Love in the Time of Cynicism

by Jani Berghuis

  The six thirty sky is always impossible. As the autumn and winter drain into one another, the sky gets blacker by the day. When the school year started, the dawn sky was fantasy blue, clear and full with a haze of shy sunshine peaking over the horizon. Rare, glorious mornings where the clouds caught the light full on and flirted with the sun in shades of rosy pink dotted this season. Then, somewhere around November, these Crayola mornings turn dark and soupy as ink, a cloak covering everything and the only light daring enough to break through is the single reddish streetlamp. Then there are days when the darkness is so heavy with the weight of its stars I fear those streams of white light will rain down at any moment and set fire to everything I’ve ever known.

  Today, though, the sky is better than I’ve seen in a long time. Maybe it’s the thought of Rhett tainting my impartial judgment of skies, but this one is just…perfect. It’s an old purple fleece, a deep, rich indigo at its center and growing lighter as it stretches over Lightfoot. The edges fray pink at the horizon while leafless black trees hold the blanket overhead.

  I crane my neck to memorize the already fading image as I reach the stop sign where a bunch of youths have conglomerated. Unlike in middle school, where we were friends by juxtaposition and spoke to one another out of forced obligation, high school bus stops are a brutal enterprise. No speaking unless it’s in hushed tones and about something stupid. No intelligent life for miles. Only the faint stinging sound of music feeding into someone else’s ears and the deafening din of flighty (ha, flighty) birds rustling in the tree we stand under. I huddle closer to my rucksack, my only ally in this hopeless wasteland, until the headlights of our bus pierce the menagerie and vacuum up the teenagers.

  Unlike most mornings, Rhett doesn’t catch me before first period, probably because of how abhorrently late the bus gets there. Exactly three minutes before first period starts, which leaves me only a few seconds to migrate through the slogging crowd. In fact, I don’t see Rhett until fourth period Anthropology, where Dr. Sullivan grabs me before I can talk to him.

  Today, my teacher’s wearing plaid dress shoes and a dark tweed jacket meant for someone about fifty years older than Sullivan. “How’s that assignment I gave you a while back going? With Rhett?”

  “We haven’t gotten anything done,” I admit with a glance at Rhett, who gives me a broad smile like it’s the first time we’ve seen each other in months. Like we didn’t spend an hour talking last night as we do every night. “We’ve mostly been getting to know one another for a while now.”

  He waggles his eyebrows in a very suggestive way most teachers wouldn’t dare. “Would you like to say more about that?”

  “He’s a great guy, no matter what anyone else thinks.”I don’t tack on the more stalker-ish things I’ve noticed about him – the color of his eyes, the pattern of dark freckles on his hand, the way he bites the end of his pencil when he’s thinking up a new poem. “And we’ll get it done eventually, I promise.”

  “While I’m more than thrilled two of my most brilliant students are hitting it off-” He stops, motions Rhett forward to join our powwow. “I went to the poetry reading Friday night, by the way. Amazing stuff, Rhett, really solid performance. I got completely lost in the literality of it while simultaneously-”

  “Anyway,” Rhett and I interrupt at the same time.

  “Yes, of course.” He shuffles, then takes another sip of his coffee from a mug shaped like a penguin that one of his daughters painted for Father’s Day. “Glad you’re hitting it off, but I need that paper tomorrow. I know I never give you deadlines; unfortunately, I prattled on about this one so much my supervisors want to see it and have it published in this month’s literary magazine, so…”

  “Done,” Rhett agrees before I can reply how crazy that is. He winks at me and I nod without any further hesitation. “We’ll work on it all night if we have to.”

  “Please don’t hit on my favorite student right in front of me.” Dr. Sullivan rolls his eyes with a pointed sigh and replies, “You two go out onto the courtyard or wherever for this period and get it done. Edit tonight and bring it back before first period. I’ll come in early just for you.”

