Unlit Star (11 page)

I shift my eyes from his and cross my fingers under the table. “No. Not at first.” A partial truth again. Another jolt of annoyance sparks through me. I promised myself this would be a peaceful summer, but there are times—most of the time, I should say—in Rivers' presence that I forget this. “Why are you asking me all of these questions anyway? What does any of it matter?”

“I'm just trying to figure it all out.”

“Well you have. Now you know the mystery behind my employment. Bully for you.”

“Right. You wanted to work at my house so you can get enough money to go on a trip where the destination and activities of it are apparently top secret.” The expression on his face is dubious.

“I like trains.”

He gives me a look. “Okay.”

“I've never been on one before and I've always wanted to go on some kind of trip on one. I'm planning on going on a six-day Amtrak trip to Memphis and New Orleans. It's called 'Blues and the Bayou'. Both are places I've always wanted to see.”

“Oh.” His look tells me he doesn't understand why I would want to do such a thing.

"Have you ever been on a train ride before?"

Rivers shakes his head, his attention captured by those around us. He seems to shrink in size, as though he is trying to make himself as uninteresting as he can. Such a complete reversal of how he used to be. He used to shine when others paid attention to him; now he seems to deflate. Rivers' eyes shift over the other patrons and he looks down, clenching his jaw.

“What is it?”

“People are staring at me. This was a bad idea. We should go.”

I lean against the table top and crane my neck back to look over him. There are five other customers in the diner; all older, and not a single person is looking in our direction. “Who?”

“I don't know. People.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I sit back. “Do you know any of the people in here right now?”

“No.”

“Okay. So they have no reason to be staring at you then. You're imagining it.” I thank the waitress as she sets the white plate of fluffy round pancakes before me. “And if you don't stop thinking everyone is obsessed with your looks as much as you are, I'm going to punch you,” I tell him pleasantly.

He snorts. “Try it.” Rivers smears butter on his pancakes with a knife, his eyes down.

“You always thought you were so important,” I say, carefully setting my fork down. His eyes lift to mine. “I don't think you ever realized how
un
important high school and your role in it really was. High school is what happens
before
your life begins. You can be the top dog in that big brown building and a nobody outside it. You and your friends thought everyone wanted to be like you, because you were so self-absorbed you thought everyone else loved you as much as you loved yourself. You were wrong.” I pop a straw in my orange juice and sip, the tangy citrus bursting over my tongue.

He puts his knife down and straightens. “That's it? I was wrong? You make this big speech and that's your summary of it? I was wrong?”

“Yep.” I pour a generous amount of maple syrup on my pancakes and dig into them.

“What did people really think about me then?” He takes a sip of his coffee. “What did
you
really think?”

I pop a forkful of pancakes into my mouth and chew. Swallowing, I say, “You completely missed the point of what I just said.”

Frustration flashes in his eyes. “What was the purpose of putting me down then?”

Sitting up in my seat, I look at him. “You missed the point again. I didn't put you down. You care too much what others think.”

“Maybe you don't care enough,” he retorts.

“I don't care at all,” I answer evenly. “I was making an observation. It wasn't intended to hurt you or make you feel inferior. The point of it was, it doesn't matter. None of it matters. High school is over. So whatever anyone thought of you, whatever I thought of you, you shouldn't care.”

“It's not that easy,” he mutters.

“It really is.”

His fork clanks to his plate as he shoves it away. “You know, maybe for you it is. It's easy not to care when you don't have anything worth losing, when you don't have anyone to disappoint or anyone looking up to you, depending on you to be a certain way.”

I flinch, my appetite dispersing like leaves falling away from a tree. And then the headache starts. I drop my head to my hands, aware of Rivers asking me if I'm okay, but it's background noise to the sharp twinges forming in my temples and progressing all the way to the back of my head.
Not now. Don't do this now.
My brain is wrapped in throbbing pain. I'm sure he thinks I'm crying or something because he hurt my feelings. He did hurt my feelings, I'm annoyed to realize, but that is minor compared to the agony flashing through my brain like bolts of lightning. I swear I even see streaks of light behind my closed eyelids.

A presence is next to me, a hand strong and warm against my shoulder. “It's okay,” I mumble, massaging my temples. “It's just a headache.” My voice is weak and faraway at the same time it's unusually loud to me. “Just give me a minute,” I continue when he says something else.

