My Heart for Yours

by Jolene Perry

  I’m stumbling, and for once, I feel scared. I don’t want to be here anymore, but there’s no way I’m sober enough to drive home. The weight of the grief finally forces me down. I finally give in and let it. I sit down alongside the same damn tracks that my brother died on and sob like a baby. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be here till the end. And there it is again, that damn smell. I can’t get either one of them out of my head. I lost Eamon and now I feel like I’m having to lose Delia all over again. I know what he’d tell me to do. Go out and find a new piece of ass and get the fuck over it. I wish it were that simple.

  “Tobin?” her voice is tiny but shoots through me like an electric shock. I pause before looking up from the gravel. Surely that was the beer talking. She isn’t actually here.

  But when I look up, she is standing there. It’s not my imagination.

  “Delia, go away,” I say flatly.

  “Tobin, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be out here,” she says. Her voice is full of pity and it’s the last thing in the world that I want from her right now.

  I feel her hand on my shoulder and I jerk away.

  “Come on, Tobin. Let me take you home,” she says.

  I can’t do a whole lot of arguing. It’s already early morning, and I’ve got to give my brother’s eulogy in just a few short hours. I run my forearm across my face to wipe away any tears that may be there. I hope I do it quickly enough that she doesn’t notice. What the fuck do I care anyway right now, though?

  She wraps her arm around me to help me up.

  ***

  “Tobin, she was everything to me,” she said.

  I wiped the tear from under her hazel eye with my thumb and then stroked her chestnut hair. I wanted to tell her that at least her grandmother was away from Delia’s asshole of a father now, but refrained. He gave her grandma hell for not rolling over and agreeing with him and what he believed. She was a feisty little woman. I know Delia really looked up to her.

  “I know, baby, it’s going to be okay, I’m not going to leave you,” I told her.

  I cradled her in my arms and picked her up off of the ground.

  Her grandmother died that summer and there was nothing that I could do to make her feel any better. But I stayed by her side for days despite her father’s objections about me being in their house—he was far too busy and important to make the trip back home. He’s such a stereotypical, political ass.

  I helped her into bed the night before her grandmother’s funeral. I fluffed the pillows like I’d seen my mom do when we were having company and pulled the thick down comforter up over her. It was the first time that I’d actually taken care of someone. The first time that someone needed me.

  “I love you, Delia Gentry,” I told her. My heart raced, I’d never said the words to a woman before.

  “So, what, your love for mine? Another trade?” she asked. It was her first smile in days.

  “Nope, I love you. That’s it.” I said.

  “Well, Tobin LeJeune, it just so happens that I love you, too.”

  ***

  “You know in all the time we were together, this is the first time I’ve ever driven your truck,” she says.

  “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. It’s never going to happen again,” I mumble. She grinds the gears as she slows down to stop at a stop sign. I feel like I’m going to be sick. It has little to do with Delia’s poor driving of a standard, but that isn’t helping either.

  “It’s this one up here on the left,” I say smugly.

  “I know which—” she stops and looks at me, “Oh, I see. You’re trying to be funny.”

  She pulls the truck into the driveway and then starts toward the front door.

  “Okay, so, I’m going to call Weston, and then get you inside.”

  The mention of his name makes me fume with anger. She speaks softly into the phone like it’s too private for me to hear. I wonder what she’s telling him. I can’t focus enough on anything to concentrate on her voice right now.

  “I don’t need your help,” I say after she hangs up.

  She’s wearing that same damn pair of cut off’s that she always did, the ones that always drove me a little crazy. I want to run my finger along the frayed edges. I shouldn’t be thinking about things like that right now, but I am. “Tobin, I’m not leaving you out here.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “So, isn’t your boyfriend going to be pissed that you’re with me?”

  Delia lightly tiptoes up the stairs.

  “And where are you going?” I ask.

  “I’m going to make sure you get settled in bed. You really need to get some rest. Oh, and for the record, Weston isn’t your concern,” she says.

  “Ah, that’s sweet. I didn’t think you had it in you to stand up for anything,” I say. She turns around with eyes narrowed; she opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but lets it snap shut. The thought of getting her all riled up is so damn hot. I take my time going up the stairs, because I’m not entirely sure that they aren’t going to slip out from under me.

  “Tobin, don’t do this, I’m just trying to help,” she says. She holds the bedroom door open for me. I should be worried about waking my parents, but Dad would never interfere and waking Mom would be like waking the dead with all of the medication she’s taking.

  “So, when exactly did you decide you were over me and start sleeping with the captain of the polo team?” I ask.

  She drops the pillow that she had been fluffing onto my bed and grits her teeth. I sort of love seeing her pissed off.

