Authors: Tiffany Schmidt
“But …” My voice rose in pitch as my eyes filled again.
“But nothing. Sleep and eat breakfast; then you can see him.” Dad’s voice was firm.
Mom looked between Dad and me. She nodded. “Get some sleep and then he can visit. It’s just Gyver; he’ll wait.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” I whined like a toddler protesting
bedtime, my argument undermined by a second traitorous yawn.
“Then I guess you don’t want to see your friends,” Dad countered.
“Fine.” If it’s possible to slam your eyes shut, that’s what I did. Of course, all it did was jar tears loose and send them disloyally down my cheeks.
Mom wiped them. “He can visit after ten. I’ll send him home to get some sleep too.”
Since I slept until eleven, my parents compromised and allowed Gyver to visit while I ate breakfast. They even allowed me to see him alone—after a stern “Make sure she eats”—because they were speaking with the counselor I’d soon be meeting. Mom still wasn’t keen on the counselor idea. “What are you going to tell her about me?” Gyver rolled his eyes, and Dad shooed her out of the room.
“If I eat the toast, will you eat the rest so they get off my case?” I bargained when the door shut.
“Nope.” Gyver smiled and sat on the edge of my bed. I didn’t like the table with my breakfast tray between us, but my parents would be peeking in, so it stayed.
“I’ve been asking for you since three thirty,” I confessed.
“I know.” He grinned wider.
“I did some translating.” I reached under the table for his hand and blushed. “How do you say ‘kiss me’ in Italian?”
Gyver’s forehead wrinkled, and as the seconds stretched silent, my smile melted. My eyes itched with the tears of the rejected. I wrestled for composure, but my heart sprinted and my irregular breath caused a coughing fit. Gyver’s fingers had tightened when I’d asked, but now he released my hand and passed me a cup of apple juice.
I fought for control of my breathing, fought the tears blurring my eyes. I sipped, sending stinging juice down my raw throat.
“Forget I said anything,” I whispered, studying the banana browning on my tray. I wanted to shove it all aside and pull my knees to my chest.
“No, Mi—”
The door opened and we turned toward my father. “You okay? I could hear you coughing down the hall.”
I nodded and held up my juice, hoping he wouldn’t look too closely at my stricken face.
“I’ve got her, Mr. Moore. I’d come get you if anything …”
Dad smiled at Gyver. “I know you would. Just checking.” He pointed to the tray. “Eat,” and backed out of the room.
I crumbled some toast and peeked at Gyver with a hummingbird’s heart thrumming in my chest. “I assumed … Forget it.”
“I’m thinking. I know mostly kitchen Italian. If you want to know how to say something food related, I’m your guy. ‘Kiss me’ doesn’t come up at the dinner table.” He laughed and I raised my eyes to him.
“So you do …?” I trailed off. “The playlist wasn’t so subtle by the end.”
“I tried subtle, Mi. You didn’t get it.”
“And the last song? It’s you singing; you wrote it for me?”
“I could make you a whole playlist with the songs I’ve written you,” he confessed.
“Please do.” I put down my juice and leaned forward. “Gyver, I believe I’m going to get better—I do—but I’ve got lots of this left. Are you sure it’s what you want?”
“Lots of you—in bed? It’ll be torture, but I think I can manage.”
I frowned. “Be serious.”
“Mi, I’ve waited years for you already. I know what you’re saying, but I’m in love with you. Did you really not know? It’s going to take something worse than cancer to scare me.”
I shook my head. “You’ve called me ‘Mi’ forever. How long have I been oblivious?”
“Only since I was ten. Don’t you remember? You caught me repeating your name in the backyard.”
“You told me you liked alliteration. You were lying?”
Anyone else would have blushed; Gyver smiled and handed me a slice of toast. “Eat or I’m gonna get kicked out.”
I took a hasty bite. “All these years I’ve been collecting alliterative names for you—”
“
Baciami
!” Gyver interrupted, satisfaction settling on his face.
“Ba-cha-me?” I repeated slowly, my initial grin falling to a pout. “It’s not fair. I want to kiss you and can’t.”
“I don’t know; last time I initiated a kiss, you dropped ice cream on me.”
I laughed. “I didn’t do it on purpose! Is that what you thought?”
Gyver shrugged and nodded.
“Seriously? You think I’d waste perfectly good ice cream? That was a poorly timed clumsy moment, which I interpreted as a very bad omen.”