  He writes us passes and off we go. As we’re going through the halls, Rhett, still wearing his leather jacket even though it’s technically against school policy, takes my hand in his. My nerves electrify and heat up as I almost stop moving, fearful that my hand is sweaty or, because of my lack of hand-holding experience, I will somehow mess up this simple relational milestone simply by being myself.

  Rhett picks up on this shift and asks, “Not a hand-holding person, Cordelia?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I answer because I don’t want him to let go. His fingers are soft and smooth as they trace small circles on my thumb while we walk. Once the initial angst dies down, I’m left with this mushy warm feeling fused to my insides, the likes of which I’ve never felt. It seems altogether too feminine to belong in my head but altogether too wonderful to stop.

  He draws closer to me and bumps into my shoulder as he pushes open one of the school’s side doors and we bound to the small cement square where the school’s graciously placed benches and a few tables. Our hands mingle with one another in some intricate dance I don’t know the steps to until we’re sitting on one of the benches next to one another, hands, separate, reaching for notebooks and pencils.

  “Before we start,” he begins quietly. As if someone might hear us where there’s no one. “Can we talk again? Like we did the other night, I mean.”

  “Sure,” I reply, sitting up straighter and staring at his caramel eyes. “I don’t really have any secrets worth mentioning, but it’s worth a go.”

  He laughs and takes my hand once more like he can’t get enough, “I seriously doubt that.”

  “Try me.”

  “Will do.” He stops to think while tracing small circles on my pale wrist. “Tell me about your first boyfriend. The one you mentioned the other night.”

  My throat clenches up and I pull back from him sharply, then regret the instantaneous reaction. I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood as I say, “Sorry, it’s just-”

  “I knew there was something.” He smiles as if he’s accomplished something terribly important as memories of Eric wash over me. Sunlight has started to come through the clouds and it falls, too warm and exposing, across my skin. More worry hits me as Rhett speaks once more, this time quoting me with a meaningful glance. “If this is ever going to happen, I need to know more about you. Your past.”

  “Um,” I stammer our. My legs rearrange themselves and I fold my arms over my chest as a lump rises in my throat. Rhett’s important to me. This is important to me. I can tell him. I told Trent. Even though panic’s bubbling in my chest like the moment I found out about mom and Michael’s baby, words tumble out nearly without my control. “We dated for a long time. He’s three years older than me and goes to some theater school in Florida now.”

  “Sounds hot.”

  “Don’t interrupt,” I snap. “Sorry, I…” My throat, suddenly dry, closes as I swallow. “If I’m going to share, it’ll be on my own terms.”

  “Deal.”

  My eyes follow the path of a lonely goose waddling over the yard. It squawks and searches for its family and I’m struck by a sudden sadness for this creature. I hope it finds its family soon. My lungs pull in a long breath as I say, still staring at the goose, “Everyone thought he was perfect. And so did I. Until we kissed. He was my first, I was probably his twentieth.” I wait to continue as I attempt to formulate the right words in my head for something I haven’t spoken about out loud enough times to know what to say. With my brother, the words came without end but now, when I want more than anything to be open and honest with Rhett, nothing comes out. And when I speak again, it’s so soft he leans in to hear me and the words. “That’s when things got bad. He told me he was in love with me the same night I told him I wanted to break up. He, well, it’s-”

  Rhett slides cl
oser to me and runs a hand over my freezing arm. “We don’t need to talk about this now if you don’t want. I know how hard you’re trying for me.”

  “No, I’m fine.” The gift of speech returns to me and I say it all at once. “That first night, he hit me. I mean, it was obvious how strong he was. But I never, ever thought-” I suck in a shaky breath. “And then I couldn’t leave. I was trapped there. He apologized so much, told me he’d never do it again and he needed me to stay with him and think about what this would to our families and don’t tell anyone please god don’t tell anyone because he’s got a scholarship and anything I said could ruin his life forever. I didn’t want to ruin his life. I just wanted him to get away from me. So I shoved him away and told him if he ever touched me again, there’d be hell to pay. Even then I knew it was an empty threat. My brother was away at college and I couldn’t hold my ground against someone a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. I was so stupid. Still am, for Christ’s sake. Can’t even-” I realize I’m near shouting and stop myself from going any further.

