Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (48 page)

“No, he didn’t mean it, Emily,” Christian said firmly, cutting her off. “He couldn’t have meant it. He loves you, worships you. He always has; he always will. He probably hates himself pretty bad right now, and he has to be rocked to the core. Shit, I just hope he doesn’t do something stupid.”

“Like what?” She wiped at her tears with the heel of her palms, hiccupping down the rest of them.

The sky outside was dark and foreboding, a portent of storms. He leaned over and took a slug of his wine. “He wouldn’t. Nah, he wouldn’t,” he said to the window.

But his face didn’t look convinced.

Beethoven had descended to Tchaikovsky and raged into Schoenberg. Andrew’s fingers could no longer move. He desperately needed aspirin or alcohol.

He got both. Thank God for student unions. He looked at the clock on the checkout stand. Would he be too late?

Zoey had her hand on Emily’s back as they listened to the rain howling in sheets against her bedroom window. Christian had left them a while ago.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Emily said, slipping her shoulder away from Zoey’s touch.

“When you were lost, he looked for you. He’s lost now, don’t you see? Everything that he’s trusted has crumbled. I love you, but you two are so fucking stubborn I want to knock your little neurotic heads together sometimes. You’re both wrapped up in your own fears, your own insecurities, your own worst case scenarios.”

Emily blinked at her, shocked. “But he said—”

“I know what he said. But do you honestly believe he meant it? After everything you two have been through? Emily, he loves you. You love him. Christian was right. It isn’t that hard. You can sit here and worry, or you can fight for him.”

“But, Zoey, he’s been hospitalized because of this idea of a muse. It’s not some romantic notion to him. It’s real. She’s real. And he truly believes that I’m her.”

“Would you leave him because of that? Because he’s wrestled with that burden as best as he could? He is not a lunatic, Emily. Tortured, yes. Strong willed and driven, certainly. But at the same time he’s incredibly passionate and brilliant. Think about it—he’s had to find a way to live without you his whole life. You’ve only had to live without him for a day, and look at what state you’re in.”

“But what if he’s deluding himself. What…what happens if I’m not really his muse after all? He’ll leave. He’s left already. Don’t you see that?”

“But you’re not his muse!”

Emily blinked. The rain rat-a-tat-tatted against the panes.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.

“You shouldn’t be. You’re so much better than her. Just drown the bitch.”

Thunder rumbled. A beautiful sound.

A gang of drunken frat boys spotted Andrew on his way out of the Student Union. They trailed him, laughing and cursing as he pressed on across the quad, his shoulders hunched against the pelting storm. This wouldn’t end well, he knew it.

He should have run, but he’d be damned if a bunch of spoiled, rich prats were going to mess with him; he was in no bloody mood.

“Hey, you,” one slurred, his words coming in fits and spurts in the driving rain. “I don’t like your fucking face. You illegal? Go back to picking lettuce, chico.”

Andrew buried his hands in his pockets; the rain, almost horizontal in its rage, sliced against his freezing body. He trudged on, leaving behind the sound of their boots squashing harshly in the thick mud. But the thundering storm had prevented him from hearing them near, and an alarm shot through him when he realized they were directly behind him.

“Listen here, faggot.” Andrew felt a heavy paw of a hand grab his shoulder. “I said—I don’t like your face.”

He stopped dead. His jacket and trousers slapped to him like a drenched icy skin. He clenched his hands into fists as something inside of him snapped. The exhaustion, the anger, his own self-hatred. He wanted to fight. He wanted to hurt someone. Badly.

“Funny,” Andrew seethed, “I don’t like your fucking repulsive mug either.”

The paw shoved him around and rose into the air, ready to come smashing down on his face. Andrew dodged to the right at the last minute, missing the blow by inches. The owner teetered around in surprise, but not before Andrew drove his fist against the side of his jaw. He hurled backward and fell into the slick, black mud.

