by Lindy Zart
“I know who I am.”
“Who's that?”
“Me.” I wink and sit down beside him. “You should go for a walk with me.”
“You should lie down with me.”
I freeze. The sun comes from behind him, illuminating him like a fireball halo, which sort of makes sense. He is consuming, no matter what his mood. Light and dark play as the sun and Rivers collide. He grabs my arm and tugs. I land on my back beside him, feeling out of breath and it has nothing to do with my short fall.
He smiles a half-smile, and my body tingles. “Can I ask you something?”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“Did you purposely try to be different because you wanted to put distance between yourself and others? I mean, was it a sort of defense mechanism? Because seeing you now, I don't think that image you portrayed in school ever really fit you. You're too...” He stops, his eyebrows lowering as he searches for the right word. “I don't know, free.”
“I didn't realize it wasn't okay to be different. I was how I wanted and needed to be. It was other people that had a problem with it.” I turn my face to the sky, not wanting to get into any serious conversations. I am free now, yes. I am free because it is all I can be.
“High school is about conformity. You know that. Everyone knows that. Be anything other than everyone else and it's like putting a big bullseye on yourself. Did you do it on purpose?”
I sit back, scooting to put distance between us. “I didn't do anything. I was just me. That was me then and this is me now. I'm allowed to change, right? Was it so wrong to be the way I was?” His words are flustering me and I'm becoming agitated. I don't want to talk about high school or how I was then and how I am now and why there is no correlation between the two.
I changed, but would I have if things were different than they are now?
Rivers sits up as well, watching me. “Did I ask something wrong?”
“No. I just...I don't want to talk about it.” I look away from the intensity of his eyes.
“I only asked because I want to know more about you. I find everything about you interesting. You sort of rock my world, in an entirely unapologetic way.” He smiles and the sun reflects off his face, blinding me with its beauty.
This is not good. This is not what I want. I look at him and realize that, yes, this is what I want, but I shouldn't. I can't. He can't. Rivers can't care about me. He'll only get hurt if he does. Too late, a voice tells me. I draw my knees up and rest my chin on them, closing my eyes against what is glaringly unavoidable. I'm scared, I realize. I just wanted to help them. I never intended to care about him and I never wanted him to care about me either.
Jumping to my feet, I careen close to the edge of the pool and Rivers steadies me with his hands on my waist. “Easy." His touch burns me, making me feels things I have never felt before and know I will never feel again. I want to cry. I think I am going to cry. "Look, I'm sorry if I upset you.”
I pull away from him, hurrying for the house. It isn't my house, so there is nowhere I can really go to get away from him, from my feelings, from my truths. Everything is building and coming at me once—all I have wanted, all I have caught a glimpse of, all I cannot have. I saw it all in Rivers' smile. Tears blind me as I stumble into the cool interior of the house and toward the bathroom, deciding it's as close to my own space as I am going to get.
I lock the door and sink to the floor with my back against the wall, letting the sobs break free. This is the first time I've cried about it since finding out. Somehow, I managed to keep it all in. I was okay with it. I mean, sure, at first I was devastated, more for my mom than me, but I was dealing with it. But now there's Rivers and there's even Monica, and how can I keep telling myself I am okay with this?
I am not okay with this.
Trembles wrack my body and I hug myself, closing my eyes against the pain. The tightness in my throat grows until it is hard to swallow. I hear Rivers on the other side of the door—I can feel him on the other side of the door. He asks me to open it. I know he can't see me, but I shake my head. He is so different from what I really thought. He is...so...good. He is determined, and yes, arrogant, and beautiful. So beautiful. He is strong-willed and stubborn and imperfect and how can I leave him? He is living again. He is smiling and talking and thinking about his future.
And I have his heart clasped between my two hands. If I let it go, it will fall and break. If I squeeze it too tightly, it will hurt. And if I continue to carry it around, I am responsible for it.
I have to quit. July just started and there is August to think about as well, but I can't keep working here. It's going to suck being without the income, but maybe my mom will hire me on at the flower shop, at least part-time. And that isn't even the biggest problem. The problem is Rivers, and what I feel for him. My original intentions got switched around and altered to the point where I should have refused to stay here in Monica's absence. I should have known it was a bad decision.
I never should have asked her about the job to begin with. But she'd looked so sad, and he'd looked so broken, and I figured...I could do this one thing for someone else before I couldn't do anything again. And now look at me—crying in the bathroom of my employer's house with my employer's son pleading with me to come out and tell him what he did wrong.
He did nothing wrong but care about the ghost of a girl.
With the end of my employment at the Young residence set in my mind, I stand on legs that shake, wipe tears from my eyes, and splash water on my face before opening the door. The red eyes and nose can't be hidden. His scent wraps around me and the stinging comes back to my eyes.
I refuse to look at him as I stride for the front door. “I'm going to go for a walk. I'll finish cleaning when I get back.”
“I'll go with you.”
I stiffen by the door with my back to him. “No.”
“Why? I want to go with you. I can keep up.”
