Unlit Star (12 page)

Maybe he never gave me a chance, but did I ever give him one?

I tread water as I face him. “Want to come in?”

Indecision shadows his features.

“Oh, come on. You sit there and watch me almost every day. It's obvious you want to be in here too. What's stopping you?”

“I like watching you,” he confesses.

I brush water from my face because I am suddenly nervous and don't know what to do with my hands. “Why?” I blurt out.

Broad shoulders lift and lower. “You're like a fish. A natural in the water. It's soothing to watch.”

“I'm sure you're a much better swimmer. Haven't you been in some form of body of water most of your life? I've seen the pictures—swimming, jet skiing, surfing, water skiing, boating—you've done it all.” His face darkens, but it's too late, there's no going back now. I trudge onward. “What happened, Rivers? What happened out on the river?”

You shouldn't have gotten hurt,
is the unspoken sentence I bite back. Not with his natural prowess on the water. True, accidents can happen to anyone—no matter their level of adequacy, but what if it was something more? Negligence comes to mind. Who was driving the boat? Who was out on the water with him that day? Was he drinking or was he sober? If he was drinking, that would at least make it a little more understandable. Maybe he was intoxicated and misjudged the distance between the boat and the water, or maybe he slipped. Maybe.

The real question is: How did he fall into the water and get injured
that
bad?

“I don't want to talk about it.”

I open my mouth to push the conversation and then decide against it. With a shrug I return to my laps. I know the exact moment he goes inside. My body cools without the burn of his gaze on me and I feel strangely empty and lonely. I've always sort of been alone, but I've never really felt
lonely
. Unease creeps through me as I get to my feet in the water. It feels like everything is backfiring on me. I had it all figured out; all the details were sound, unbreakable. I knew what I was going to do. It was a simple plan.

Only nothing is happening the way I thought it would.

THE DOORBELL CHIMES THREE TIMES before I toss my book aside with a sigh and get up to answer it. It's Friday night, and I do realize how lame it is of me to be reading on a Friday night, but I haven't read a book for pleasure since I was twelve. The person at the door is totally interrupting my reading time, and I
know
Rivers had to have heard the doorbell because his bedroom is closer to the front door than the sun room is. He may be physically compromised, but he isn't
deaf
. And it isn't like whoever is at the door is here for me. I don't live here—he does. It's a given they've come to see Rivers. So why am I the one answering the door?

It's ridiculous to get upset over this, but I am finding that pretty much everything about Rivers aggravates me on some level. I haven't fully analyzed
why
just yet. I'll save that self-discovery for another rainy day. I try to calm myself down by saying maybe he has his music loud and can't hear the doorbell, but when I pass by the closed bedroom door, I hear silence.
Ear buds. He could have ear buds in.
He so doesn't. I know it. He's simply being his moody and difficult self again, like he is prone to be.

I draw my hand toward me when it fists and raises to pound on his door, instead moving on to the front door. Mentally groaning at the sight that greets me, I feign nonchalance as I nod. “Riley.”

To say she is surprised
might
be an understatement. Her chestnut locks are all wild around her pretty face, her slim body is clothed in a black halter dress, and her eyes continually blink as her mouth slowly closes when only seconds before it was hanging open. And then, of course, there's the scent of her perfume—candy and flowers—in all its cloying enormity to further agitate me.

“Um...” She looks around like she thinks maybe she got the wrong house, finally fixing her blue eyes on me. “What are you doing here?”

I cross my arms. “I work here.”

My action draws her eyes down and her brows furrow as she takes in my purple tank top and black shorts. They're skimpy, I guess, but I am ready for bed. I wasn't expecting a social visit at nine in the evening, but I should have known there was a chance Rivers would have one. My bad. I guess
he
should have answered the door then.

“At night?”

“Temporarily.”

“I don't understand.”

She really doesn't. I kind of feel bad for her. She is so prettily confused. Then I remember how viperous she can be and stiffen my spine. “Monica and Thomas had to leave the state for a week or so and asked me to babysit.”

“Babysit? Where's Rivers?” She looks past me.

“I don't know.” The irony of not knowing where my charge is or what he is up to hits me and I clear my throat. “So...did you need something?”

Face reddening, her mouth pulls in. “Yes. I'd like to see Rivers.”

"I thought you broke up." Whoa. There was a snarky undertone there. Where did that come from?

Her eyes narrow. "Is it any of your business what goes on between the two of us?"

"The two of you," I repeat slowly, "as in you're a couple...even though you aren't."

Riley's mouth thins as she takes a step closer. "Are you going to get him or not?"

“Does he want to see you?” I know I'm being a bitch, but I have to embrace these little moments of perfection as they come along. Riley, deferring to me as though I am her superior, is classic—and about time. Plus, I don't know why, but I sort of want to rip her apart right now, solely on the basis of her wanting to see Rivers. Not cool for me, not at all.

“Look, Delilah,” she begins in an icy tone, her voice faltering as she looks up and beyond me.

I glance over my shoulder and connect gazes with one of black storms. My stomach swoops and I quickly look back to Riley. “Here he is. Have fun.”

I leave the room, my feet not moving fast enough. They could never move fast enough. I feel like my body is encased in lead and is moving as such. Have fun? Really? Like I want them to be having any kind of
fun
together—
ugh
times infinity. What was that swirly feeling in my gut when he looked at me? Nothing. It was nothing. Absolutely
nothing
. The denial seems lame, even to me. It was something. It was something and that something is not a good idea. Do feelings ever care whether it's a good idea or not to have them? Nope.