I inhale and exhale slowly, counting to sixty. The pain lessens, but doesn't fully go away. I am aware that all kinds of attention is being drawn our way because of me and not Rivers, something he should be grateful for, but will probably be irritated by because attention to me brings attention to him.

A glass is pressed into my hand along with two pills. I carefully raise my head, the scene coming at me in jagged pieces. I focus on the face before me until all the faces of Rivers morph into one, seeing the concern drawing his eyebrows down. I concentrate on him, watching him watching me, until I am able to swallow the pills. They will dull the headache, but only sleep will take it away for good.

Until it comes back.

I didn't want this to happen in front of anyone, especially him. In fact, I wanted to pretend it hasn't happened at all. Part of me was hoping it
wouldn't
happen again—that the headaches and what they mean was all a mistake. I
do
feel like crying, but not because of Rivers and what he said to me.

Bravado waning, I stiffen my shoulders and force it back into me by will alone.
Be positive. Enjoy the rest of the day. Even try to enjoy Rivers' presence.
That last thought eases some of the tension from me and I almost smile. I would, if the pounding in my head would allow me to.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a low voice, his hand dropping from my shoulder.

“Yes.” I'm not, but I am well enough. I thank the waitress for the pain pills and she nods, turning away to help another customer. “I'm sorry I ruined the meal.”

“I think I can take most of the credit for that,” he says, moving to stand. “Do you want to stay and finish or leave?”

“Leave. Pancakes don't really sound good anymore.” I touch my head. “If that's okay?”

“Somehow, I'll manage to return to the solitude of my home.” A ghost of a smile captures his lips and even that semblance of one is enough to make his features turn from handsome to inconceivably exceptional.

I ease into a standing position, dizziness hitting me. I grip the top of the booth until the diner stops moving. “Is this...” I take a deep breath, directing my mind to concentrate on walking in a straight line. I feel drunk. I might not mind it so much if I'd actually consumed alcoholic beverages.
One foot in front of the other, Delilah. Distract yourself. Keep talking. Maybe he'll even talk back.
“Is this the first time you've gone anywhere since the accident?”

“Anywhere other than various doctors, yes.”

“Was it so bad?” We're almost to the door. I glance behind me, my eyesight in slow motion with my movement, and note his hand hovering by my elbow in case I need assistance.

“Well, it wasn't excruciating, so it was a little better than I had estimated. Your obvious need for attention and melodramatic acting sort of trumped my disfigurement.”

I want to glare at him, but the motion would cause me pain. I settle for mumbling, “Jerk.”

He snorts.

For once, I am thankful for the clouds that have taken over the sky and hidden the sun. Even the gray is sensitive to my eyes. I look down as I walk, feeling incompetent and loathing the fact that I do. Understanding for Rivers scorches me, hot and complete in its burn. He must hate people looking after him all the time, watching over him, trying to help him. I just want this helpless feeling to go away and never return. At least in his case, he will slowly get better, if he lets himself.

That isn't an option for me.

When he opens the passenger car door for me, I tell him, “We make quite the pair right now.”

I don't think he is going to respond, but then he says, “We do, don't we?”

I AWAKE TO THE CRASH of thunder, my eyes opening just as lightning flares to life outside. Rain pours down, pinging against the glass doors and windows. There is only the light of the thunderstorm to offer visual assistance. I check my phone to see how long I've been asleep and note the missing calls from Monica and my mom. I slept five hours. My head is free of pain and I am grateful for it, though my mouth feels dry and there is a languidness in my limbs that makes it hard for me to get them moving.

I call my mother first and let her know everything is okay, not mentioning my mega headache that put me out for over five hours. I know I need to tell her, but I just can't bring myself to, not yet. Soon, I silently promise her and myself. Monica informs me Rivers called her a few hours ago, that she knows about my headache, and refers to it as a migraine, telling me rest is the best thing for them. I agree with the assessment, but not the term she uses.

I don't have migraines. I have something much, much worse.

She sounds tired, but her tone is also lighter than usual, and if I had to guess as to why, I would say it's because her son is reaching out to her, if only through the phone. The phone is better than nothing. Thomas' mom is the same and she tells me they may have to stay longer. I tell her that's fine and hang up. And it is fine. I'm not really sure what I'm thinking or doing or why the thought of going home makes me even uneasier than usual, but it's almost like when I am here, I can tell myself this is my reality. It won't last, I know, but it's like a little joy in the midst of tragedy. I watch the tree limbs shudder under the force of the strong winds, taking comfort that even in the middle of nature's wrath, I am safe.