  “So you broke up with him?”

  I shake my head and feel the stupid, childish, biting heat of tears against my eyes. They fall to my lap without consent and I put my head down into my free hand to stop Rhett from seeing me so weak, so desperate for his attention, so helpless.

  “Hey,” he whispers, “we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”

  Rhett’s fingers run through my hair and to the nape of my neck. He brings my head to his chest and hugs me tightly; it’s not romantic in the slightest, more like ‘we’ve both been through shit and even if I don’t really understand yours and you can’t quite get mine, I’ll be here for you.

  “I stayed with him,” confess into the rainy scent of his leather jacket. “Because…what else could I do? Mom swore we were going to get married once I graduated. My friends were jealous. On the outside, we were fine. We laughed and talked. But, when we were home alone and he tried to kiss me, I couldn’t bear to look at him. All I could remember was the sound of the flat of his hand hitting my cheek, the jarring backlash of my head spinning. But I couldn’t leave, so it went on. For six months. Until the night he graduated from high school, I was with him. Some stupid freshman who thought she could handle everything he was putting her through. When he left for college, I had the guts to tell him that when he came back, I wouldn’t be waiting.” I say my next thought more to myself than Rhett. “He called me a bitch. Pushed me too hard. Apologized. Like saying sorry to a plate you dropped on the floor will glue it back together. And I still remember the taste of blood on my lips when he kissed me goodbye.”

  For a while, one infinite moment of us, we’re there on that bench outside of our school and he’s holding me and I’m crying ever so slightly and I can feel myself falling too hard, too fast but I don’t care because he’s here and, for now, that’s enough.

  When I finish and pull back a bit from his warm embrace, Rhett takes my chin in his hand and tilts my head up to look him in the eyes. Eyes to get lost in. Eyes to fall for. And then his voice, deep and heavy with the weight of truth never before said to me, breaks our moment of shared secrecy. “I have only one thing to promise you.”

  Intensity from his eyes locking my sights on him, I ask, “Which is?”

  “As long as I have the gift of your acquaintance, I will never hurt you the way he did. That much I know about myself. Every time we touch, I’ll remember it’s a privilege, not a right, and something you have my permission to take away should you so choose.” He pauses, cringes at his words. “Sorry, that was getting a bit weepy, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” I respond quickly. “It was flawless. Amazing delivery. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”

  He laughs but remains serious. “He didn’t deserve you. In fact, I’ve come to the conclusion that nobody deserves you. I couldn’t even come close. But I’ll give it my best shot.”

  I smile lightly at him and say, “You’re on track thus far.”

  A mischievous glint flickers in his amber eyes as they flit toward my lips and he smirks. “Would this be an inappropriate time to kiss you?”

  “I divulge one of my biggest secrets and your first question is whether or not you can kiss me?” I mock being offended. In truth, his calm, totally normal response has alleviated my worry that he’d pity me or be angry or change anything between us.

  He shrugs playfully and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, slowly dropping his hand. “Generally speaking, I’m always wondering if I can kiss you.”

  Even as I blush and smile, I lean forward and press my lips to his, weave my fingers through the dark curls I’ve been aching to touch since we met. His palm rests on my bare shoulder blade, exposed by the cut of my loose knit tank top. Today, it was almost cold enough to justify half-sleeves, but I like to eke out what I can from the warm weather. Now that the callous of his hand is there, though, I thank god for my choice of dress; the sensation of someone touching me like I matter, like I’m an anchor and mean something, isn’t something I’ll soon tire of feeling.

  “You two are supposed to be writing my paper, not osculating in the courtyard!” Dr. Sullivan, shouting from his second floor classroom, calls to us. There’s a glow of humor in his voice as he hangs out the window with a smile stuck to his lips.

