Summer's Desire (16 page)

Fortunately, Seth chooses that moment to
break into my increasingly hysterical musings. "You slept well, didn't
you? You didn't wake up during the night." His voice is deep, and soothing
to me in ways I could never even begin to describe.

My sleep last night wasn't just good, it
was fabulous. The last time I slept so well was the last time I slept in Seth's
arms, more than five years ago. Still, I tease him, "How do you know I
didn't wake up?"

"I would've known if you had,"
he states confidently, and I believe him. He would have known if I'd had trouble
sleeping. But that's a moot point since I always enjoy undisturbed sleep when
I'm in his arms. He chases all my nightmares away—always has.

Overcome with gratitude, I need to share
at least this much with him. "Last night was the first time since coming
back to Rockford that I've slept through the night. Thank you." I raise
myself on my arms and kiss him softly on the cheek. My lips tingle where they
touch his skin.

I draw back and make to get off of him,
but his arms tighten around me. I look at him and am surprised at the emotions
flashing in his eyes. Anger, regret, pain. A need so deep it shakes me for I
don't understand it, even as my entire body pulses in instinctive response.

Finally his arms release their hold on
me, and like the biggest coward, I jump out of bed and race to the bathroom.

* * *

I'm dressed and sitting with Seth at his
small kitchen table, eating toast and scrambled eggs, which he's prepared. He's
already finished with his food and is nursing a cup of coffee.

I'm wearing my pants and T-shirt from
yesterday. My hoodie was too torn to be salvageable, so Seth's given me one of
his own to wear for the day. It's black, and on the back it has the number 15
stitched with silver threads. On the front, also in silver, it says, "Those
who can, do". It's huge on me but I'm used to wearing too-big clothes. Besides,
this hoodie smells divine: it smells like Seth, and wearing it, if I close my
eyes I can almost imagine that I'm in his arms.

He's been watching me throughout the
morning with an almost unnerving intensity. I don't know for certain what he's
thinking about, but I sense that it relates to me. Obviously.

And that it doesn't bode well.

I gulp down the last of my food, then
gather the dishes and put them in the sink. When I start to wash them, his
voice stops me.

"Leave the dishes and come back
here, please. We need to talk."

I swallow the sudden knot in my throat
and hesitatingly retake my seat at the table. His eyes are intent, his face
doesn't betray any of his thoughts. I wait for him to start talking.

"Five years ago, when you left
Rockford, we promised that we'd keep in touch. But then we didn't." His
quiet words hit me with the strength of a freight train.

Oh God, he wants to talk about the past!
I look away, at battle with myself.

Just yesterday, I wanted this too. I
wanted to rail against Seth, yell at him, reprove him for abandoning me. I
wanted to cry in his arms until my heart stopped hurting. What I wanted most
was for him to somehow explain the unexplainable—his broken promises to me—and
magically erase the sorrow of the last five years.

But he can't give me that.

I close my eyes for a second only, and
in the space of that second, time expands and I revisit all my memories of him.
The first time I saw Seth as a seven-year-old boy, and his calm blue gaze
soothed my uncertainty and fear. The way he raised his blanket, inviting me in
his bed for the first time, and offered me the sleep of angels nestled into his
warm body. The way he fiercely fought all my bullies—and there were many of
them throughout my childhood, for I was an awkward, unsociable child. The way
he smiled at me, open and happy, when he gave me my heart necklace.

I also remember how I waited and waited
for a letter from him, for a call. How I cried inconsolably when I didn't
receive it. How in my later letters I begged and pleaded with him to forgive me
if I had done anything to upset him, and to be my friend again. How the loss of
hope that I would ever hear from him again, how the loss of
him
, broke
my heart into a million pieces.

But, I realize with sudden insight, my
heart has already started to meld back together ever since Seth came back into
my life. With each time I felt his gaze on me, each time I drank him in from a
distance, my heart has grown a little stronger.

Then yesterday, he saved me from Josh
(twice!), beat him up for me, shook with fury against him on my behalf. He
brought me to his home and took care of me. Touched me with gentleness and let
me rest in his arms. The past 24 hours have given me hope that maybe, just
maybe, I can have my best friend back.

If I play my cards right.

The truth is this: the past cannot be
undone and Seth's promises to me cannot be unbroken, no matter what he wishes
to tell me now. But if all that ugliness is brought into the open, if I release
all my grief and bitterness, I'll only be tearing the scabs of old wounds. I'll
only be driving Seth away.

My heart contracts painfully at the
thought. No, I can't let that happen!
Which means that, for the sake of my
future, I have to let go of the past.

So I do.

Only one second has passed. I open my
eyes, meet his gaze and state firmly, "We were children only. Children say
a lot of things that they don't mean, or which they maybe mean at the time but
later forget." I'm trying to make it clear that I can understand him. Yes,
he hurt me deeply with his thoughtless desertion, but I can chalk it up to
youth instead of mean-spiritedness and thus I can try to forgive him.

He stands up abruptly, as if unable to
sit still anymore, and a tiny muscle starts ticking above his jaw. "We
weren't children five years ago. In fact, with the lives we've lead, the things
we've lived through, we were hardly
ever
children."

There's nothing I can say to this—it's
all too true. We'd stopped being children a long time before our separation. So
he should have known better. Why did he point this out? Why didn't he take the
easy out I gave him?

I try to give him another one.
"Still, things happen. Life gets in between, I know that, and sometimes promises
fall victim to it." I gulp, rise to my feet so that I can more easily connect
with his eyes, and force myself to continue: "It doesn't matter."
I
want to forgive you.

