Unlit Star (10 page)

He just looks at me.

“What? You like me chauffeuring you around?”

“I can't drive.”

“Why not?”

“Didn't you get really good grades in school?”

“Valedictorian,” I supply quietly.

“How can someone so smart not have any common sense? My legs are ruined. I
can't drive
,” he says harshly.

I fist my hand and thump him on the shoulder. “Are your legs gone?”

“No.”

“Can you walk?”

“Barely.”

“Can you walk?” I insist.

He mutters, “Yeah.”

“Okay. Your legs
are not
ruined. You just have to figure out how to use them differently, that's all. And you can drive. Unless a doctor told you you couldn't?”

He shakes his head, a scowl on his face.

I open the car door and get out.

“What are you doing?”

I walk over to the passenger side.

“I'm not driving, Bana!”

I reach for the door and he locks it. Shrugging, I sprawl out on my back on the crinkly green grass beside the road and close my eyes, my arms out wide. Luckily, we are in the business part of town and not residential. I suppose people may have an issue with me camping out in their front yard, but the fabric shop probably won't be so quick to notice my prone form in the grass on the other side of their parking lot. Well, hopefully anyway. I have nothing but time right now.

Shadows and light play over my eyelids as the clouds catch and release the sun. I'm wrapped in sunshine and warmth. A stillness comes over me, an awareness of the earth around me, and peacefulness with it. I enjoy it for as long as I can, tranquility taking over and turning my limbs languid. The shadow suddenly holds, though, and I slowly open my eyes. Rivers is glaring down at me, standing in his uneven way.

“Let me guess, you want to drive now?”

“You are unbelievable,” he tells me.

I hop to my feet and bestow my sunniest smile upon him. He blinks, swallows, and walks to the car. The seat has to be moved back to allow room for his six foot two frame and once he's in the seat, he sits unmoving with his hands around the steering wheel. I catch the tremble in his arms as he struggles with his fear.

“Are your legs bothering you right now?”

He glances at me. “There's never a time they aren't.”

“What do you do about it?”

Resting his head against the seat, he closes his eyes. “Endure.”

“You don't take pain meds?”

“No,” he bites out.

“Why not?”

“Because I don't like them. Ibuprofen is the strongest thing I'll take, when I have a choice. Obviously I didn't for part of the time in the hospital because I was unconscious and out of it. I couldn't stand that feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“Of not really being me. I was just some shadow of myself.”

I digest that bit of information before moving on. “Do you
want
to be able to drive?”

A gruff nod is his response.

“So drive. You don't have to go fast. You don't have to go far. Just prove to yourself that you still can. And whenever it gets to be too much, you pull over and I'll take over,” I tell him softly. “There's no shame in needing a break. What's most important is that you do it again after your break. That's what life and living is about, Rivers. Second chances. Every day is one more blessing we don't know whether we're going to get or not from day to day, so we should make the most of them as they come, right? We should
drive
.”

He slowly turns his dark head and watches me, his expression neutral. I think maybe he catches a glimpse of something he hasn't seen before, or didn't realize is there until this moment. I think he sees a bit of me for the first time—the real me, not the version he perceived me to be. I study him back, taking in the short ebony locks, the angled jaw with the shadow along its sharp edges—the eyes that are so dark, yet so full of light when they choose to be. The air around us is still as I wait for his perusal to end. When he finally looks away, I hide a smile, feeling a tug in the center of me.

“Where are you going to college at in the fall?” he asks as he angles the car toward a little diner on the outskirts of town.

The smile falls from my face. “I'm not.”

He brakes abruptly and I put a hand out on the dash. “Sorry,” he mumbles, putting the car in park and shutting it off. “Why aren't you?”

I unhook my seat belt and open the door. “It seems like a waste.”

He limps around the side of the car and meets me near the hood. “You're not serious. You were the smartest kid in our class. The
valedictorian
. And you think college is a
waste
? What are you going to do, clean houses for the rest of your life?” His tone is incredulous.

I cross my arms. “I wasn't the
smartest
. I just studied the hardest. It almost seems like you
care
, for some reason, but that can't be. I sort of thought your life revolved around feeling sorry for yourself. How did you find the time to squeeze the details of
my
future into your brain?”

Anger tightens his mouth. “I
don't
care.”

“Great!” I head for the door of the pink and white building. It makes me think of pink frosting over vanilla ice cream. A sign above the door reads 'A Dash Of Delicious'. I turn to him and say, “I'm related to Eric Bana.”

Confusion filters through his eyes. “No you aren't.”

“You're right. I'm not. But you had to think about it for a second, didn't you?”

“Weird, Bana, really weird,” he mutters behind me as we walk inside.

The scents of coffee, bacon, and cinnamon tumble over me as I head toward the booths. The restaurant has six of them, four tables, and a counter for people to sit at as well. It's a small, but popular establishment. The walls are lined in framed black and white photographs of Prairie du Chien throughout the years, complete with the historical Villa Louis and dozens of years worth of rendezvouses. I like coming in here. It reminds me of sitting back in time, observing what once was and meshing it with what is.

I pause as I feel Rivers hesitate behind me. I wonder if this is his first social outing since the accident. I decide to pretend I don't notice his faltering steps, focusing on the Eric Bana discussion instead. “It
would
be weird if I was related to him. And unfortunate. He's really hot. Sigh.”

