Puddle Jumping (12 page)

We arrived early enough to start our walk through the exhibits, milling through the larger than usual crowds. Because, apparently, other people thought looking at art on Stupid Cupid’s Day was fun, too. Of course, they were pretty much old people. Like, at least thirty-five or older, and they were drinking and conversing, causing more noise than usual.

It didn’t bother me, of course. I was with him. And nothing ever mattered when we were together except each other.

Ask me anything about art. Impressionism. Surrealism. Contemporary. Avant-Garde. I’m pretty sure I could tell you enough to warrant an eye roll and cause you to mutter that I’m a snobby know-it-all. But I paid attention to what Colton talked about. I tried to see as clearly as he did the things that fascinated him. And at times, he could become so focused it was as if I were blending into the background instead of being by his side, but I didn’t care.

Because the only thing I was that passionate about . . . was him.

You call it obsessive, I call it being devoted.

We walked for a bit and discussed certain pieces, until someone recognized him. See, being in a museum with a locally famous artist, you don’t always get to lay low. And with the amount of people around that night, I was surprised he hadn’t been accosted earlier. That knowledge did nothing to ease my frustration when the time came for our reservation and Colton was still talking art to a handful of adults who were hanging on his every word.

I tried to interrupt but there was no real way to do it. Eventually, I had to step in front of him, feeling stupid and small, unimportant and immature as I relayed I would go to the restaurant alone and wait for him. Which is exactly what I did. And as I waited and waited and waited at the table for him to arrive, I realized I was having Valentine’s dinner . . . by myself.

It hurt. A lot. But I didn’t want to be the girl who cried into her overpriced pasta.

No. Not me.

Instead, I counted all of the good things we had. I tried to envision what the rest of the night would be like. Unfortunately, after half an hour, I knew it would be no use to wait any longer – and the waitress said she might need the table, so I ordered his food to go and walked it to the car myself before going back inside the museum to find him.

He was in the exact same spot. Alone now. Staring at one of three pieces from the Van Gogh exhibit: Starry Night.

“I was looking for you.” I tried not to sound upset, and hoped I had succeeded.

Finally, he acknowledged me. “I’ve read this was Van Gogh’s way of portraying hope. Hope from escaping his hell on earth; being trapped in his body as it began to recede. An escape from his mind as he stayed in an asylum. Those clouds . . . they’re representations of freedom. Heaven. A cure for his illness.”

His fingers rose to point.

“The brush strokes are impeccable. The majority of the print is from memories of his childhood.”

I just stood as still as possible, taking in the meaning behind of each of his words.

“And what would you paint from your childhood?” I asked, simply a whisper, forgetting about being put-out from dinner, and now completely entranced by him.

He looked over at me with that smile. Slight. Meaningful.

“You.”

B
lood rushed up to my face and I gripped his hand in mine, asking him quietly if we could go back to his house. I felt alive . . . so freaking alive and excited to get back to his place. I didn’t care about anything that had just happened. Just like that.

The night was chilly, but clear, and I vividly remember looking up at the stars, my chest swelling and filling up to the point of almost bursting because I loved him so much. I loved him with a physical ache in my chest.

Love? Sometimes it’s so big it hurts.

Once back at the house, I put the food in to reheat because I figured we would need the energy for what I had planned later on. And while we waited, I skimmed his channels for a movie to watch or order. Settling on one that looked romantic in an odd way, I set it up and plated the food, making us a little picnic on the floor. My bouquet was sitting right off to the side of us and I liked the way it felt. It was just right.

But the movie? The movie was probably the second worst thing of the night.

I honestly had no idea what it was about. I’d barely heard of it and none of my friends had ever said anything about seeing it. How was I supposed to know?

It wasn’t until we were halfway through finishing our food that it dawned on me that the lead character had Asperger’s.

By then Colton was fascinated, his attention fixated on the movie, his brow creased as he watched. I was swept away in the female lead’s part of the story. At times she was cold, and at times she was irritated. But I saw a lot of myself in her, and it was . . . odd. Our food went cold and neither of us spoke as the film progressed, but I could feel the tension in the room begin to rise.

“I can turn it off . . .” I started but Colton just shook his head, transfixed.

“I’d like to finish it.”

I felt like I was holding my breath the entire time and pushing back tears because these people were older . . . and . . . there was no Hollywood ending. Just reality. The reality of loving someone who may never, ever be able to love you back in the same capacity.

But Colton could, right? We were different. We had to be. He could explain things so clearly and show his affections in other ways and there was nothing that would make me ever quit loving him. I was sure of it.

The credits rolled and I sat in stunned silence, because there wasn’t a happy ending.

There was no happy ending.

None.

I needed that happy ending.

The silence was overwhelming as I cleaned up the dishes and loaded the washer.

“I’m going to get ready for bed.” Colton disappeared to his room to start his routine and I debated on whether or not to follow.

What we’d just watched reverberated through my mind.

I didn’t want that for us.

I couldn’t allow myself to wallow in those thoughts. Instead, I focused on getting up the stairs to his room. He was in the shower when I got there and for a moment, I paused.

Until he called my name.

“Lilly?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” I walked into the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat, overcome by thoughts and emotions and unable to think clearly.

“Will you join me?”

