Unlit Star (19 page)

When we finally tear ourselves away from one another, I put substantial distance between us so we don't end up all over each other again. His eyes are glazed over, his nostrils flared as he sucks ragged breaths in and out. He has never looked more appealing.

"We're eating at my house tonight. My mom demands it," I state.

Rivers blinks, some of the fog clearing from his eyes. "Bossy, aren't you?"

"You wouldn't like me as much as you do if I wasn't. And my mom's the bossy one. I'm just relaying the message."

"Hmm." He rubs his jaw and shrugs, dropping his hand to his side. "Sure. I need to thank your mother anyway."

"What for?" I grab clean clothes from my tote in preparation of showering.

"She sent me flowers in the hospital."

I go still, glancing over my shoulder at him. "How do you know they were from her?"

"Do not keep standing like that. I mean, you can. Just know that there will be consequences if you do."

I straighten, blushing as I become aware of the view I was giving him.

"There was no note on the card, but it had the name of her business on it. At first I thought someone forgot to sign it, then I realized it was probably from the flower shop. Wait." It is his turn to freeze. Rivers' eyes narrow as he studies me. "It was you?"

My face heats up as I look away, holding my clothes in front of me like a shield. I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant about the whole thing. It took me
hours
to find the perfect flowers, to arrange them just right, to have the courage to send it.

"They were the prettiest ones," he says quietly.

"They were plain." I chose the ones that didn't stand out, but had the most character to them. I chose the ones I found the most beautiful, even with their uniqueness—
because
of their uniqueness. They were simple, imperfect, and strong.

"Do you know how many different colored roses I got?" He pauses. "You probably do, actually. Most of them came from your mother's shop. Is that why you chose the ones you did?"

Shrugging, I fiddle with the stud in my nose, uncomfortable heat coursing through my veins. "Roses are pretty and everything, but they're so generic.
Everyone
gets roses. They're the flower you can pick without really thinking about it."

"And you thought about it," he slowly confirms.

I wordlessly nod, thinking of the baby's breath, calla, delphinium, dahlia, snapdragon, and peony ensemble I put into a slim purple and black swirled vase. Each stem was precisely cut so that no two flowers were the same height, each painstakingly set in the perfect position to complement the others. It was the one time I truly enjoyed working with flowers. I guess because I knew I was making something beautiful for someone who needed to see it. Maybe that's how it is for my mom every time. I never thought about it that way. With everything, I suppose, how you decide to look at something determines what you get out of it.

"I need to show you something." Rivers leaves the room.

I am not sure what I'm supposed to do, so I wait, feeling nervous and fidgety. I chew on the inside of my lower lip and stare out the window toward the green grass and blue sky. The thing about me is that, although I enjoy doing good deeds, I don't like attention brought to them. I just want to do them and have people appreciate them, leaving me in the shadows as an unknown.

He comes back with the most serious expression on his face, holding a folded paper towel. When he gets to me, he slowly lifts the top half off, showing dried, but whole flowers in varying colors of purple, blue, pink, and yellow. My chest painfully squeezes as I stare down at the remnants of the gift I thought would be dismissed without a glance and was instead revered.

"I watched them die."

I look up, catching his dark eyes on me.

"That sounds morbid, but it really wasn't. Something about them intrigued me. Maybe it was the different kinds of flowers, or the fact that no one else sent anything like them. Maybe it was because I was bored. All I know is, I watched them wither into the curled and shrunken pieces they now are, and I felt some of the helplessness fade along with them. It was...cathartic." Rivers' eyes hold me in place. "I didn't even know they were from you, that you had touched them and constructed them into the form of art that stood in a crazy vase by my bedside, and yet I felt a connection to them." He pauses, taking a deep breath. "Do you believe in fate?"

I look down at the flat pieces of what were once vibrant with life, and I say, "Fate? I'm not sure if I believe in that, but...something like it...yeah, I think I do."

WE WALK TO MY HOUSE
. It was his idea to travel this way, and I wonder if he is trying to prove to himself that he can. I realize that sometimes we are our biggest critic, and that the person we have the hardest time gaining approval from is usually ourselves. I can see the strain on Rivers' face as we get closer to our destination, but he remains close-lipped about it. If it was anyone else with him, they might not even notice the tightness around his eyes or the way he faintly winces as he moves.

But I do.

I imagine he'll always have some form of soreness or discomfort in his legs. When muscle is damaged as badly as his was, it never fully recovers. But at least he's walking. That's what it's all about—continuing on even when it is hard. I glance at his sharp profile, all straight lines and geometrical angles constructed to form beauty.

He notices me watching him. "What?"

"I really hope you do everything in your life that you've ever wanted to do."