He's staring at me with a disbelieving
expression. "Things happen? Life gets in between? Promises don't matter?
That's the best you can do?! What the hell, Sunny?! Of course that shit
happens! In fact, far as I can see, life is mostly shit. But there are some
things that life should
not
be let in between. And promises always
matter!"

Why, why is he doing this?! Why is he
playing devil's advocate?! Of course that promises are important! But if he
knows that, how could he break those he made to me? The bastard! I'm suddenly
just an enraged as he is.

"Yeah, sure..." I drawl
sarcastically. "Promises matter. Until they don't, right? Until they're
not convenient anymore, right? Or how else do you explain them getting
broken
?!"

His face drains of color and he looks at
me, shattered. "You broke your promise because it wasn't
convenient
anymore?"

I
broke my promise? What the hell?!

"You flaming hypocrite! You're
talking to me about the importance of keeping one's promises?" I'm so furious
that I can barely see straight. "Are you actually claiming that you never
broke yours?"

"Yes." And he looks me in the
eye without flinching as he utters that awful lie.

I have to look away for a moment and try
to control my suddenly overwhelming urge to cry. I succeed, barely, and ignore
the throbbing headache I get for my efforts.

Meeting Seth's gaze again, I tell him
quietly, "Well, good for you that you always get to keep your promises. Too
bad that not all people can say the same." I'm so incredibly disappointed in
him making false claims. When it came to important things, we used to never,
ever
lie to each other.

My illusions are shattered. Somewhere
deep inside, I had still hoped against all hope that he could tell me something
that would right the past. But he can't. He won't even acknowledge that he's
done me wrong.

He's not the perfect god of my childhood,
after all.

I inhale deeply.

But that's okay; he doesn't have to be
perfect. He's still my Seth. I still need and want him in my life. In profound
gratitude for him having saved me, for having saved my sanity after my parents'
death, for the beautiful childhood years he's given me and for all our shared
memories—I'll somehow work through my disenchantment and overcome it. I'll stay
his friend.

If he wants me to.

"Let's forget about the past,"
I suggest softly. It's the only way that the two of us can go on.

His face closes off. "The past can't
be just swept aside. Who we are today is because of the past. And we're not who
we used to be,
are we?
" These last words emerge as a husky whisper.

"That's true. But Seth, we can
still try to be friends again, right?" As I'm asking him this, I'm putting
it all on the line. I feel so fragile as if he could break me with a single
word.

Which he does.

"I don't know you anymore," he
tells me hoarsely, and for a moment I think that I see his remoteness fall away,
revealing a terrible, soul-deep agony. But I blink and his expression is shuttered
again. "You're not who I thought you were," he rasps out.

On the inside, I crumble against the brutality
of his blow. He doesn't want to be friends with me.

You're not who I thought you were.
Oh God, he
thought I was different! He thought I was better than I am—that's why he was so
kind to me. But now he's seen how I really am, how simple and ordinary. I always
feared this would happen someday, ever since we became friends. And just like I've
always feared, once he's seen the true me he doesn't want to have anything to
do with me anymore.

The pain is all-encompassing. I honestly
feel like I'm dying inside. I bite my inner cheek raw in an effort to keep my
expression blank and my burning eyes dry. Now is
not
the time to release
my grief. Still, I'm afraid he'll take a look at my eyes and know that I'm
mortally wounded.

But my fears are in vain, for he's not even
looking at me anymore.

He glances at his phone. "It's time
to head to school. We don't want to be late." His tone is distant.

We head out of the apartment and he has
some trouble securing the door. He seems almost clumsy.

But Seth is never clumsy.

"That lock didn't look very
sturdy," I observe conversationally as we're going down the stairs. Every
word coming out of my mouth costs me, but I have to keep the pretense of
normality. As if he hasn't just torn my bloody, still beating heart right out
of my chest. I have to cling to what remains of my pride at least; it's the only
thing I have left.

"The lock is worthless. A child
could pick it." His voice is still inflectionless.

"So why don't you change it? What
if you are robbed?"

"First, a thief would just bash
that poor excuse of a door in, with or without the lock. Second, you've seen my
place—there isn't anything there worth stealing. Third and most importantly,
the thieves here know not to mess with me." A note of menace has entered
his voice, and looking at him, I think that petty criminals would indeed be
smart to be afraid.

I keep silent.

We've reached the car, so he opens the
passenger door for me and I take my seat. He closes the door and I fasten my
seatbelt. A blink later, the driver's door opens and Seth enters the car. He immediately
puts on music, cranking it loud, and then we're on our way to school.

Very soon after, he's parking the car in
the school's parking lot. He stops the car and swiftly opens his door.

"Seth!" His feet are already
outside, and though my voice arrests his movement of rising out of his seat, he
keeps his back turned to me. His entire body seems impossibly strung with tension.

"What is it?" Harsh with
impatience. Sweet lady of mercy, does he want to get out of the car so badly? To
get away from me?

I can't stop a shudder of anguish. How
did it come to this? One hour ago I woke up in heaven, and now I may as well be
roasting in the pits of hell. He hasn't looked at me once since the apartment.

"Thank you," I whisper.
"For everything." And I really am thanking him for everything. For
the six beautiful years he's given me when we were children. For yesterday. For
sharing his bright light with me, even for a little while.

"It's fine," he grits out.

And that's it. The next moment he's out
of the car, and slowly, feeling extremely old, I alight as well. The moment I
close the passenger door, he engages the locking mechanism and strides away. All
without glancing at me even once.