Unlit Star (25 page)

“It's not that—about the money, I mean. I don't want your money.” Getting paid extra for staying here with Rivers would cheapen how much this whole experience has meant to me.

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“There's nothing I can do to get you to change your mind?” Her voice already tells me she knows I will not budge from my decision. I wish she
could
get me to take back my words. 

“Positive,” I say around a hard lump in my throat.

The pause is heavy with bereavement. “Rivers is going to miss you.
I'm
going to miss you. I want to say he's back to his normal self because of you, but it's more than that. He's more confident, happier, less serious. He's...he's
better
since you came, and I will never be able to thank you enough for that.”

“I didn't do anything.” A tear slowly makes its way down my cheek. I clutch the phone tighter to my ear and wipe the pain away.

“I think just being you was enough. You're an exceptional young lady." She pauses. "Is it okay if I stop by your mother's shop when I get back into town? A phone call really isn't a proper goodbye.”

I nod, realize she can't see me, and in a broken voice, say, “Yes.”

“Thank you. For everything.” The sincerity in her tone causes another teardrop to pool in my eyelashes and when I blink, it falls.

I tell her goodbye and end the call, staring woodenly at my tote bag that I need to repack. If only I could pack up the pieces of my heart as well. I decide to wait until Rivers comes back and then I'll go. I owe him that.

I turn around and there he is, standing just inside the doorway, dark and tragic. An aura of pain surrounds him and I am the reason for it. I try to console myself by thinking that if I stay here, that if I continue to live in the present without thinking of the future, he will only be hurt to a catastrophically larger degree.

"Where were you?"

"Walking," he bites out. "I actually know how to do that."

I wince at my earlier words, knowing I deserved that. They were harsh and uncalled for. “I'm sorry,” I tell him. “For what I said. I didn't mean it. I shouldn't have said it.”

He stares at me, not acknowledging my words as he studies my face. “You're leaving.”

“I am.”

His expression twists with something. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing, Rivers. I swear you didn't do anything wrong. You did—you did everything right,” I whisper forlornly.

A sound of disbelief leaves him. “Then why are you going?”

“Because I have to.”

“Right. I overheard. Your mom needs you to help out at the shop. Must be some floral emergency, right?” His tone says he doesn't believe that.

I turn my back on him and grab whatever I can find of mine to shove into the bag. Sadly, there isn't much. That done, I face him once more. “Take care of yourself.” It sounds so lame, so lacking.

He stands unmoving. “You're hiding things.”

I flinch, my breath whooshing out of me. “What?”

“Everything has been fine. You like being here.
I
like you being here. I know you want to be with me, Del. You feel the same for me as I feel for you. Don't try to act like you don't. And now, suddenly, for no reason, you're leaving. Quitting. What happened? What won't you tell me?”

“Nothing. I just...you and me...” I gesture helplessly.

“Me and you
what
?” he asks flatly.

I can't look at him as I say, “You're all sports and I'm all...whatever I am. You're outgoing. I'm not. We grew up in different worlds. We're just—we're too...different.” It's a poor answer, a poor excuse, and it isn't even accurate. We are different, and I think that is why we are so compatible.

“You can't be serious.”

My face is on fire in shame as I glance at him and away. The stiffness of his jaw is painful to look at. I put that hard edge there and remorse washes over me at my unintentional role in the wounding of him. “I have to go.”

I move toward him and around him. Just as I pass him, his hand shoots out and grabs my arm, halting me. Those dark eyes that see and reveal so much study me. I never understood that about his eyes. In the dark, aren't we supposed to be unable to see? Yet I see everything in them, everything I could ever want or need. My face must reflect my thoughts because his eyebrows lower, like he doesn't understand me and what I am doing.

That makes two of us.

His voice is a rasp when he states, “Instead of thinking of all the reasons why we can't work, why not think of the reasons why we can?”

“You know what I need? I need some space. I need to think.” What I am saying is truthful, but I know that doesn't make it any easier for him to hear. It's the best I can tell him right now.

I think he is going to argue with me, refuse to let me go without a fight, but instead he drops his hand from me and backs away. “You got it.”

A blade of thin, but lethal anguish slices open my heart. He's letting me go.
This is what you want.
It is and it isn't. It's easiest, yes, but I retract my recent thought that it is best. What is best for me is in this room with me, the room I am walking out of. He lets me walk away. The wound starts with a trickle of an ache and morphs into a steady flow of agony as I walk from the room, out of the house, and away from the boy I cherish.

THE FIRST TEXT COMES THE
following morning.

It reads:
I had a nightmare last night. But it wasn't about me drowning this time. It was you. I was in the water next to you and I still couldn't save you. I feel like I'm drowning all over again.

I type out:
You were never drowning. You never will. You're too strong.

But I can't send it. I erase the text message and set my phone aside, ready to begin my new job and my new life minus Rivers. I am unbelievably depressed about this. And sleeping without him last night? It was torture and in no way restful, because, yeah, is there such a thing as restful torture?
No.

I shower, brush and then immediately mess up my hair, put a layer of eye makeup on, and dress in a pink and white striped tank top and a purple flowing skirt that hovers at my knees. I grab a lime green scarf from the full-length mirror and loosely wrap it around my neck before stomping down the stairs to start the day. The scarf makes me think of Rivers, which is equal parts soothing and torment.

My mom gives me a quizzical smile when I grab the coffeepot and pour a large amount into my cup. “I'm glad you're home and going to work with me, but are you?”