  “That’s not how it was and you know it,” she says through clenched teeth.

  I close the bedroom door behind me. The fact that she doesn’t deny that they are sleeping together tears at me.

  “Then tell me how it was, Delia. Here’s your chance. You’re free to say it all. Shit, I won’t even remember it in the morning!” I laugh.

  “We can talk about this when you’re sober, Tobin.”

  I hear a car idling down on the street. That was fast. He must have one of those fancy GPS things to have found the house so quick. And maybe he doesn’t like the idea of her here with me.

  “So, I’m gonna go. Get some sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says. She stares at me briefly then just turns and leaves. Like it’s so easy for her. Why can’t it be that easy for me?

  I hear the front door open downstairs and I just can’t let it go like that. I haul ass down the stairs, slipping on the last three and almost break my neck.

  “D!” I call out the door.

  She spins on her heels and I notice the Ralph Lauren model is standing at the passenger side door, ready to open it for her. He looks up at me, and I can’t tell from his expression what he does or doesn’t know about me. I really don’t care at this point.

  “Why?” I demand.

  She raises her finger to Weston to signal that she’ll just be a minute and starts back toward me, hands on her hips, shaking her head.

  “Why what, Tobin?”

  “Why did you leave me like that? Why did you run off with someone else so fucking fast?” I’m slurring my words a little. I can hear it, but I can’t stop.

  “I didn’t leave you, Tobin. Don’t be absurd. You know what, I can’t do this right now, and you shouldn’t want to. It doesn’t matter anymore,” she says.

  And I wish to God that it didn’t, but it does. Because the last time anything was okay was when Delia was in my life and at our house for Sunday dinner and Eamon was there and my mom was awake and it just all matters.

  “Everything okay, sweets?” Weston is here now and I don’t want him this close to her. Or me.

  “Everything is fine. You can go back to your car,” I tell him.

  “It’s fine, Weston, I can take care of myself,” she says.

  I snort. “Since when?”

  Weston hasn’t moved. Instead, he holds Delia’s hand and I want to pummel him for it.

  “Why don’t
I just get you home,” he says to her.

  She nods and starts to walk away with him. Your hand in mine.

  And I snap.

  “Okay, D. I hope you find whatever it is that you’re looking for. Or whatever it is that your dad is looking for, for you. You’re a fucking mess!” I yell after her.

  I expect Ralph Lauren to come back after me, but he doesn’t. Instead, Delia is in my face. Staring at me with intensity I’ve never seen in her before. Even in my drunken haze, I can see the anger ignite in her eyes

  “I know you’re drunk. And grieving. But fuck you, Tobin.”

  I’ve never heard her swear like that. I’ve never seen her passionate about something like that.

  “Shit, I want to kiss you right now,” I say.

  “Don’t you dare. Go to bed. I’m leaving. With my boyfriend. You go and sober up.” She’s leaving again.

  And this time, I have to let her go.

  WHAT IS SAFE?

  Is safe the hands that hold you no matter what?

  Or is safe someone hurting enough to fight?

  Is safe the one who is strong as a pillar?

  Or is safe who wants to use the strength of two, not one?

  Is love safe?

  Or is it better to find comfort?

  Can there be comfort without love?

  Can passion come from warmth?

  Or does it need to come from fire?

  Fourteen

  Delia

  I rest my head against the cold window as I count the bright street lights on the way back to my house. I know exactly how many there are. Fifty-two between his house and mine. I know because the last time I drove away from Tobin’s house, concentrating on counting them was the only thing that kept me from crumbling. I’m in the car with Weston. It’s over. We’re gone, and Tobin’s hopefully sleeping it off. Damn him.

  Shit, I want to kiss you right now. What the hell!

  The scariest thing is that if Weston hadn’t been there…I might…no. Not Tobin. Too late. Way too late.

  It’s a relief to not be in that house anymore—weighed down with grief. There are too many memories, and too many of them good. How many times did I sit with him, his parents and Eamon playing cards at the kitchen table? How many pitchers of sweet tea did his mom and I share on the front porch while I waited for Tobin to get home from work? Too many to just forget, that’s for sure.

  I sigh and slump even lower in the seat. It feels like I had to call Weston to come rescue me, which sucks because that’s what he’s always done for me. I knew he wouldn’t be mad, because he loves the role. I did lie and tell him I got lost when I stumbled onto Tobin—like I could get lost in these woods.