I whirl around and glare at him, hateful words I don't mean spewing forth. “No. You can't. You're too slow and you'll only slow me down and I want to be alone.” The openness of his face that I've become accustomed to seeing, closes like a door slammed before my eyes. All expression is wiped from his features, but it stays in his eyes. They're hurt and angry. Pain lashes through me like the burning caress of a whip against my heart. I want to take my words back, but I don't. I tell myself it's better this way, that he has to get used to being without me, but my convictions sound hollow as I walk out the door.
I walk for hours—the sights, smells, and even the temperature are all vague and without form. I walk in a world of gray, my emotions dark and overcast, obliterating anything that could give life to my surroundings. I walk with the hurried steps of a woman who is trying to outrun something she has no control over, trying to escape something complete in its certainty. I am angry and not even sure who I am angry at. Is it Monica for putting me in a position to stay at her house and fall in love with her son? Is it Rivers for being lovable? Am I angry at myself for thinking I somehow had the right to meddle in their lives and yet had the audacity to think I could stay distanced from it all? Or is the anger at my mom, though I am not even really sure why? I guess because it just pisses me off that she is going to be shattered once again and I am the one to blame.
The house is dark when I return. As I walk up to the front door, I realize dusk has fallen while I was lost in myself. Even before I am fully inside, I know he isn't here. It is devoid of his light. This knowledge causes an ache inside me. I fumble with my phone, staring at his cell phone number when I get to it, and slowly put it back in my pocket. I pace the length of the sun room, glancing out at the star-filled night, wondering where he is and if he's okay.
And then I stop.
Coldness seeps into me with the knowledge that I do not belong here. This room—with its fire and life—it isn't mine to stand in. This isn't my life. Rivers isn't mine. I've just been pretending. In two days Monica and Thomas will be back, and what th
en? Then I'll fade back into the corners of their lives where I should have stayed to begin with. I need to get out, before Rivers returns. Because I know, when he comes back, I won't be able to fool myself into thinking that he cares so little for me as to just let me walk away.
With fingers that tremble, I call my employer. As soon as she answers, I tell her, “I'm quitting.” It's blunt and harsh, but effective. I can feel the shock through the phone. I inhale deeply. “I'm sorry for not giving more notice.”
“But...what...why? Did something happen?”
Did something happen? What didn't happen? I can't very well tell her I fell in love with her son and that I know, with absolute certainty, that he will end up getting hurt because of it. Either way, he gets hurt. If I stay, he gets hurt. If I go, he gets hurt. There really is no way around it. But if I put distance between us now, maybe it will hurt him less later.
I respond evasively, “Nothing happened. I just...my mom needs me at the flower shop.” I wince at the lie. I'll have to make it a truth as soon as I can. The wrongness of what I am doing hits me and I feel nauseous. I'm leaving. The fact that I don't want to makes no difference. Does what I want ever matter? Not lately, not when it counts. My heart feels torn in two, like I know I will be leaving a part of myself with Rivers when I go.
“Is it because I didn't pay you more for staying? Because I had every intention of doing so when we returned. I didn't mean to take advantage of you. I hope you know that. And...I don't know, I thought maybe you and Rivers—I mean, he just seems so much better...” she trails off, clearly hesitant to voice her thoughts.
“It's not that—about the money, I mean. I don't want your money.” Getting paid extra for staying here with Rivers would cheapen how much this whole experience has meant to me.
“You're sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“There's nothing I can do to get you to change your mind?” Her voice already tells me she knows I will not budge from my decision. I wish she could get me to take back my words.
“Positive,” I say around a hard lump in my throat.
The pause is heavy with bereavement. “Rivers is going to miss you. I'm going to miss you. I want to say he's back to his normal self because of you, but it's more than that. He's more confident, happier, less serious. He's...he's better since you came, and I will never be able to thank you enough for that.”
“I didn't do anything.” A tear slowly makes its way down my cheek. I clutch the phone tighter to my ear and wipe the pain away.
“I think just being you was enough. You're an exceptional young lady." She pauses. "Is it okay if I stop by your mother's shop when I get back into town? A phone call really isn't a proper goodbye.”
I nod, realize she can't see me, and in a broken voice, say, “Yes.”
“Thank you. For everything.” The sincerity in her tone causes another teardrop to pool in my eyelashes and when I blink, it falls.
I tell her goodbye and end the call, staring woodenly at my tote bag that I need to repack. If only I could pack up the pieces of my heart as well. I decide to wait until Rivers comes back and then I'll go. I owe him that.
I turn around and there he is, standing just inside the doorway, dark and tragic. An aura of pain surrounds him and I am the reason for it. I try to console myself by thinking that if I stay here, that if I continue to live in the present without thinking of the future, he will only be hurt to a catastrophically larger degree.
"Where were you?"
"Walking," he bites out. "I actually know how to do that."
I wince at my earlier words, knowing I deserved that. They were harsh and uncalled for. “I'm sorry,” I tell him. “For what I said. I didn't mean it. I shouldn't have said it.”
He stares at me, not acknowledging my words as he studies my face. “You're leaving.”
“I am.”
His expression twists with something. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing, Rivers. I swear you didn't do anything wrong. You did—you did everything right,” I whisper forlornly.
A sound of disbelief leaves him. “Then why are you going?”
