seeing Boston and the toll our breakup had carved from him tears at me. How selfish to think only of myself without considering what I might be doing to him.
In this moment, I understand that it’s not about whether I love him or not. It’s about my fear, not fear of love, but of love dying. Of course I’ll hurt him or he’ll hurt me or both. It’s inevitable. Love will end. If there’s one thing that life’s taught me it’s that love never lasts. It’ll fade, be snatched away, burn out, or die. The beauty is in the time we have together, not the end looming before us. I realize that now.
We stand, face to face, me wanting back in, him blocking my way. I make a decision. I’ll hold tight and fight with every bit of daring and determination I have. I’ll luxuriate in the here and now, doing everything I can to enjoy it, appreciate it and preserve it.
Boston steps aside. He smells different. The warmth of him is still there, but overpowered by a funky, haven’t-showered kind of stink.
Closing the door behind me, Boston sits on his bed. I stand in the middle of the room. There are desks on either side of the window. Beds come next followed by closets with plastic accordion doors, both in disrepair. It’s just like Annie’s, but she doesn’t have a roommate, giving her more room.
Boston’s bed is rumpled while his desk is neat, his laptop closed. He’s obviously been in bed in the middle of the day. I don’t see an iPod, his laptop is out of reach, and there aren’t any books or notes around.
“Did I wake you?” I hope he’d been sleeping instead of brooding.
“No.”
“Oh.” I pull the chair from his desk into the middle of the room and sit. I dive right in before losing my courage. Somehow I know he needs something from me and I’m determined not to let him down again. “Why did your parents name you Boston?”
His head snaps up, his soft eyes going sharp, probing and assessing. “I already told you. I was conceived in Boston.”
“I know that, but why?
“Annie told you.” His eyes slip away from mine, a grim, militant look appearing around his mouth like he doesn’t want to t
alk about it.
“Did they find themselves unexpectedly pregnant after a romantic getaway? Did they go on vacation to get pregnant?
My questions are hopeful, but I don’t expect they’re right. I can feel pain in his name. It radiates from him as I ask my hopeless questions.
“Boston?” I probe. He finally meets my eyes. I lean in, my heart aching, not for myself, but for the distress that shadows his eyes.
When he finally starts talking his voice is low and rough as if from disuse. His gaze slides away. “My parents were older. You know my brother was fifteen when I was born.” It might have been a question, but it wasn’t.
“Mmm Hmm. A surprise?”
“They tried several times here, but didn’t get pregnant. My mom was too old. The doctor recommended egg donation, but they couldn’t do that so they went to Boston.”
He talks about something I don’t quite understand, my eyebrows drawing together in a frown, but I don’t interrupt.
“A clinic in Boston had some good luck with pregnancy in older women. Their protocol produced a much larger number of viable eggs, increasing the potential for success.”
“Is it just me or does it seem incredibly selfish to demand a biological child?”
“They weren’t being selfish,” he says, his head hanging, his voice even lower.
“Sounds selfish to me, but I’m not complaining. They went to Boston and now you’re here.”
“Right,” he says lifting his head as if realizing something for the first time. “They were selfish.” He met my eyes, his stormy and dark and angry with clarity. “They would have sold their second born, if only to save their first.”
It settled over me like the dawn. Starting slowly and then bursting into glory so bright and fierce that I’m surprised I never saw the dawn through the darkness before.
“Oh my God! They needed you? For Cody?” I posed it as a question, but I didn’t need an answer. At least I didn’t need him to vocalize his response. I could see it in the dejection weighing him down, the anger and misery of a little boy who was so very important and at the same time not very important at all.