Gyver groaned. “You and your signs.”
“I’m done. I promise. I’ll cancel my horoscopes and throw away the Magic 8 Ball.”
“Keep the Magic 8 Ball. I gave you that.” He picked up and rubbed my hand. It was a gesture that should’ve been familiar and comforting, but it felt new and electric.
“Gyver, just so you know, Ryan and I didn’t …” I blushed and stumbled over words. “That day in the kitchen it looked like—But we never.”
He cupped my face, thumb stroking my cheek; there was a smile in his voice. “I didn’t think so. At least not that day.”
“How were you so maddeningly calm? I can’t believe you invited Ryan over for lasagna while we were standing there half-naked.”
“Rest assured, I went home and lifted till I threw up, but I didn’t think you’d … I knew you’d interpret my interruption as a
very bad sign
and cancel your plans.” His smile was smug. “But I don’t want to hear the words ‘Ryan,’ ‘you,’ and ‘naked’ in the same sentence again.”
The door opened too soon. My parents and the counselor entered the room. Far too soon for me to tell Gyver everything I needed to. “Come back later?”
“Tomorrow,” Dad corrected.
I opened my mouth to protest, but Dad repeated himself.
Gyver squeezed my hand under the tray. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mia Moore.”
I twisted my hand in his, tracing the guitar-string calluses on his fingertips. In a voice as steady as a statue and only slightly raspy, I answered, “I love you too, Gyver.”
“Did she say … to Gyver?” Mom looked from the door where Gyver exited to my father.
“Dear, let’s go,” said Dad.
“But what about Ryan?” she asked.
“We broke up.”
“You and Ryan broke up?” Her voice climbed from confused to baffled.
“Mom.” My voice was stern. She stopped fussing and turned to me. “You’ve got to start trusting me to make my own decisions about what makes me happy.”
“Of course, kitten. I do.” She smoothed her already smooth hair and laughed nervously. “Gyver Russo, really?” It wasn’t criticism, it was curiosity.
“Really.”
“Well then, it looks like I’ve got some catching up to do … that is, if you want to tell me.” She looked almost timid, adjusting and readjusting the shoulder strap of her purse.
“I’d like that.” We exchanged smiles, and Dad patted my hand before taking her arm and leading her out of the room.
That left me facing the counselor. She looked at me from behind thick lenses with an expression both patient and compassionate. I thought about Mrs. Russo’s comments. “Are you going to tell me it’ll help to talk? Because I have a lot to say …”
I woke Tuesday afternoon to a gentle but persistent poking in my shoulder.
“I’m up, I’m up,” I grumbled, swatting away someone’s hand.
“Finally,” Hil answered. “I’ve been sitting here for almost two hours, and I have to go soon.”
I scooted over on the bed and she climbed up next to me. We leaned against each other, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and stared at the wall in front of us.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she reflected with a wry laugh. “Remember all our plans for a perfect senior year?”
“Do you get why I couldn’t tell you?” I asked.
“No.”
“You wouldn’t have let me mope. You would’ve gotten the whole squad to—I don’t know—shave their heads in solidarity. You would’ve been there for me. Right?”
“I don’t see the problem.”
“I didn’t want to be held accountable. Lauren let me wallow in self-pity and hide from this—at least at first she did. And if she had a bad reaction when I told her and she rejected me, oh well. I didn’t think I could handle that from you.”
“I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m going to be fine.” Each time I said it, I was more confident it was true.
“Promise?” Hil turned to look at me, her face overwhelmed by her large, worried eyes.
“I can’t promise, but everything looks good and I believe I’ll get better.”
She gave me a smile. “That’s good enough for me—I’ve never seen you not meet a goal. I mean, you even got Ryan Winters to beg to be your boyfriend.”
“Is he okay?” He had kept his word and hadn’t visited. My fingers traced the chain around my neck. It didn’t feel right to wear Ryan’s heart post-breakup, but I needed to fidget, so the chain stayed. I’d punched a hole in one of Gyver’s picks and wore that instead.
Hil rolled her eyes. “He’s Ryan Winters; there are already new hook-up rumors. Though I think they’re more girls’ wishful thinking than truth. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Mostly, he and Chris have been locked away doing ‘guy stuff.’ What do you think that even means?”