“Cleaning rooms is my life,” I deadpan. “How could I
not
be glad?”

“You quit pretty abruptly. Did Rivers do something?”

Yes. Rivers did something. He was so stinking appealing to me that I found myself falling for him.

“He didn't do anything wrong,” I answer tiredly. “And I don't really want to talk about it, okay?”

She watches me for a moment before nodding. “All right. You want to walk to work together?”

I hear the hopeful note in her voice and my first inclination is to push her away, but she is my mom and she is trying so hard, and pushing her away does nothing now but hurt her. So I nod and I smile, a pain shooting through me at the way her face lights up when she smiles back. I just made her day and I feel awful about that.

"Will you be around for dinner?" she asks as we walk out the door, everything about her hesitant as she interacts with me.

I never realized how wary my distance made her. I can see that she is afraid anything she says or does may cause me to flee. I rub my face, forcing a smile as I drop my hands. "You bet. I'll even cook. What sounds good?"

"Hmm. How about spaghetti and meatballs? We can use some of the canned sauce I made from the garden tomatoes last year. Oh, and how about using spaghetti squash for the noodles? Maybe some garlic bread to go with it."

"It wouldn't be a meal without garlic bread."

She laughs. "Exactly. I think we should make some lemon bars. I've been craving them for
weeks
."

"That all sounds great."

"It does, doesn't it?" She beams at me, lacing her arm through mine as we walk the mile or so it takes to get to her shop.

I return her smile, forcing a lightness to it I do not feel. Seeing how happy my mom is devastates me. Within the cocoon of her joy I am struggling. I want to mean the smiles I aim her way, I want to laugh with her—to imprint myself upon her mind and heart so deeply there is no chance of her ever forgetting one single detail about me, even though I doubt that is really even a possibility.

You have to tell her.

I promise myself I will, but I cannot promise when.

We get to the flower shop and my mom immediately goes inside to start on her flower orders. I stand outside the small white building, taking it in. There's a large picture window with pink cursive writing that reads 'Flower Appeal' and the surrounding vicinity is bursting with blossoms in vibrant shades of oranges, yellows, and pinks. It's like looking at a sunset in the form of flowers.

I grab the broom from inside the door and sweep the walkway, the sun already attacking me with its hot rays. There is peace in solitude, and there is quiet. And you know what? There is a lot less drama to deal with when the only person you see and talk to is
you
. There was a handful of people I hung around in school, but if I didn't want to do something with them, I didn't. They were like a security blanket—a permanent fixture I could rely on to be there. We went to an occasional party together, maybe a movie, bowling. I didn't share secrets with any of them and I never had any inclination to show them who I really was. Just a glance into me was all I allowed and that was all I wanted of them in return.

So began the life of Delilah Bana—the high school years. I guess, in a way, I have Riley to thank. She destroyed me, but she also made me stronger. She made me see that friends are impermanent, but how I choose to be, and how I act, and how it affects who I am, is not. I experimented with piercings, hair colors, and clothing. I didn't think being different should have made me odd, but I guess I was wrong. The weight of other people's judgment is heavy if you decide to let it be. And you do have that choice. You can care about you, or you can care about everyone else.

I am more important than any label given to me by others who never really knew me.

When school let out, I didn't contact any of the "friends" I'd had throughout my high school years, and it didn't bother me at all. Summer started and I shed the cape that categorized me as one way, and focused on being any way I chose to be. I guess Rivers is right—I sort of am a chameleon. I think we all are. Circumstances in and out of our control are constantly forming us and reforming us. Does it ever end? No. Not until we pass from this life and into whatever lies in wait beyond. 

But this, this void where Rivers used to be, is bothering me. A lot. So now I am thinking maybe it wasn't that I was socially inept or that I would rather be alone than with others, but that there just wasn't anyone I really wanted to be around. I miss him like I think I would miss the sun if it stopped burning in the sky. In fact, he is like the sun to me; glowing, bright, consuming, transcendental.

I set the broom against the side of the building and lift my face to the glowing fireball, inhaling deeply of the summer air, letting the warmth of it wash over my face like a kiss from the sky. I smile, knowing this time apart from Rivers will be short, knowing I have already figured out what I needed. There wasn't anything to figure out, really. I can't push him away. I can't live my days knowing he is close to me and yet unavailable because I made it so. I suppose these little hitches of weakness are normal, and still, I wish I could forever remove them from my thoughts. I want to be strong, and being strong means I can't be scared—or if I am scared, I have to breathe around it and remain centered.

There is a hole inside me. The longer I ignore Rivers, the bigger it grows. I don't want that. Even minutes are adding to the depth of it, widening it. I want to be whole. I can't be unless we are okay. I grab my tote from the pavement and find my phone, my fingers flying over the letters on the mini keyboard.

Me:
I had a dream last night too. You were swimming in the ocean, the blues and greens of the sea like a watery blanket around you. You were alone, but you were okay. You knew the water was all you really needed. You were smiling.

The responding text shows up immediately:
I was smiling because I knew you were standing on the beach waiting for me.

I laugh, feeling the prickling of tears in my eyes. I text back:
You were smiling because you were thinking of peanut butter and ice cream and trains.

His response:
That sounds like you.

My reply:
You're right. When did you get to be awesome enough to start thinking like me?

Rivers sends back:
Is that what you're calling it?
Another text shows up:
I want to see you. Now.