Chasing Peace (7 page)

You can’t see the bedroom door. It’s in the alcove, opposite
the bathroom. I like it that way, first for privacy and now so I don’t have to
see the door, at least not very often. My mom thinks I should move, but I can’t
afford it. Besides now that I’m in school, I like that I’m near campus.

I disappear into the bathroom to get out of my wet work clothes
and find that I don’t want to remove everything with Boston around. When I
emerge, Boston is standing where I’d left him, jacket hanging from his fingers.
“Are you okay now? Want me to go?”

“You can go.”

“I could sleep on your couch.”

Freezing in panic, my throat closes, choking off my words. A
cold stillness settles over me. My mind works furiously for an answer, but
short circuits when it gets to the possibility of sleeping in the bedroom. I
begin to sweat, unable to come up with a response. It’s that icy cold sweat
that reeks of tension and distress.

Boston watches me as I dive off into crazyland, my eyes
huge, pupils dilated; my mouth opening and closing with silent words; my rigid
posture, pallor and cold sweat screaming panic. I’m mortified by what he must
think, but I don’t have any solutions.

“It’s okay. I’ll go.”

The adrenaline rushes out of me as Boston shrugs into his
jacket. I pin my lower lip between my teeth, feeling bad about his walking
home.

“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”
His eyes pin me down with a pointed stare.

I have an idea. “As long as you’re coming back, you wanna
use my car?”

“You’re okay with that?”

“Hey, I know where you work,” I offer glibly, stepping
toward him to find my keys. He’s close as I rummage in my bag. I can smell his
jacket.

“Looking for these Sterling?”

I spin around, startled by how close his voice is behind me.
“

Where’d you get my keys?”

“I drove you home, remember?”

“Oh.” I snag my lower lip between my teeth again, lowering
my eyes, embarrassed to have him so close in my tiny apartment.

“I guess I better go.” His words fan across my cheek.

“I guess you better go.” I lift my eyes to his. I think to
make sure he’s leaving, but I’m not entirely sure.

Neither of us moves, at least not intentionally, although we’re
pulled together like the moon that moves the tides or the wind that moves the
trees. His lips part slightly, as do mine, as if it will help us to breathe. We
draw closer and our breath mingles. My respiration picks up. There isn’t enough
oxygen in the air as his breath whispers across my lips. Invisible threads pull
us together until our lips meet, clinging and questioning. Nothing else
touches, just our mouths.

It’s sweet and tentative with experimentation and inquiry
and hesitation.

I don’t want this, my mind screams. I don’t want this. I don’t
want this. I don’t want this. I pull away groaning, “Oh God, I groan.” I do
want this, but I shouldn’t.

Like a magnet that both repels and attracts, I’m pulled in
two directions. The battle within me rages as my mind wants one thing and my
heart and soul another. I want to remain where I am, protected by isolation,
but I want to go forward too. I want to have hope and believe in dreams and
trust in love.

His eyes hold mine, almost captive. They’re dark with glints
from the dim light in the kitchen. They’re compelling, calling to me, or maybe
I just think that because I want what they promise. His fingertips graze my
cheeks, slide over my jaw, his palm warm against the side of my face as I lean
into him. His thumb teases and catches on my lower lip. He’s pulling me toward
him, without pulling as I comply.

I can’t worry about yesterday or think about tomorrow. I
have too much going on right now. Giving in without sound, without protest, our
lips clash, consuming. I need this man. I need to feel and live and savor. I
clutch at his shoulders as our lips ravage and suckle and devour. I strain
toward him, wanting more, needing to meld my body with his.

My tongue traces his lower lip, not waiting for him. When he
groans, I delve into the dark recess, demanding to taste even more. My pulse is
driving, blood rushing through my veins. I’m hot and quaking and I can’t get
close enough to Boston’s body.

He tries to help, hands at my back and fingers splayed he
holds me close, almost lifting me from my feet.

Bending my knee to hug his hip, I groan as his knee slides
between my thighs. He drags me close and I’m straddling his leg, heat and steam
building against his denim-clad thigh. My head is tilting back and forth my
oxygen deprived brain voracious, but not for air. I need more of Boston.

Slipping my hands beneath his shirt, I revel in the smooth
expanse of ultra-heated skin below my palms, the tang of him on my lips, the
strength of his thigh between my legs, until I am bereft.