  “I’m sorry. I know this is totally awkward.” I let my eyes find Weston’s profile in the dim light of the car. There’s no way for me to not be completely embarrassed by Tobin’s outburst, and I’m wondering if Weston’s getting too good of a look at the little country girl making her way in D.C. Will he start to wonder who I am? ‘Cause that one’s hitting me right now. I’m waiting for some lecture, or for him to say how weird this is, or how totally inappropriate it was of me to help Tobin home.

  Weston’s hand reaches across the car to take mine. ”It is awkward, but I understand, at least a little.”

  I’m shocked. “You’re not mad?”

  “The way he talked to you upset me, and I was a little surprised at how you answered.” He sounds a little like my dad, but I let it slide because I can’t believe that he isn’t pissed.

  “But you’re not mad at me?” I realize as I ask that I almost want him to be. I want him to be mad that instead of sneaking into his room, I snuck outside. Tobin would have been pissed—well, because he’d have been hurt.

  “Did you sneak out and plan to meet with him?” Even a corner of his mouth pulls up. He is actually, really, seriously, not mad.

  “No.”

  “Did you kiss him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s your friend, Delia. You have history. You helped him out. I’m not mad.” His thumb brushes the top of my hand, and his eyes are all sincerity.

  Grandma’s words slip into my head—make love with the same passion as you argue. But what if you don’t argue? Even over the big things? This seems pretty big.

  There’s more to Weston than I give him credit for. And it’s the stupidest thing in the world for me to feel split between a guy I still feel betrayed by, and Weston—who is sometimes exactly what I’d expect, and is sometimes so much more. I have to do something to thank him.

  “Stop the car.”

  “What?” he asks.

  “Pull over.” I let the corner of my mouth turn up. If I can get Weston to make me feel like Tobin makes me feel—only without all the hurt and games…

  A faint smile passes across his lips, as he turns down a small side street and pulls over.

  I kiss him softly, and his mouth immediately opens like he’s trying to devour me. I wonder if this is what happens to guys when they don’t have sex—like all the other stuff needs to be bigger, more intense.

  “Slow down,” I whisper as I pull away from his kiss.

  “What?” He’s already out of breath but pauses.

  “You just…” I need to open my mouth and say it. Tell him what I want.

  Weston backs away.

  I reach out for his hands. This is the guy who saved me when I first got to D.C. The guy who made all the photo-op stuff Dad wanted me to be a part of bearable. Because not every senator’s kid is tortured the way I am.

  Why aren’t I feeling more?

  “What?” He’s looking at me with confusion. Of course he is. I never ask for anything.

  “Never mind. I’m sorry.” I pull on his hand, but he leans away.

  “What’s going on?” His brows pull together.

  I stare at the seat between us. Okay. Deep breath. Get it out. “I want to slow down when we’re together. Take more time. I—”

  His fingers touch my chin, bringing my face level with his. His lips brush mine softly, sending a wave of shivers through me. My eyes close.

  Tobin’s there.

  No, no, no. Tobin does not get to be in this moment, again. He also doesn’t get to make me feel bad about this moment.

  I part my lips, and Weston’s still hovering, just close enough to me that I can feel his smile on my lips. His fingers touch the side of my face, slide down my arms, and rest on my shoulders where he starts drawing patterns. Slow. It’s all things that should make my knees weak, and my heart pound faster, and it sort of does, but I’m only half here, and I don’t know how to bring the rest of myself into what should be an amazing moment between us. I was right earlier—if I just told Weston what I want, he’d try.

  Now I’m thinking that I was wrong when I thought Weston was like my dad. So wrong. Weston’s good, and kind, and still kissing me so softly.

  “I love you, Delia,” Weston whispers as he touches me.

  I put my arms tightly around him, pressing our bodies together in the confines of the car. And that same comfort that’s always been a part of him wraps me up even tighter than his arms.

  “I’m sorry you lost your friend.” His hand strokes my hair.

  I break down in tears, once again not even sure how much of it is about Eamon, and how much is me going slowly insane back in this town.

  I have no words for Weston, only confusion. About everything. Weston only knows the girl I’ve tried to be. Tobin knows the girl I really am. The one who’d read nothing but poetry all day long. The girl who half-lives on sweet tea, and goes barefoot, even on the rocks. Weston knows the manicured Delia. What would he think of the real girl?

  “It’s okay, Delia. I’m here.” His fingers gently wipe away my tears, leaving me with even more guilt in their place.

  His words make me cry harder, because there’s no denying anymore that Weston feels more than I do, and a horribly selfish part of me is using him. I don’t want to just use him. I want the passi
on of Tobin with the safeness of Weston. Something I’m starting to realize is completely impossible.

  Why haven’t I trusted Weston with all the parts of me? I trusted Tobin, and I still love him for it. Maybe still more than I love Weston. I love and hate admitting this to myself.