For now.

I find Rivers outside, sitting in his chair just under the roof ledge. Strangely shy after my unfortunate ordeal earlier, I take hesitant steps toward him. For the first time that I can remember, he speaks first. “Do you get them often?”

I wait until a large rumbling of thunder is over before answering. “Recently, about weekly.”

“Before that?”

“I don't know. Rarely.” I bite my lip, hoping he finds a different subject to discuss. Anything would be better, really, even a conversation about ingrown toenails.

He looks up at me, a frown turning his lips down. “And have you gone to the doctor?”

I rub my arms and look into the black depths of the pool. The temperature has dropped considerably with the appearance of the storm. “You sound concerned.” My tone is flippant and I can tell he doesn't appreciate it when he continues to wait for me to answer. I sigh. “Yes. They're just headaches.” Lying is becoming increasingly easy for me lately. Or telling partial truths, I should say.

“Migraines?” he guesses.

I shrug noncommittally and he doesn't press. I pull over a chair and sit down beside him, taking in the rain, the occasional clap of thunder, the way the sky lights up to daytime from atmospheric electricity. We sit in silence, but it isn't tense. There is peacefulness to it, the sound of raindrops pummeling the house and ground calming. I have so many questions I could ask him, but none of them seem important right now. Sitting here like this is more therapeutic than any conversation could be.

Minutes tick by and I jump when he says, “I'm sorry. About earlier.” He glances at me, his eyes glowing in the near dark. “I shouldn't have said what I did. It was mean.”

I pick at an uneven edge of my thumbnail. “Honestly, it doesn't really phase me anymore. I'm used to it. ”

“But not from me,” he tells me roughly.

I meet his gaze. “What does it matter if you're the one saying the words or the one standing there saying nothing to refute them?”

He winces, facing forward. “I thought being popular made me fearless. None of it was real. I'm not courageous. And clearly I wasn't as well-liked as I'd assumed either.” His eyes flicker to me and away as he says this.

“Oh, loads of people liked you. Envied you.” I pause. “But then there were the rest of us.”

The laugh is gruff and cuts off short, but that he laughed at all freezes me in place. It's a deep, rich sound that has a melodious cast to it. It reminds me of a cool breeze to break the unrelenting heat of a smoldering sun—unexpected but appreciated.

“I don't...I don't really remember too much about you. I mean, I remember seeing you, but most of the time, you were just...
there,
” he says slowly, clearly embarrassed to admit such a thing. “Was I that bad?”

I blow out a noisy breath and focus on the puddle of water my feet are resting in. “Do you really want to get into this? You have a clean slate, you know. School is over. However you choose to be from now on has no correlation to how you used to be. Why bring it up? Why wonder?”

Something I said must have irked him because Rivers is up and glaring at me before I finish my words. “You know what? Never mind. You act like you're so superior, and even though I don't remember a lot about you, I
do
remember your mouth. Sure, you got a lot of shit tossed your way, but you gave it back just as harshly. Or did you forget about
that
?”

He's already stalking away when I whisper, “Clean slate.”

I don't know how long I stay outside, the numbness inside me seeping to my exterior as the coldness of night wraps around me. He's right. I didn't really have any friends in school, and part of it was because of how Riley and Crew treated me—no one wanted to be picked on by association with me, but some of it was how I acted as well. I made it hard for others to approach me when I wore a chronic scowl on my face and talked back to anyone who said something I could take offensively. I thought that was the way I wanted to be, that making my individuality prominent was a way of showing strength, but now, I realize maybe I was trying
too
hard to be different.

You need to be yourself, but you also shouldn't feel like you have to fight everyone, even yourself, to be it.

I didn't want to get hurt, so I didn't open myself up to anyone to even allow for the potential of being hurt. I assumed anyone talking to me had an ulterior agenda and responded in kind. Did that mean I was a backwards bully? Maybe. I never thought about it before. I don't mind solitude, but I guess once in a while it would have been nice to have someone to talk to, had I felt the need to. I had a group of classmates I loosely hung around, but were any of them friends? I don't think so. And the reason for that falls on my shoulders. Apparently Rivers is not the only one who needs to take a look at his younger years and analyze how he was compared to how he should have been. I sort of have. That's why I am choosing to be positive instead of negative, why I want to smile instead of frown, why I decided to not care about anything other than just being me.

This summer is supposed to be my last chance do-over on so many levels.