Before Andrew knew it a massive form lurched at him from the darkness, and he wheeled to one side as his attacker went flying past him. The heat of the drunk’s anger left a trail in the air as he fell face first next to his friend in the sodden grass.

Andrew bounced backward on his toes like a street fighter, egging them on. “That’s the best you can do, you bloody pricks?”

With a drunken howl another hulk roared at him. Andrew hauled back and hurled his fist into the boy’s stomach; he doubled back and fell, groaning. Grabbing his burning hand, Andrew bent over, holding it to his body, cursing and grimacing in the white hot pain.

Seeing him falter, a pair of beefy arms seized the advantage and grabbed Andrew from behind, wrenching his arms back. A flash of fear shot through him. Lightning bolts of searing fire tore up his hand.
Not my hands, fuck, not my hands.

“Who you calling a prick, you faggot? You got a little gay boy voice, you fucking queer!”

The figure of a man lurched out of the dark rain, reeking of beer, and spat in Andrew’s face. Andrew struggled against the clamped grip on his arms, but the iron hands wrenched him brutally back, exposing his chest like a punching bag.

The man leaned back and slammed his fist into Andrew’s jaw; he felt the breath leave his lungs in a painful gasp. Another fist smashed into his gut. He doubled over, struggling to breathe.

Not my hands, please God, not my hands.

The headlights of an approaching car forced them to back off. With snide curses, they heaved Andrew onto the ground where he landed hard on the muddy grass. He plastered his hands into his body as he heard feet approach and the sound of boots seeping into the sodden ground.

Laughing, they ran, stumbling off into the night.

Groaning, Andrew lay writhing in a puddle of mud and grass. The freezing rain mixed with the heated trickle of blood from the gash along his eyebrow. The sound of gurgling seemed to be coming from his lips. He convulsed onto his side, holding his bruised gut, and coughed up what he prayed wasn’t his teeth. Raw skinned and throbbing, he curled onto his side, fighting off the waves of pain.

“Fuck, I want to go home. Please, anyone, I just want to go home…”

Teeth chattering, he curled deeper into the ground, his cheek scraping against the cold, hard gravel. The taste of blood and stones stung his mouth.

What seemed like an eternity passed, filled only with darkness and bitter rain, the far off sounds of traffic, and the smell of the earth.

“Get up, Hayes!” A voice shouted in his head, stronger and more aware than he. “Get up, or you’re going to damn well drown here, kid. Get on your feet!”

He felt himself dragged to his knees and struggled to stand. Nearly tripping, he blinked into the driving rain searching for the voice. Raising his face into the sky, blood and rain seeped down his throat. “I want to go home,” he pleaded to the voice, or to God, or to whoever would listen. “Please, I just want to go home,” he begged, his shoulders shaking.

Please.

Emily’s voice whispered in the sheets of rain.
Home.
He stumbled, falling on one knee. A dagger of pain lanced up his leg.
Home
.

No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

No.

It was wrong. He was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

His bruised and bleeding hand found S.J.’s card.

“You’ve been afraid ever since you met Andrew. And you’ve been running from him or shutting him out every chance you get. I don’t know what the answers are. But don’t you want to find them together and not let someone else dictate them to you? Fuck nature. So maybe his father made some mistakes, and his mother too. But he’s out there somewhere in the dark, in this torrential downpour, cold, alone, and heartbroken. Don’t you think he needs a hell of a lot more nurture right now?”

“But he isn’t coming home. Not tonight. He’s running.”

“No, you’re the one running. Did you ever trust him, ever believe in him? Or were you in your own fantasy world? If you had trusted him, believed what he told you, you would have run after him the moment he turned and headed out that door. You would have grabbed hold of his shoulders and shook him until he faced you. That’s what people who love each other do. Did you ever think that he never told you about his problems because he was afraid you would do precisely what you’re doing right now—abandon him?

“It’s late, Emily. Don’t let him do something he’ll regret. You’re the only one who stands between him and something that will make him hate himself more than he already does. So what’s it going to be?”