Without quite understanding what happened, I find myself
standing alone on legs as weak as a feather trying to hold up the earth. The
pulsing of my body turns sluggish, the heat in my cheeks glowing a dull red as
Boston’s hands at my shoulders steady me.

I find myself embarrassed and uncertain, wondering what just
happened. My eyes plead with confusion, seeking answers that only Boston has.

He steps back, dropping his hands from my shoulders. I
watch, mute as he grabs my keys from the desk. “I’ll be back early.” A half
smile plays about his lips and his eyes sparkle as he backs toward the door. “Get
some sleep.”

Boston looks like a man with a secret and he’s gone,
slipping into the darkness, before I can ask about it.

I love that moment when I first wake up, when I first come
into consciousness. I’m midway between sleep and alert and I gradually become
aware of myself. I recognize my life, the person I am, my place in the world,
the people surrounding me. When full realization hits, I find that moment to be
nothing more than a lie. A lie I desperately crave.

The mind is a tricky thing. It wants to comfort and
reassure, to restore peace, if only for a minute. I revel in the respite,
however brief, when my mind wakes to better days, forgetting for a moment that
my world has changed. That first flash of consciousness hasn’t yet caught up
with current events, hasn’t yet reconciled with that which is different, hasn’t
yet reminded me that I’m sad, unless maybe that’s just my mind.

This morning I have one more minute of peace before reality
comes crashing down as I wonder what I just heard, why I’m awake.

I stretch warm and happy in the cocoon of my duvet. I
realize I’m sleeping on the futon instead of my bed. I wonder why and then I
know. I’m still warm, but no longer comfortable. My breath hitches at the
heaviness in my chest. I drag in air at a measured pace in an attempt at calm.
While I love the harmony that comes with the first blush of consciousness, I
hate the dawning realization that takes me through the trauma over and over
again. Sometimes the nightmares are better.

“Sterling? Sterling? Are you awake?”

That’s what I heard. Boston had my car last night and
planned to return it early.

I never expected to drift off so quickly, but the tension
and stress of the evening floated away and I fell, sleeping deeply. I never
expected to come awake with Boston at my bedside either, but here he is,
kneeling beside the futon whispering.

“I know you’re awake Sterling. Open your eyes.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Open your eyes Sterling.”

I do. His face hovers over mine, close enough to be fuzzy,
except for his eyes, clear and bright. The warm citrus scent that can be only
Boston embraces me as I whisper, “You’re beautiful you know.” I’d thought it
before and right then, with my defenses lowered by sleep, I could admit it. He
is golden in the dim light slanting between the living room blinds. Loose curls
hug his ears and skim his neck. His lips quirk in amusement and his eyes glint
as I watch their harvest-tint, rich and deep in the dim light. “Are you
laughing at me?” I demand.

“No. I’m thinking you’re the one who’s beautiful. Now, tell
me what happened last night?”

“Are you flirting with me?” I smile child-like and teasing,
still not girded and fortified.

The command in his voice is compelling. He isn’t mean, but
he isn’t playing around or flirting either. Boston is serious. “What happened
last night?”

“You brought me home and then you left,” I pouted.

“Before that Sterling.”

“I bumped my head on the dumpster.” I couldn’t lie or
deceive. The line where sleep meets wake is a dangerous place to be. There are
no inhibitions, no shields for self-preservation, no half-truths or deceptions,
and no filters to censor my words and keep my secrets.

If Boston asks about Emma, I’ll tell him everything. I’ll
talk until I recognize the words spilling from my lips and then I’ll stop,
upset about sharing my secrets. Unless like opening a shaken soda can, the
words keep coming, overflowing. Once begun they are relentless, never-ending
until the entire truth is revealed and calm prevails once again. He doesn’t
ask.

“Where did you get this?” My finger traces the scar from
below his ear to just above his jaw.” He smiles and the end puckers into a
dimple, right where it should be, but about an inch too low.

“That’s a story for another time. I left your car in the
lot, your keys on the desk. Go back to sleep now. I’ll see you later.”

Yet again he slips out on me. It’s what I want, yet it leaves
me feeling so alone, when I never feel alone.

* * *

With my elbow propped on the armrest that supports the
attached half desk, I unconsciously relax my wrist until my hand hangs limp at
the end of my arm.