The chattering of my teeth tells me it's time to go inside. I do, the silence echoing behind me with enormity. I head to the sun room, tugging a book from my tote to settle in for an evening of reading. I don't want to be around Rivers right now, and I am sure the feeling is reciprocated. We both have said things the other didn't appreciate hearing.

Hours pass, my eyelids growing so heavy I can no longer keep them open. I sink into the abyss that is slumber, awakening during the night to a noise that tugged at my consciousness even as I rested.

I already know it was Rivers.

I don't turn on the light. I don't speak. I walk to the bed and touch his clammy brow, his body almost immediately relaxing. I climb into the bed, halfway sitting up, and wrap my arms around his trembling form, holding him. I don't know if he is awake or sleeping, but eventually his breathing evens out and his arms slowly move to lock around my waist, his head of dark hair resting against my stomach. Something weaves its way through me, coming to rest in my heart. I don't put a name to it. It isn't that I don't think I can—it's more that I am not ready.

We sit like this, my fingers gently tracing the lines of the scars that start at the crown of his head and end near his temple, moving on to the short locks of his silky hair. I tighten my hold on him, feeling the hardness of his muscled body, wondering how someone so physically strong can be so emotionally vulnerable, knowing we never truly understand another until we have been in the same place they are at. Maybe that's why I care for a boy I don't want to care for, and deny that I do every other thought.

As I hold Rivers in my arms for the duration of the night, I decide I will fight his demons for him if he can't fight them on his own. It isn't a matter of whether or not he'll allow me to, because I think just being here with him is enough most of the time. Something in him needs something in me. I saw it today and I saw it the first day I saw him after his injury. Rivers needs to know someone cares about him. I can be that person. After all, that is why I originally came here.

WE ARE IN SOME SORT of routine, but it is a strange one. At night we sleep wrapped around one another and during the day, we barely speak. I can't say the sleeping arrangement is all for Rivers' benefit anymore because I sleep so soundly when I am with him, more peaceful than I recall ever sleeping before. I
want
to rest beside him. I want to close my eyes at night knowing he is next to me. I want to hear his breathing, feel his arms, smell his scent, and get lost in him so that I forget me.

There isn't anything sexual about our sleeping arrangements—although, yes, I should admit I am attracted to him which is absolutely
crazy
because I'm not even sure I really like him—but it's about the safety I feel near him. I keep his nightmares at bay and he keeps my world at a distance.

It's strange, but even though there is darkness and quiet and little touching between us at night, it is as though the nighttime hours are stitching us together, making us into something we are not consciously aware of. I feel closer to him. I feel like I am starting to know him. We seem to unknowingly gravitate toward one another during the day. He finds me or I find him. Maybe words aren't necessary—maybe that's why we hardly speak. I just need to look up and see him or he just needs to enter a room and feel me.

I take him to his physical therapy sessions two times the first week and a counselor once. His body is exhausted from the first and his mind from the second. He doesn't speak at all after the counseling session for the remainder of the day. I want to ask him what makes him close up the way he does, but I assume it's from the horror of the accident. Doubt trickles through my mind, asking,
What if it's more than that?

Monica and Thomas decide to stay in California until his mother passes on—the doctors say it won't be longer than a week or two more before the cancer irrevocably claims her. According to Monica, any time Thomas mentioned returning home, his mother broke down and cried. It's hard to leave someone you know is dying, when they weep at the thought of your departure. Sometimes I think it would be better for everyone if no one knew when they are dying. Too bad that isn't an option for some.

Each time I talk to Monica, guilt eats away at me. She thinks I'm doing some great thing for her son, but am I really? Sure, he's engaging his mother in conversation and finally acting more like a human being than a robot, but what happens at the end of the summer, when all of this is over? I'll go back to my life and Rivers will go back to his, and these few months spent together will be a piece of the past.

Do they have to be?
I answer myself with a resounding,
Yes
. It's nice to pretend for a while, but the truth always catches up to you. Always.

I'm swimming laps like I do just about every evening. I feel his eyes on me and heat goes through the length of my body. There is nothing predatory or seductive about his gaze; it's more of a studious observance, but knowing he is examining all the dips and curves of my body as I swim makes me self-conscious. The intensity with which Rivers watches the world makes my pulse skip. He doesn't just
look
at things—he
sees
things. I don't know how I never noticed this about him. I think I saw all his flaws and didn't even look for his good points. I guess I did exactly what I accused him of doing. I also think I need to admit to myself that I wasn't any better than those around me that I thought were so terrible.