A frown line forms between his eyebrows. "Why are you saying this?"

I shrug and itch a bug bite on my forearm. "Because you need to never give up, no matter how bad things get. There won't always be someone around to help you. Sometimes you have to do it all on your own. I want to make sure you remember that giving up is not an option. Not for you, not ever."

He stops walking. I want to keep moving but I know I will be going alone, so I sigh and stop as well, turning back to look at him. He's staring at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. The longer he studies me, the more my skin heats up. He finally breaks eye contact, his face angling up as he watches a group of birds fly overhead.

"You make it sound like you won't be around for it," he finally says, not looking away from the sky.

My answer is simple and true. "I want to be. I can't say I will be—no one knows that. But I know I want to be."

Rivers looks at me, a slow, sweet smile curving his lips. "I guess that has to be good enough then."

I smile back, a charge going up the hand that he clasps with his, continuing into my arm, and pooling around my heart. Warming it, warming me.

Maple and oak trees line the sidewalk in browns and greens—tall and strong. This residential part of town is less busy than Rivers' street. That could be because most of the people are elderly and don't get out much. The air is crisp with summer; a hint of fragrant blossoms, a touch of rain to come, and everything encased in sunshine. We come to my house and I pause, wondering what his reaction will be, and then I feel bad for thinking he would ever judge me based on the place I live. That was the old Delilah thinking she knew the old Rivers.

A buzzing sounds near my face and I swat a mosquito away, noticing Rivers looking at me with a knowing smile on his face. I ask him what he's staring at and his grin widens. "I thought you liked bugs."

"Did I say I
like
them? I don't remember saying that, exactly."

"Bug killer."

"Only mosquitoes! They have no purpose other than to suck our blood. Little leeches," I grumble, itching at the swelling lump on my cheek.

"What about gnats? I'm sort of partial to them, actually. Swarming masses of tiny bugs that swallow up anything living. They're like teeny, tiny, zombie bugs."

"Ugh," is all I say.

He laughs, swiping the air around him as a cloud of gnats decide that's their cue to make an appearance.

"This is it." I gesture to the Victorian-era house of blue and white; bits of character showing through in the lines and curves of the house. I note the new flowers my mom planted within the last week or so. Two large pots rest on either side of the steps that lead to the porch, flowers of purple and white bursting from the soil and over the rim of the tin tubs. A trace of homesickness flutters through me and I blink against the sting of it.

"I like it," he tells me, glancing at me and grinning.

"Glad you approve." I secretly am.

"The flowers fit you."

"They really don't." I shift my feet and cross my arms. Flowers are my mom's thing, not mine.

He tilts his head. "But they do. Nature becomes you. I was trying to figure out where you fit—"

"Where I
fit?
" I interrupt. The thought of him trying to decide where I belong rubs me the wrong way. I guess because I thought he was beyond that sort of thing.

"Hear me out. Okay?" I nod and he continues, "I used to fit in with the athletes, right? If I didn't know anything else, I knew that. You never really fit anywhere. Now I know why. There is no way to put you into a category when there is no one way to define you. You're like..." He pauses as he looks at me, smiling when he says, "Sunshine. And rain. Flowers. You're everywhere, everything. The wind. The stars.

"Your eyes reminded me of something and I couldn't figure out what it was. I know now. They're like the sun setting, when the golds and oranges, and even hints of brown, can be seen. I don't understand the red hair dye, but even that seems to work for you. It's like fire. Everything about you is some form of a natural element. It's like...you're the complete embodiment of life. Your laugh, your sense of humor, your personality—you just—you put all of you into everything you do. You know? Even your heart..." He inhales deeply. "You're a beautiful person, Delilah Bana."

Tears are trickling down my face, but I don't try to remove them. He has to see them, he has to know how perfect his words are, how much they mean to me. Each tear I shed is a thank you. I stare at Rivers, trying to burn his image into my mind so that I never forget it, no matter where I am or what happens in the days, or months, to come. I want to remember him looking at me like I could be his air, looking at me like I could be the one thing he cares about more than an image, or a role, or a category. He does, I know he does. In the fracturing of him, he found a better him. And that broken version of Rivers found me. I think I was waiting for him to, in some cosmic way.

My heart is full, so full it aches, but it is a good pain. It is the kind of hurt that comes with the pressure of indescribable emotions, building and building, until they become too much, and they have to be eased or your heart will crack from them all. I cry to alleviate the feelings I cannot put into words right now. I don't think there is a correct word, or words, for what I have in my heart for Rivers.

He uses his thumbs to caress my cheeks, effectively removing the wetness from them. "Are you crying because I ate the last of the ice cream? We'll get more, I promise."