I contemplate how my plans could be so out of whack only
weeks into the semester. I’d planned to focus solely on studies, committed to
eliminating distractions, and that includes friends, parties and boyfriends.
Now here I think I might like to be friends with Annie and Boston maybe a
little more.

Shaking my head in irritation, the fingers from my left hand
slide into position over my right and without thought I push, forcing the limp
hand and fingers inward until my wrist cracks.

“Ewww. Did you seriously just pop your wrist?” The voice
comes from a girl across the room. Her look of disgust mars an otherwise pretty
face framed by long dark hair.

“I did seriously.” I emphasize the word seriously with a
similar nasal twang and just enough boredom to mimic her tone.

Laughter erupts from a guy sitting two desks away.

“Sorry,” I say to him, ignoring the girl. “I broke my wrist
a couple months back and the occasional popping makes it feel better.” I’m not
at all concerned about what the girl thinks. I spent a lot of time on my own
and learned quickly that contrary to high school, other people’s opinions don’t
much matter, unless they’re your boss.

“No need to apologize,” he says. “I’ve never heard that
before, but it makes sense.”

Annie had been quiet during the exchange. When I look her
way, her wide brown eyes connect with mine. A slight frown between her brows
questions my response as if she doesn’t quite believe me, but she says nothing.

* * *

Annie and I walk over to the sandwich shop for dinner after
class. We haven’t talked since the party and have some catching up to do. When
we arrive I order a turkey and avocado sandwich, she a turkey with brie.

“I see you’ve recovered from the party.”

“Ugh. I have one class on Friday and it’s not until two.
Would you believe I almost didn’t make it?”

“I totally believe it. How did you get so wasted? We were
only there a couple hours.”

“I’ve never played beer pong before. I guess I’m pretty bad.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have been that drunk.”

“Oh, I don’t like beer, so they let me play with shots.”

“Seriously Annie?”

“Well I said I’m not very good.” She juts out her lower lip
as she shrugs.

“You know Boston had to carry you to the car.”

“Great.” She rolls her eyes making it clear she doesn’t
consider it great at all. “Did he use the cradle hold or ass in the air? They
each have their merits.”

“You’ve considered the merits?” I ask wide-eyed.

“At my size, guys don’t usually think twice before picking
me up and hauling me around. How did he do it?”

“I guess ass in the air.” I picked the closest description. “He
carried you across both shoulders, holding a leg with one hand, arm with the
other.”

“You mean the fireman? Oh man, that’s embarrassing.”

“I tried to tell him, but he said it’s your own damn fault
for getting so drunk.”

“Well that’s true. So what’s going on with you and Boston?”

“Nothing. Why?”

She studies me for a minute, eyes questioning.

“What happened at the party? Did you guys hookup?”

“No.” Disdain curls my lip and furrows my brow at the
question.”

“It’s not such a ridiculous question. You invited him to the
party.”

“I invited him for you Annie.”

“You know I’m in a relationship. I told you. Besides Boston
thought he was there for you, not me.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“So what happened while I ran off to party?”

“I didn’t see him nearly the entire night. I guess he found
a poker game.”

“Slacker. He drove you home though. I want details.”

“He asked me to dance.” My cheeks heated at the admission
and my lashes fluttered down to cover my eyes as I busied myself with adjusting
the avocado slipping from my sandwich.

“Oooooh,” Annie squealed like a preteen girl. “You danced
right?”

“I wouldn’t have, except I met a guy.”

“What?” Annie shook her head, eyes squinting, startled by
the sudden change in storyline.

“We talked. That’s all. I kept my distance by telling him I
was with someone.”

“Aaaah. And?”

“When Boston found us and asked me to dance, I couldn’t
refuse in front of Luke.”

“So how does he dance?”

“My eyes dart sideways. “It made me nervous.”

“That’s a good thing. A little chemistry ... a little
tension … a little something more.”

I burst out laughing. “Who says that?” My eyes return to
Annie, hers brilliant with mirth.

“I think you like him,” she taunts.

“Noooo. He’s a friend and a coworker. That’s all.”

“Protest all you want, but when you talk about him, your
cheeks get pink and your eyes go all soft and mushy. You might not admit it,
but I think you like him.”

“I wouldn’t put money on it,” I snap, my sandwich sitting
heavy in my stomach and my cheeks going red for another reason entirely.

