Unlit Star (13 page)

“Not bad. I mean, not exactly great for me, but not bad.”

A smile slowly curves my lips and Rivers returns it. This moment, right now, is going to end up being a bad thing. I can already tell it will mean something to me. I will look back on this moment and I will remember how I feel as he smiles at me and I will miss it. But for now, I just enjoy it. I shove another mouthful of ice cream into my mouth so I don't have to talk.

"You wanted to know why I was named Rivers," he begins, his gaze scorching as it connects with mine.

I nod, waiting.

"My legal name was Benjamin until I was ten months old. Now it's my middle name."

"What?" I scrunch up my face in confusion. "Why would they name you something and then name you something else?"

A faraway look enters his eyes—a touch of sadness with it. "I was born in California and spent the first years of my life there. I guess I was obsessed with water. I wanted to be in it every day and I screamed when my mom or dad took me out of it. I was swimming before I was walking. They didn't want to name me Lake or Ocean or Sea, because those aren't really
names
, so they settled with Rivers. Most rivers either begin or end with other bodies of water anyway. I was supposed to be a merging of all things watery."

"They could have called you Bathwater," I tell him.

He shakes his head, the hint of a smile softening his face. "That's two words."

"Okay. First name Bath, second name Water. It totally would have worked. They were being selfish, really, taking that possibility away from you. You would have been famous for that name ingenuity. And I like Lake. Lake could be your name. Can I call you Benji?"

"Don't even try it," he warns.

I laugh and shove another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. "I wouldn't. You're definitely a Rivers. Tumultuous, consuming."

"What about peaceful and calm?"

I snort. "Yeah. You're that all right."

He watches me, his head tilted, a curious gleam in his eyes. “I don't know if I deserve you,” he suddenly murmurs, and I go still. I am frozen and he is frozen, our eyes locked. “I mean, we—I don't know if
we
deserve you. You do a better job than the normal cleaning lady,” he quickly corrects. Rivers' face lowers as though he wants to hide himself from me.

I hastily change the subject, my heart pounding in a frighteningly fast way. “We used to be friends. Riley and me,” I specify when confusion enters his gaze. “We grew apart too.”

He puts his chin on his hand, studying me. “I think there's more to it than that.”

“Isn't there always?” I ask lightly, standing up. “I'm done. Are you done?”

“You're going to ask this time, huh?”

“Last time your behavior didn't warrant you being asked.”

Rivers walks over to where I am standing, quietly taking a dish towel and drying the dishes as I wash them. After a while, he says, “We have a dishwasher.”

“I don't like dishwashers. They're lazy.”

He smiles. I tell myself I can't get used them. They are magical and I slowly unravel a little more each time he graces me with one of them. “The dishwashers are lazy or the people running them are?”

“Either.”

“Are you...do you...” He closes his eyes, shaking his head. Rivers takes a deep breath and starts over. “Want to watch a movie together?”

If I didn't know better, I would think he is apprehensive, but that is ludicrous and I quickly chuck the thought aside. “Sure. What kind of movies do you like to watch?”

Lowering his voice, he says sinisterly, “Scary ones.”

I drain the water from the sink and turn around, crossing my arms as I meet his gaze. “I can handle scary.”

“I'm counting on it.” He walks from the room, his movements a touch closer to smooth than unsteady. He is healing, getting better—emotionally and physically. I won't be needed here much longer, not for him anyway.

I look out the glass panes that lead to the deck and pool, searching for the nightlights in the sky and finding none. For the first time in months, I feel the weight of an unknown future pressing down on me. I have to balance the future with the present. I have to take what I can of the happy moments because, eventually, they will become less and less. I have to remember instances like this, right now, when a broken boy found something in me to smile at, when I went from being just me to him to someone who can make him smile—someone he
wants
to smile at.

And that is why I skip from the room and sing 'Into The Great Wide Open' by Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers as I spin in a circle in the foyer, laughing when Rivers pops his head around the corner to give me a strange look. I don't mind. He doesn't join me, but he also doesn't leave. He quietly watches me in that smoldering way of his. I can read his eyes and what they are saying is that he is trying to figure me out, that he finds me interesting enough to
want
to figure out.

The wink I aim at him tells him he'll never solve the complex being that is Delilah Bana so he should just enjoy me while I am here. When he grins at me, I grin back. All we are given as a guarantee, are instances of perfect freedom to say and do exactly what we want. I've realized this. I think Rivers is finally realizing this.

Why let them pass us by?

IT ISN'T EVEN A QUESTION. He stands and looks at me, waiting, and within seconds I am following him from the sun room and into his bedroom. I wonder what his mother and father would think if they knew about our sleeping arrangement. I wince. We're not doing anything wrong. I continue to tell myself this, but I still feel guilty. With any luck, I won't have to worry about Monica's reaction to it. Because I'm hoping she doesn't find out, which also means we should stop before she
does
find out. And yet, still I follow him.