The shower curtain moved back slightly as his head poked out, water running down his face and dripping from his chin as he gazed at me sitting there. As much as he could be concerned, he looked like he was, and I hated to see him that way. Something in the way he was looking at me pulled at my heart and every last expectation I had for the night flew out the window.

“Are you upset? Did you not like dinner?”

“I liked dinner,” I said quietly. I couldn’t say what I was upset about. It felt too much like folding.

Instead of stripping and getting into ridiculous lingerie to seduce him, I stood, pulled off my dress, and stepped into the shower, under the warm spray of the water to just . . . hold him. In a watery embrace. So that he couldn’t see the difference between the water from above and the tears as they silently flowed.

I didn’t even care about possibly having to explain why my hair was wet when his parents got home.

* * *

I’m not a quitter. Not by a long shot.

I mean, if I was a smoker and needed to quit, that would be one thing. But Colton? Never.

Just because two people in a movie couldn’t make it work didn’t mean we would be like that. I wasn’t giving up on us just yet.

Then, the next week, he dropped a new bomb on me: He got a job.

I was more surprised than anyone else.

I’d gone to pick him up from school and Mrs. Neely dropped the bomb on me, explaining the situation and asking if I would mind driving him to work after our last class of the day.

Apparently, on the night of our visit to the museum on Valentine’s, Colton had spoken with the curator and there was an internship open that my boyfriend agreed to. Just like that. On the spot. His PEERS teacher had been talking about jobs and Colton didn’t see a problem with it. It was exactly what he loved to do.

Of course, he talked it over with his parents, but not with me. And I hated that, but there was nothing I could do about it. It’s not that he didn’t care or didn’t think of me. I am of the opinion that he had always discussed things with them and that was how it went. He respected his parents and they were the final word over every decision he’d ever made.

I didn’t think driving him to and from work would be something my parents would be okay with. Going in and out of the city that much wouldn’t sit well with my dad.

In the end, it wasn’t going to work out for me to do it, so Mrs. Neely started picking him up every day after school. That meant we had less time together, one-on-one, because the few minutes we had in the car to and from school had always been our special time. And lunch didn’t count. Neither did English. I wanted
to be alone with him
.

After he started his internship, we only saw each other in the morning on the drive there and at our lockers. By the time he got home at night, with his new schedule, he was finding it hard to adapt to the changes in his routine and I learned very quickly I needed to stop pushing the issue. He was getting irritable more easily and instead of letting my feelings get hurt, I did something entirely different.

I started babysitting again.

I’m not sure why I did it, really. Maybe not being able to see Colton as much was making me feel lonely. Maybe I just needed to prove to myself that I could find an interest in other things outside of him. My mom had made remarks a few times that maybe I should spend more time with my other friends or find a hobby. Instead, I chose the job. It was probably stupid to do, but I hadn’t babysat the twins much since we’d started dating and it was easy money after school.

It gave me time to clear my head when I got anxious about our relationship. I knew every morning I would get to see him. We just had to bide our time until then. Being busy helped the time go faster. Phone calls to friends worked, but hanging out with a couple only made me miss him more.

He’d made friends with a few other interns and would speak of them from time to time, but we’d never met because he was so busy. The additional socialization added extra stress to his already full schedule of art and school, along with his PEERS classes and me. But I was seeing some changes in him for the better and it made all of it seem worth it.

He started watching people more closely, and I could tell he was trying out certain mannerisms or phrases the other interns probably used. While I had been the catalyst for his journey to become more social, at least according to his mom, the internship was what
really
brought him out of his shell. Maybe it was because the other interns were guys, as well. Or maybe it was because he got to talk art all day: eat it, breathe it, live it.

Whatever it was, I was glad. No matter how much I missed him. This was what I wanted from day one.

We still emailed when we could. We still saw each other as much as possible. But the extreme difference from the initial time we’d been together, seemingly glued at the hip, to the sporadic moments we got at that time, was a difficult transition.

For me.

If it was hard for him to be away from me, I wouldn’t have known. He fell into his groove and just went with it like it was just a natural progression.

Our physical relationship slowed down a bit, since we hardly had private time together except in the car. There were a few days where we’d been driving to school and his hand would wander up my leg and I’d have to debate on whether or not to skip first period just to get some interaction him. I certainly didn’t want the school calling his parents about him being tardy or absent, but . . . dammit. I
missed
him.

For a while my conscience won me over and I was proud I decided to keep driving until we got to the school where we would kiss for a few minutes before heading to our lockers. But . . . I wasn’t always so strong. In fact, I started picking him up a few minutes early sometimes; just to give us the option of finding a side road to park on.

I had no idea how much I craved his touch. How much just hearing his voice, no matter how limited his words. He’d become everything to me so quickly I hadn’t had time to see it happening until I was too far gone.

I was so far gone. I had no idea.

The week before prom, I’d been up to my eyeballs in
everything
. I was busy getting my dress and things ready, along with schoolwork and trying to keep up with my friends and my boyfriend. I’m sure I was spaced out more than usual, and the ride to school with him by my side was probably quieter than we’d become used to. But I had so much on my mind; I didn’t think anything of it.

We were on our way to school, passing by one of the few side roads we’d claimed as our own when our need to be with one another was way too much to ignore, when I started up a conversation.