I laugh shakily. "Yes. And because you refused the peanut butter and bacon on toast I offered to make for lunch."

"I can only take so much peanut butter."

"It's like I don't even know who you are," I tell him.

A door creaks, banging as it shuts. "Are you two going to stand out here all night or are you going to come in? The bugs are terrible."

I slowly look up and meet my mother's gaze. I suck in a sharp breath at the yearning that hits me. Sometimes, you don't realize how much you miss something until you see it once more. And sometimes—you don't get that chance. Why have I been wasting time? I feel like that's all I've been doing my whole life; wasting whatever days I get on things that don't even matter instead of focusing on the things that do.

She offers a small smile and I return it as she goes back inside. An invisible cord pulls at me, telling me it is time to make things right with her, even if it is a slow, stumbling process. There comes a point when all the walls seem impossible to break down, when the person you see the most becomes a stranger. Between my mother and I, there is awkwardness where there should be familiarity. Maybe it's her fault for allowing it, but it is certainly my fault for instigating it.

Sometimes when someone tries to push you away, you have to push back.

She has loved me for eighteen years—even when I was in my most unlovable state. I didn't put this clear barrier between us because I don't love her back, or because I wanted to hurt her. Part of the reason I have shied from her over the years is because I was afraid if I got too close, I would see our unattainable past staring back at me. Or what she would see when she looked into my eyes was all that we cannot change nor forget.

But I also kept my distance to protect her. And me. I'm still trying to protect her and I don't know how much longer I can keep the truth from her. And when that day comes, I fear I will break, and everything I have strived to do this summer will wash away like most good intentions do.

Rivers nudges me. "Are we heading in or making a run for it?" he says close to my ear.

I break out of the spell of nostalgia and tug at his hand. "There is no running away from this." I meant for my tone to be carefree, but even I can hear the ominous taint to it.

"You and your mom don't seem close," he notes as we walk toward the house.

"How can you tell?"

"I don't know. There's this...uneasiness between you. She looks at you and you look away and the reverse."

"You saw all of that within a minute?"

He shrugs.

"We're not," I answer his earlier question.

"Is there a reason for it?"

I glance over my shoulder at him. "Just one? No. There's a lot of them."

"You should have told me this before now."

"Why? Would you have decided not to come?"

His jaw juts forward. "No, but it would have been nice to be prepared."

"Being prepared for things is dull. Spontaneity is more entertaining." I reach behind me and pat his stomach. "You'll be fine. Just don't talk about politics or religion."

"Isn't that the rule for anywhere?"

"See? You're so knowledgeable."

"I get this feeling you're making fun of me."

I open the door and smile at him as we walk into the house. "Never."

The living room is directly ahead—a spacious room with walls the color of a stormy day, the trim looking as though blanketed in snow, and a ceiling high enough that when I was a child I thought it reached the stars. The floors are hardwood and I used to pretend they were an ocean; the furniture was my refuge against the sea monsters. Maybe Rivers is right—I do tend to see nature in all things.

The small entryway we are standing in has a lower ceiling than the living room, but the trim around the floor and windows is still the shade of snow, though the walls are creamy yellow, like butter. Black and white photographs in chipped and faded white frames take over one whole wall, the wall I unconsciously turn away from whenever I enter the house. Plants abound from corners and window ledges. With the sun streaming in through the large picture windows it almost seems like we are in some sort of tropical jungle, or a strange new world where we are the only existing humans. That would be okay with me.

"It smells good in here."

I look at Rivers. "I hope you like garlic."

One dark eyebrow lifts.

"My mom loves it. She puts it in
everything
, even cake."

His other eyebrow raises to meet the first when my mom appears, giving me a look. "I heard that. And it's not true. I don't put it in cake, although I might have to try that. Maybe for your next birthday," she tells me with a wink.

I try to smile, but my lips are frozen into a stiff line. My next birthday is seven months away. A lot can happen in seven months. My mom catches my reaction. I can tell from the frown on her face that she doesn't understand it, which is logical.

She opens her mouth to say something, but Rivers must have picked up on the tension because he says, "
Remember what you told me about trying things? You really don't have a choice. If your mom makes it, you have to eat it."

I shake the blackness away and fight to brighten my tone when I counter with, "You're absolutely correct. I'll make sure you're there too." I smile at my mom. "This is Rivers, Janet. Janet, Rivers. I'm not sure if you've been properly introduced yet."

She offers a genuine smile. "Hello. It's nice to meet you. "

"And you. I've talked to you before at the flower shop."

Janet nods. "I thought you looked familiar." She gestures in the direction of the kitchen. "Come on in. I'll get us something to drink." When Rivers goes ahead of us, she looks at me and mouths, "He's cute."