I wonder what this means to him. A small part of me wonders if he is using me because I am close in proximity, but if that was the case, I wouldn't be here and Riley would. He would be talking to Riley and not me. He would be opening up, smiling and laughing, with her instead of me. I don't think he simply needs
someone
. I think he needs me. I am seeing him in a different way than I used to—I have to think it is the same for him.

His eyes linger on mine longer than they should and when he touches my arm, my heart reacts by pumping extra hard. Every time he looks at me, I feel scorched from the emotions I see in his gaze. Something has changed. I don't know what. I don't know when it happened, but it has.

“Did the movie scare you?” he asks, moving around his room as he gets ready for bed.

My eyes trail after him. “'Saw' isn't scary. It's just gross.”

“You wouldn't be scared if that stuff happened to you?”

I narrow my eyes. “That wasn't the original question.”

He smirks and my eyes are drawn to his lips. Part of me wonders what it would be like—to be loved by him. Or even just desired. To be with a guy like Rivers has got to be unforgettable. Everything he does is done with such intensity that being loved by him couldn't be any less than overwhelming. I think it would be comparable to continually trying to catch your breath and failing.

We take turns brushing our teeth in the bathroom. When I return to the bedroom, he has the blanket pulled down and is idly watching television as he waits on the bed. It seems so domestic, like we're playing at being a married couple. Only there is no commitment, there is no love, there is no happily ever after—or some idea of it. My eyes mold to the construction of his bare chest and I turn the light off to halt my staring. Ignoring his protestations about the sudden dark, I get into the bed. The television goes blank and the remote thumps as it falls to the floor. The silence is heavy, but this time it is not peaceful like it usually is. We need to talk about something, anything, so this tension abates, or at least dims.

“With your grandma the way she is...I'm surprised you didn't insist on going with your parents. Don't you want to be with your grandma right now?”

A full minutes passes before he answers, “No.”

My mouth pulls down. “Why not? She's dying. Why wouldn't you want to be with her right now? I mean, aren't you sad?”

“I don't know. I guess a little.”

“Wow.” I can't believe his coldness. Where did it come from? What caused it?

“She's not my real grandma,” he tells me. He shifts in the bed and our faces are now inches apart.

“Oh?” I ask, suddenly breathless.

“No. She's my step-grandma and Thomas is my step-dad. Other than when I was a baby, I've only been around her twice, I think—both times before the age of ten. She's basically like a stranger to me.”

“But...” I sputter, my mind still stuck on the father revelation. “You look just like him.”

“I look like my dad.” Rivers' voice is ice as he faces the ceiling. “He's dead. Thomas is his first cousin.”

“I...oh...wow,” I say again, realizing how lame I sound.

“I didn't know him. I was a year old when he died. Freak accident at the factory he worked at. My mom's been with Thomas since I was three.”

“How did your mom end up with your father's cousin?”

I feel him shrug next to me. “I don't know. Sometimes I think she wanted to replace my dad as best as she could and he fit in the looks department.”

“But not in any other departments?”

“He's an ass. He won't exactly ever win any awards for best husband or father of the year. He...”

“He what?”

“Nothing. Never mind. What about your dad?” The topic was changed a little too hastily, proof that Rivers is upset.

“My dad...hmm...that's a good question. What about my dad,” I muse. “I don't know my dad.”

“What do you mean, you don't know your dad?”

I purse my lips. “Well...my mom didn't know my dad, hence I don't know my dad.”

“Oh.” I can hear the confusion in that one word.

“It was a one-night stand. I think she was grieving over her ex-husband or something. She's always been sort of vague about the details. She didn't know him, didn't know his name, he wasn't from the area. So, you know, a few months later she finds out she's pregnant. No dad.” So many questions could be answered if I knew him, but there is no point in thinking about it, because I
don't
. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes.

“Neither one of us knew our dads,” he remarks.

“No.”

“But at least I know my dad's name. You don't even have that part of yours. That really sucks. A lot. I don't know what to say—I'm not any good at comforting people, sorry.”

I give a small lift of my shoulders. He can't see my movement and maybe he didn't even feel it. Maybe I am shrugging for no reason other than to shrug. So I reply, “You're really not fluent in making people feel better, I'll give you that.”

Suddenly I am wrapped in strong, warm arms with my head resting on a solid chest. For the first time since we started our nightly sleep-overs,
he
is consoling
me
. My heart sighs and I fight the impulse to hold him back. Whatever we have, if we even really have anything, I don't want to tamper with it.

“I'm not sad about it,” I reassure him.

His fingers stroke hair from my face, lingering near my lips before falling away. “You sound sad.”

“I am, but not about that,” I tell him truthfully.

Rivers moves so that he is partially leaning over me, his eyes shining in the night as he studies me, the glow of the moon reflected in them. “What are you sad about?”