“Because I have to.”
“Right. I overheard. Your mom needs you to help out at the shop. Must be some floral emergency, right?” His tone says he doesn't believe that.
I turn my back on him and grab whatever I can find of mine to shove into the bag. Sadly, there isn't much. That done, I face him once more. “Take care of yourself.” It sounds so lame, so lacking.
He stands unmoving. “You're hiding things.”
I flinch, my breath whooshing out of me. “What?”
“Everything has been fine. You like being here. I like you being here. I know you want to be with me, Del. You feel the same for me as I feel for you. Don't try to act like you don't. And now, suddenly, for no reason, you're leaving. Quitting. What happened? What won't you tell me?”
“Nothing. I just...you and me...” I gesture helplessly.
“Me and you what?” he asks flatly.
I can't look at him as I say, “You're all sports and I'm all...whatever I am. You're outgoing. I'm not. We grew up in different worlds. We're just—we're too...different.” It's a poor answer, a poor excuse, and it isn't even accurate. We are different, and I think that is why we are so compatible.
“You can't be serious.”
My face is on fire in shame as I glance at him and away. The stiffness of his jaw is painful to look at. I put that hard edge there and remorse washes over me at my unintentional role in the wounding of him. “I have to go.”
I move toward him and around him. Just as I pass him, his hand shoots out and grabs my arm, halting me. Those dark eyes that see and reveal so much study me. I never understood that about his eyes. In the dark, aren't we supposed to be unable to see? Yet I see everything in them, everything I could ever want or need. My face must reflect my thoughts because his eyebrows lower, like he doesn't understand me and what I am doing.
That makes two of us.
His voice is a rasp when he states, “Instead of thinking of all the reasons why we can't work, why not think of the reasons why we can?”
“You know what I need? I need some space. I need to think.” What I am saying is truthful, but I know that doesn't make it any easier for him to hear. It's the best I can tell him right now.
I think he is going to argue with me, refuse to let me go without a fight, but instead he drops his hand from me and backs away. “You got it.”
A blade of thin, but lethal anguish slices open my heart. He's letting me go. This is what you want. It is and it isn't. It's easiest, yes, but I retract my recent thought that it is best. What is best for me is in this room with me, the room I am walking out of. He lets me walk away. The wound starts with a trickle of an ache and morphs into a steady flow of agony as I walk from the room, out of the house, and away from the boy I cherish.
THE FIRST TEXT COMES THE following morning.
It reads: I had a nightmare last night. But it wasn't about me drowning this time. It was you. I was in the water next to you and I still couldn't save you. I feel like I'm drowning all over again.
I type out: You were never drowning. You never will. You're too strong.
But I can't send it. I erase the text message and set my phone aside, ready to begin my new job and my new life minus Rivers. I am unbelievably depressed about this. And sleeping without him last night? It was torture and in no way restful, because, yeah, is there such a thing as restful torture? No.
I shower, brush and then immediately mess up my hair, put a layer of eye makeup on, and dress in a pink and white striped tank top and a purple flowing skirt that hovers at my knees. I grab a lime green scarf from the full-length mirror and loosely wrap it around my neck before stomping down the stairs to start the day. The scarf makes me think of Rivers, which is equal parts soothing and torment.
My mom gives me a quizzical smile when I grab the coffeepot and pour a large amount into my cup. �
��I'm glad you're home and going to work with me, but are you?”
“Cleaning rooms is my life,” I deadpan. “How could I not be glad?”
“You quit pretty abruptly. Did Rivers do something?”
Yes. Rivers did something. He was so stinking appealing to me that I found myself falling for him.
“He didn't do anything wrong,” I answer tiredly. “And I don't really want to talk about it, okay?”
She watches me for a moment before nodding. “All right. You want to walk to work together?”
I hear the hopeful note in her voice and my first inclination is to push her away, but she is my mom and she is trying so hard, and pushing her away does nothing now but hurt her. So I nod and I smile, a pain shooting through me at the way her face lights up when she smiles back. I just made her day and I feel awful about that.
"Will you be around for dinner?" she asks as we walk out the door, everything about her hesitant as she interacts with me.
I never realized how wary my distance made her. I can see that she is afraid anything she says or does may cause me to flee. I rub my face, forcing a smile as I drop my hands. "You bet. I'll even cook. What sounds good?"
"Hmm. How about spaghetti and meatballs? We can use some of the canned sauce I made from the garden tomatoes last year. Oh, and how about using spaghetti squash for the noodles? Maybe some garlic bread to go with it."
"It wouldn't be a meal without garlic bread."
She laughs. "Exactly. I think we should make some lemon bars. I've been craving them for weeks."
"That all sounds great."
"It does, doesn't it?" She beams at me, lacing her arm through mine as we walk the mile or so it takes to get to her shop.
I return her smile, forcing a lightness to it I do not feel. Seeing how happy my mom is devastates me. Within the cocoon of her joy I am struggling. I want to mean the smiles I aim her way, I want to laugh with her—to imprint myself upon her mind and heart so deeply there is no chance of her ever forgetting one single detail about me, even though I doubt that is really even a possibility.