Reading has lost its appeal, so I spend the next few minutes pacing the length of the sun room, gnawing on my thumbnail as I wait—for what, I don't know. I guess for Rivers. Or maybe for Riley to leave. And then what? And then the careening of my pulse and the pounding of my heart will relax. I wonder what they're saying to each other. I wonder what Rivers is thinking as he looks at his ex-girlfriend. He has to have lingering feelings, right? I mean, she is amazing to look at, so there is that.

I freeze in the middle of the room. What the
hell
am I thinking? Since when do I care about Rivers or anything that involves him? I want to say since we started sleeping together at night, and oh, how innocent does that
not
sound? But it really is. There has never been a moment where the thought of taking it further than actual sleeping has reached me. Well, I mean, it's maybe in the back of my head, but I would never act on it. It's more of a curiosity thing, like wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by Rivers Young. But then, why do I seem almost...
jealous
? This is insane.

Because Rivers and me? No.

A car door slams and an engine purrs, fading into the distance along with headlights I spot out the window. Riley is leaving. It isn't relief that hits me as I fall onto the couch because there's no reason for it, or any other emotion, to sneak up on me. And I do sort of feel like I am being sporadically pummeled by things when I least expect to be. But really, how can you prepare for something you don't see coming? I rub my face, dropping my hands at a thought. Maybe Riley didn't leave, but took Rivers somewhere with her. Maybe they went off on a date, or to reconcile, or...have sex.

I gasp from the discomfort that shoots through me, angry with myself for thinking what Rivers does or doesn't do has anything to do with me or that it should affect me in any way. Wanting to distract myself, I decide stuffing myself with ice cream is a good way to go about it. I do
not
pause when I reach Rivers' closed door and I do
not
hold my breath in hopes of catching a sound from within the room. And I do
not
falter in my steps when his dark visage is the first thing I focus on as I enter the kitchen.

“The jig is up,” I tell him, nodding to his bowl. “I know you don't like ice cream.”

He wordlessly grabs another bowl and spoon, scooping chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream into it. The mint chocolate chip was gone days ago. He pushes it across the counter top toward me, one eyebrow lifted as he looks at me.

“Thanks.” I scoop some of the cold deliciousness onto my tongue and swallow.

“I have no idea why I ate the ice cream,” he murmurs. He looks up, a small smile on his face. “I guess I didn't want to put all your effort to waste.”

“Effort? I took apart a wall of frozen peas. It didn't entail a lot of muscle work.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I wanted your company so I suffered through eating the ice cream in silence.”

I laugh. “Why would you want my company? I mean,
I
know I'm fascinating, but you seem a little slower to have that inevitable epiphany."

His eyebrows lift. "Big words."

"What can I say? I'm super smart." I'm not, but it sounded good.

"Humble as well."

I wink. "It comes with the territory." We both become silent until I pipe up with, "So eating ice cream is considered suffering to you? Clearly you have been spoiled.”

He looks down.

I realize maybe he thinks I'm minimizing his accident. I set the spoon down in my bowl. “Sorry. I mean, I know you haven't had it exactly easy lately. I didn't mean anything by my comment.”

“I know. But you're right.” Rivers' eyes take me in and I feel like he is sucking me into him with those dark, dark eyes. “I
was
pretty spoiled. It isn't that I didn't have to work at what I got, because I did, but a lot of it also came easy to me. Most of what you say angers me, but once I decided to think about it, I realized
why
it bothers me so much. Because you're right.”

“I'm right that you secretly love ice cream? I knew it.”

“I don't love it or hate it. I can do with, or without.” He shrugs again.

I widen my eyes at him. “You're not normal.”

He glances at me before walking to the table with his bowl. “And you know a lot about that, right?”

“Enough.” I take my ice cream and sit across the table from him.

“What's up with you and Riley?”

I quickly swallow a mound of cookie dough and wait for it to dislodge from my throat. “What's up with
you
and Riley?”

“We dated for a long time. It didn't work out. She won't let go. And now that I'm partially helpless, she thinks I need her to baby me, which only makes me even more glad that I am no longer dating her.” The intensity of his gaze singes me. “And you? She's always been particularly nasty to you, more than to anyone else. I never stopped to think there might be a reason for it.”

“Do you even realize how sad that is?”

He ignores that, asking, “What happened with you two?”

“Why did you two break up?” I shoot back.

He won't look at me as he answers, “We grew apart. I realized I didn't like a lot of things about her, or how I was when I was with her, or even why I continued to be with her. I guess maybe I matured. Why did she shove you into the lockers sophomore year?”

“You saw that?” My voice is faint. I can't believe he
remembers
that. It was over two years ago. And there's the whole idea that I thought I was invisible to him.

Rivers nods, his eyes down as he mashes his ice cream into a melting blob. “Yeah. Saw it, didn't do anything about it, didn't care.” His tone almost sounds remorseful but that can't be.

“She called me a freak, so I called her a slut. Her reaction was to shove me and I landed against the lockers. The principal decided to make an appearance right after that so I couldn't retaliate.” Even now, my fingers tighten with the memory of humiliation and anger.

He squints his eyes at me. “Her tire was flat that day after school. Was that you?”

My bowl of ice cream becomes mesmerizing.

A gruff laugh escapes him. “What else?”

“Freshman year she wrote on the bathroom wall in the girls' locker room that I would screw anything that walked. I wrote back that she already had.”