“We watch musicals and eat chocolate; maybe they eat wings and watch war movies?” I suggested, then giggled. “But
seriously, how awesome would it be if they’re at Chris’s watching
Annie
or
Grease
?”
She threw her arms around my neck; I hugged back just as greedily. “God, you’re not allowed to go AWOL again, Summer Girl. Okay? Whatever happens, you tell me!”
“Deal,” I agreed.
She let go. “Welcome back. Also, I expect you to come out for winter cheerleading. We can figure out how to deal with missed practices. We can’t figure out how to miss you.”
Before I could respond or tear up, she added, “Though it totally sucks you can’t tumble, because the new recruits are hopeless at it.”
I laughed and shook my head. Hil would always be Hil. From the hallway I heard Mary Poppins Nurse—Mariah—call, “Hello, handsome.”
My favorite voice responded, “How’s our girl today?”
I turned to Hil. “Gyver’s coming. You have to be nice. Gyver’s my …” I trailed off. Boyfriend didn’t seem right, not strong enough. “Gyver’s mine.”
Hil laughed, her throaty, haughty laugh. “Gyver’s
always
been yours. Why do you think I wanted-slash-hated him so much?”
“Can you be satisfied with every other male? What about Chris?”
“Am I the biggest hypocrite for hiding him all fall and giving you grief about dating?”
“Yes, but it really wasn’t so hidden—we all knew. Play nice
with him; he’s crazy about you.” I would’ve said more but Gyver knocked and entered.
I smiled like a fool; I couldn’t help it. “Hey.” My voice was whispery, girly, ridiculous.
“Hey, Mi.” He answered with a matching smile and extended eye contact before acknowledging the impatient girl beside me. “Hi, Hillary.”
“Hey, Mac ‘n’ Cheese.” She wiped her cheeks, smoothed her hair, and stood.
“You know, I don’t actually like that name,” he said, but his voice was amused, so I relaxed back against my pillow.
“I know.” She gave me, then Gyver, impromptu hugs and walked to the door, turning around and grinning at our shocked expressions. “I’ll call you later, Mia.”
Gyver claimed his spot and my hand. “Hi.”
“Speaking of calls, I called you from the dance.”
“I know. I called back, and Hillary answered from the ambulance. I drove here like a maniac.”
“I thought you didn’t pick up because you were mad.”
“No. That’s not why.” Gyver took my hand in both of his. I could see a flush creeping up his cheeks.
“Why?”
“It’s embarrassing. You know, this is what I always thought your hospital room should look like.” He pointed to the cards, flowers, and stuffed animals, sent by classmates and crowding all flat surfaces.
“Nice try, but I’m not that easily distracted. You, embarrassed? This I’ve got to hear.” I tugged on his hand.
“I didn’t answer because I was out in my backyard.”
“Why? It was freezing.”
When he didn’t continue, I snuggled closer and pouted. He kissed me on the nose. “Your necklace. You told me you’d lost it, and the jewelers were closed.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t lose my necklace in your backyard.”
Gyver studied our entwined hands. “I was looking for four-leaf clovers.”
“What? You’re not serious. In the dark?”
“I had a flashlight.”
I tried not to laugh and failed. “Why? Why in the world?”
“I thought maybe if I found one for you, you’d cheer up and feel less hopeless.”
“Gyver Russo! I believe someone’s always telling me I put too much faith in superstitions. And”—I deepened my voice in a poor imitation—“I make my own luck.”
His grin was full of mischief. “I can’t wait to get lucky with you.”
“Gyver.” I groaned. “You’re ridiculous!”
He started to retort, but I cut him off with a finger to his lips. A finger I began to trace around his mouth with a feather-light touch.
His puzzled look turned to concern as I began to lean in. He put a hand on either side of my face and warred with impulses to pull me close and push me away. “Mi, we can’t.”
I smiled and leaned still closer, fitting myself into the space between his arms, the space that felt like sanctuary. These were
the words I’d been waiting all day to tell him. “I asked. My counts are good.”
This time there were no ice cream accidents and no fevers. If I had been attached to a heart monitor, I’m sure it would have set off every racing-pulse alarm.
But I wasn’t.
There was nothing to interrupt, nothing to interfere, and nothing between Gyver’s and my lips but a few inches of empty air.
And then there wasn’t even that.
There were Gyver’s hands sliding up my neck, his thumb caressing my jawline and his fingers sliding around the back of my head, tilting up my chin and lowering his mouth to mine.