“We’ll see,” she teases.

* * *

We don’t talk on the way to work today. I’ve given Boston a
ride to and from work since he drove me home a couple weeks ago. We’ve been
friends and nothing more since we kissed.

Last week we’d talked about everything, majors, weather,
professors, work, Lyla and probably some stuff I’d already forgotten. This week
we talk about nothing. I’m back to being awkward with Boston. I don’t know what
I want from him. Actually, I do know, and I also know better.

I still haven’t returned his shirt and he didn’t take it
last weekend. Maybe he left it so he’d have an excuse to come back. I don’t
fondle it or smell it or rub it on my face. That’s creepy, but keeping it,
leaving it where he left it, waiting for his return makes me feel like there
might be future where none exists right now.

“Hi Lyla.”

“Hey sweetie. What’s the matter with you two?”

“Who? Boston and me?”

“Who else? Last week you walked in chattering and laughing
like best friends, this week, not a peep and you with a grimness that smacks of
something dreadful.”

I shove my purse under the bar before dragging on the ugly
polyester uniform jacket. “It’s nothing even close to dreadful.”

“Tell me about it?” she prods.

I plunge two glasses into the washer, letting the swirling
brushes and soapy water scrub them clean before moving on to rinse and then
drip dry. “It’s nothing. We’ve barely talked since last weekend.” I shared all
the details including his coming back the next morning.

“It sounds to me like he’s a good guy.”

“Yeah, well, I have rules for a reason. Logan seemed to be a
good guy too and look where that left me and Brock turned out to be even worse.”
Tears stab at the edge of my eyes and I hurtle back in time, remembering the
devastating end to my relationship with Brock.

“Sterling sweetie. You have to grieve to move on.”

I dash away the tears clinging to my eyelashes and laugh. It
is derisive and self-deprecating and sounds a lot like a bark. “I don’t have a
problem with the grieving. It’s learning from my mistakes I seem to find
challenging.”

“What makes you think Boston would be a mistake? Maybe he’s
just what you need right now. Maybe he’s just a nice guy you can enjoy for
awhile to show you there’s still happiness in this world?”

“Or maybe he’s here to torture me for all the dreadful
decisions I’ve made.” I stopped talking, but my mind didn’t stop. Maybe he’s
here to torture me for wishing for a normal life, for dreaming of what life
could have been, for looking for happiness in all the wrong places. Oh how I
wish I’d made different choices, but I did the best I could and look how my
life has turned out.

“Now you listen to me Sterling. You’re talking like you’re
ready to die and you’re reviewing a lifetime of regrets.” She glared, daring me
to interrupt, but I’m not dumb enough to do that. I know better. When Lyla’s on
a roll, I just listen. “Well let me tell you, people might regret the outcome
of some of their decisions, but they regret more all of the missed
opportunities, what might have been. Everyone wants to be happy. That’s why we’re
here, what we’re looking for in life, why we do all the seemingly crazy, upside
down, inside out things that we do. We all deserve a chance at happiness, but
it doesn’t just happen. You have to go find it. You have to decide to live your
life or let it pass you by. You have to decide whether you’re going to jump at
opportunities or hide behind the sofa and you have to make these decisions for
yourself. Do we take a lot of chances that don’t lead to happiness? Sure we do.
We’re human and we have regrets. We don’t know exactly what we’re looking for,
so we keep trying. That’s what we do.”

“Let’s say that’s true. So what if I’m not ready to try
again? What then o-wise oracle?” I’m defensive and snippy, lashing out at Lyla
because I feel frozen and uncertain. I have my rules for a reason. They protect
me from the bitter, soul-sucking devastation that could squeeze me dry. I won’t
take a chance with Boston no matter how much I want to because experience has
taught me better and I’m not going through that again.

“You pick yourself up and you try again because we don’t get
some secret decoder ring or x-ray glasses that tell us what the future holds.
We use our best judgment. We listen to our hearts. We take advice from friends.
We trust our intuition. We check our facts. That’s what we do and what we keep
doing, because there’s no guarantee. You just try and see what happens and then
you try again, until you’re feeding worms and you can’t try anymore.”

She’s right. That’s what I’m supposed to do, but I’m not
ready. All I have to do is think about Emma and I’m frozen. Sometimes simple
everyday decisions have horrifying consequences and I don’t know how to cross
that line.