  Rhett pulls back from me and laughs, “On it!”

  For the half hour left in the period, we get down to business, writing back and forth and editing one another like nobody’s business as Rhett scratches down everything. His handwriting, might I add, is about ten times as neat as mine, which looks suspiciously like ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics and is quickly out of the stenographic running. We’re focused and actually manage to get about half the paper written. It ends up being on Dr. Sullivan himself, as he’s the first person we get to talking about after he slams the window shut.

  The bell rings (it’s so loud you can hear it outside the building) and we both sigh simultaneously.

  Shouldering his backpack and standing up, Rhett asks, “When are we going to finish this?”

  “Tonight?” I suggest. “I’d be willing to make you dinner if you promised to be on your best behavior.”

  Suspicious, he replies, “Your parents won’t be home?”

  “They’re going out on a date.”

  “Amanda?”

  “She has a life.”

  “I’ll be there,” he agrees after a moment of deliberation. “Around…six?”

  “Six,” I confirm happily. “Whenever we finish the paper, we could go, like, out or something.”

  He eyes me carefully. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  “Do I need permission?”

  He straightens up, facetiously serious. “Definitely. I cordially invite you to invite me out on a date tonight at six o’clock to go ‘like, out or something.’”

  “Good.” I smile widely. “See you then.”

  We part ways with quiet goodbyes and I spend the rest of the day looking forward to the night.

  When I get home after a quick shift at Ebony’s, as anticipated, my parents and Amanda are out. And, strangely enough, so is Trent. I repeat, my brother who has not left this house in ages is absent. His car isn’t in the driveway and his bedroom is locked. I’m almost worried enough about this to call him. Then, I admonish myself. He is a grown man after all, if a poor example of one. He can take care of himself. Plus, having this big house to myself with no worries is always a good time.

  With the hour and a half of free time I have before Rhett gets home, there’s a seemingly endless list of things I have to accomplish. Doing the homework I’ve been procrastinating on takes up forty five minutes of my time without consideration. Then, I dedicate about twenty minutes to working on the college applications and essays Michael’s been ragging on me to do for the past four months. He wants me to get into a good, expensive school and get a high-class education where I’ll return after a few semesters a classy young lady with a ring on her finger like Mal di
d. Not my plan. Though I don’t know exactly what the plan is, I know it’ll be something more rewarding than dedicating my life to another four years of voluntary soul-sucking. After I’ve done enough work on those to make it look like I’ve tried, I dash around the house doing some basic cleaning. The get-together last night has left the living and dining rooms an absolute mess and even though Rhett’s house isn’t exactly cut from a Better Homes and Gardens, I don’t want him to think I’m a slob. Run the dishwasher, start to defrost a chicken, put on a load of laundry, respond to Sky’s sixteen texts about Chaz problems. All in less than two hours, might I add. Hold your applause.

  With eight minutes till six, I decide to take a quick shower. It’s been a long day where not one, but two customers spilled coffee on me. And as much as I love the scent of a good coffee, I don’t like it stuck to my hair. Feeling rushed, I dash into the lavender, polka-dotted bathroom I share with Amanda and crank the water. Ironically, water in this sweltering town never quite makes it up to ninety degrees and nowhere near the average 106. Before it’s hot enough to justify a shower, I strip and jump in, not wanting to waste time on the futility of warmth. As I attempt to relax under the constant stream of water, I begin to sing under my breath as I shampoo and condition. My thoughts wander and my singing grows louder, the only sound in the house.

  The doorbell rings. Shit. I try to shout for him to come in but, of course, no human voice can carry through walls like a school bell can. As I’m wrapping myself in a towel and thinking through ways to avoid having Rhett see me in said towel, he rings again and I think, screw it.

  Hair twisted to stop it from bleeding and body wrapped in a tight towel I’m praying won’t fall down, I run down the stairs with reckless abandon (pretending I’m not exceedingly clumsy and ignoring the likelihood of falling down the steps) and throw the door open.