I rise up and gently touch my lips to his. I figure the worst he can do is not kiss me. He goes still, his lips unresponsive against mine, and just as a trickle of disappoint weaves through my heart, he parts his lips and kisses me back. It's slow, hesitant, flooding me with sweetness I have never experienced before. The kiss deepens, his body pressing against mine, and the poignancy of it is snatched away and replaced with heat. My veins, my core, every part of me is flooded with fire. I don't want him to stop. It is a dangerous path I have started on, but not going down it would have been even more detrimental.

Imagine if I had never kissed him, just once.

I break away first, knowing our relationship has morphed once more, and that the blame falls on me. Is this wrong? My intentions are purely innocent, but am I still at fault if someone ends up hurt? I'm stealing moments because I know none of this can last. I'm not being fair to him. I'm not being fair to anyone, not even me. But when I look at him, when I touch him, and even when I just know he is near, I feel alive in a way that tells me life truly is infinite, in some aspect. I feel like there is nothing that can take me away from here, from him.

I feel like I have found my positive, and it is a doozy of one.

He stares down at me, his chest grazing mine each time he pulls and releases air from his lungs. My pulse is going haywire, and I shove him aside when I note the way I am clenching his thigh between my legs. Apparently my body was doing more than my brain was capable of deciphering. Neither of us speaks, the pounding of my heart loud enough to make words inessential. I wouldn't be able to hear myself talk anyway—I can barely make sense of my thoughts that are careening wildly out of control at the moment. Closing my eyes, I focus on breathing. That I can at least manage to do.

My body loosens up and my heartbeat slows. I tell myself I have to stop this, but the discomfort that comes with that thought calls me a liar. There is no stopping this. I don't think I could if I tried. Whatever this is, whatever we have, I am choosing to look at it as a gift. One I may have to return, but a gift all the same. I will treasure it while I can.

"I talk about Thomas—at the therapy sessions," he says in a low voice.

I close my eyes as my chest tightens; in joy that he is sharing this with someone, in sorrow that his step-dad can't be what he needs in a father figure, and in bittersweet pain that he has chosen
me
to confide in. It's all a jumbled up mess of emotions.

"What do you talk about?"

"My earliest memories, my
only
memories, are of him telling me failure was not an option, that I wasn't anything unless I was something, and that second place was for quitters. One time, when I fell and skinned my knees, he told me to get up and not to cry—told me to be a man about it. I was four."

I want to reach out to him but fold my fingers into my palm instead.

"I got second place in the fifth grade spelling bee and he punished me by making me choose one word every day from the dictionary to write an essay on. I had to do it for a whole month."

I wince, his pain touching me in tendrils of discord, flowing through my limbs, into my veins, and pooling within the center of my being.

"He told me I had to be the best, at everything. He expected perfection from me, but you know what? He never gave it back. He failed at being a father and I want to tell him that, and every day I don't, it eats me up. I let it control my life, I let it determine the person I was going to be, and it wasn't someone I am proud of. I told myself it was who I needed to be, who I wanted to be, but...since my accident, I know it never was. I have all these awards, I had the girl, the popularity, everything—and all I felt was empty.

"Now it feels like I'm fighting to be me, and I am not just fighting myself, but the weight of his
judgment as well, and it is so...
heavy.
And I keep losing. But..." he trails off, inhaling deeply. "But I also feel like maybe I can finally do it, and I don't know if it's because you're here, or just because I finally don't care what he thinks of me, and...anyway—I keep trying. No matter how many times I don't get it right or I mess up, I don't stop. And I guess that makes the power he has always held over me become nothing."

I don't speak, his words more dominant than any control Thomas ever tried to wield over him. Though we are merely inches apart, the space between us is wide and insurmountable. It's the doubt growing to slam up walls between us. It's the fear unraveling the bits of us that have come together. It's every insecurity we can possibly dream up shredding the magic created between a boy named Rivers and a girl named Delilah. And we're letting it win with our silence.

I refuse to let it.

I roll to my side, placing my hand over his heart, and feel the steady tempo of it beating against my palm. His hand covers mine, holding it there. "You're stronger than you think you are."

"Am I?" Doubt twists his voice and turns it disbelieving.

I turn my hand so that my palm is up, resting against his, and lock our fingers together. "Desperately stronger."

His chest rises in a deep inhalation of air, his fingers tightening around mine. We fall asleep like this—just the touching of our hands enough to wash away all the darkness of circumstances we have no say in. Sometimes we cannot control what happens to us, but we can decide how to go on from it. 

OUT OF EVERYTHING I HAVE
found out so far this summer—good and bad, I think realizing what I feel for Rivers scares me the most. How can
emotions
be more worrisome than all the rest of it? I roll my shoulders and sit back on my heels, dropping the rag into the tub of soapy water. Everything about Rivers terrifies me. There. I admitted it. But what scares me the most about him is that he makes me want
more—
more of everything. More than this life, more than what I am promised, more than I can ever truly have.