“Did you just say sigh?”

I stop beside a booth. “I really did.”

“No one says sigh. They just...you just
sigh
, okay? You don't
say
you're sighing. That completely defeats the purpose of sighing.”

I stare at him. “
Sigh
.”

Rivers looks torn between finding me hilarious and super annoying. He settles for sighing as he angles his body into the booth and I burst out laughing. He rubs his mouth and I think it's to hide the smile he wants to unleash.

“What happens if you smile? Do you turn to stone?”

He grimaces. “No. But you might.”

I grab a pink and white laminated menu and flip it open. I don't understand why he thinks his scars detract from his good looks in any way. Or why he cares so much about how he looks. How you look does not define you as a person. I set the menu down and place my chin in my hand as I study him. He's all dark smoldering looks that attracts one like a moth to a flame. Pretty to look at—deadly to get too close to. He scowls back the longer I stare.

“What?” he finally snaps.

“You're conceited, shallow.” I pause. "Vain."

Rivers blinks.

“I mean, sure, you're not perfect anymore. You have an uneven, gouged-out line that goes from under your eye to your mouth and you have a smaller one that slants down your forehead with a little patch of hair missing around it. And, yeah, your legs are a mess, but at least they still work. Do you think anyone really cares about a few imperfections on your face and legs?
Big deal
. You're still living. You still have your eye. You still have your mouth in one piece. You still have your legs and you can
walk
. Be thankful instead of resentful.

“So you have a few scars. You're good-looking regardless, more good-looking than most. No one cares about how you look as much as
you
do. And anyway, perfect is boring. At least now you have some character to you. Who wants to look at something perfect all the time? It just makes the rest of us feel that much more
im
perfect. So, really, you're doing everyone else less fortunate in the looks department a
huge
favor. You should look at it that way.” I suck in a lungful of air and catch my breath.

“I should be glad for the boating accident then, is that what you're saying?” he says with narrowed eyes.

I shrug, turning my attention back to the menu. “I think I'll have pancakes.” I slap the menu down and give him a smile.

His response is a stare.

I raise my eyebrows.

Shaking his head, Rivers takes my menu and looks it over.

The waitress, a sixty-ish woman with pale blonde hair, glasses, and black painted on eyebrows, shows up to take our drink orders. I get orange juice and Rivers orders coffee and water. I kick my feet in beat to 'Son Of A Preacher Man' by Dusty Springfield playing from a radio somewhere in the restaurant, and when that isn't satisfactory, I hop to my feet.

“What are you doing?” Rivers asks worriedly, looking around us.

“I'm dancing.” I spin around and strike a pose, grinning at him over my shoulder.

With a groan, he covers his face. “I swear you have it out for me.”

I shake my shoulders and bend over to bump one against his. “Want to join me?”

“I don't, no.” He leans over and hisses, “Sit down. You're embarrassing me.”

“Maybe
you're
embarrassing
me
,” I say close to his face. I admire the lush fan of his eyelashes around his eyes, noting the line of chocolate brown around his pupils. His brows furrow as he returns the stare, his eyes shifting over my features.

“You look different without all your makeup on. You're sort of pretty,” he says in a hoarse voice, clearly stunned by this knowledge, or maybe by saying it out loud.

I grin, my stomach clenching and releasing. “You're sort of talking a lot.” I straighten as the waitress stops by our table with our drinks. I sit down and place my hands on the table top, eyes on Rivers. He won't look at me, which is okay. I think he shocked himself with his halfway compliment.

I order pancakes and so does he.

“Have you had the pancakes here before?”

“Who hasn't?” he says after a pause.

I almost sigh, or say the word. I guess it's back to him being all moody and non-responsive. I sit back and look out the window, wondering when the next train will come. I feel his gaze on me and wait for him to ask whatever is on his mind.

“How'd you get hired to clean our house anyway?”

“Your mom apparently thought I was qualified.” I hear the faint roar of an engine, my eyes glued to the window as I wait.

“Why? How? She just saw you on the street and asked you to clean our house? And why would you want to anyway?”

“I need the money.”

“For?”

I glance at him. “I'm going on a trip.”

“You're going on a trip,” he repeats slowly. Leaning back, he crosses his arms over his chest. “What kind of a trip?”

“One that requires money.” The train appears in green and black. I avidly watch it, the sound and speed of it breathtaking.

“Most trips do. You didn't answer me. How did you come to work at my house?”

I turn from the window, the vibration of the locomotive faint from this distance but still noticeable. “We were at the grocery store, in the checkout lane by each other. The line was long and we started talking. She looked frazzled, said the regular cleaning lady who also did the grocery shopping had just gone on vacation and with everything the way it was, she hadn't had time to hire a temporary replacement. She said she had planned on not hiring anyone for the summer and doing it all herself, but realized she didn't have the time because of situations at home. I think she was desperate.” It isn't the full truth, but a close variation of it. Everything I said is true on his mother's part. I just left some details out.

“And you volunteered.” His tone says he doubts this.

I nod. “I did.”

“Again, why?”

I jut my jaw forward, fighting to keep irritation at bay. “I told you why. I needed the money.”

“Did you know it was
my
house when you offered? Did you know you were talking to my mom?”