by Lindy Zart
“Let me guess, you want to drive now?”
“You are unbelievable,” he tells me.
I hop to my feet and bestow my sunniest smile upon him. He blinks, swallows, and walks to the car. The seat has to be moved back to allow room for his six foot two frame and once he's in the seat, he sits unmoving with his hands around the steering wheel. I catch the tremble in his arms as he struggles with his fear.
“Are your legs bothering you right now?”
He glances at me. “There's never a time they aren't.”
“What do you do about it?”
Resting his head against the seat, he closes his eyes. “Endure.”
“You don't take pain meds?”
“No,” he bites out.
“Why not?”
“Because I don't like them. Ibuprofen is the strongest thing I'll take, when I have a choice. Obviously I didn't for part of the time in the hospital because I was unconscious and out of it. I couldn't stand that feeling.”
“What feeling?”
“Of not really being me. I was just some shadow of myself.”
I digest that bit of information before moving on. “Do you want to be able to drive?”
A gruff nod is his response.
“So drive. You don't have to go fast. You don't have to go far. Just prove to yourself that you still can. And whenever it gets to be too much, you pull over and I'll take over,” I tell him softly. “There's no shame in needing a break. What's most important is that you do it again after your break. That's what life and living is about, Rivers. Second chances. Every day is one more blessing we don't know whether we're going to get or not from day to day, so we should make the most of them as they come, right? We should drive.”
He slowly turns his dark head and watches me, his expression neutral. I think maybe he catches a glimpse of something he hasn't seen before, or didn't realize is there until this moment. I think he sees a bit of me for the first time—the real me, not the version he perceived me to be. I study him back, taking in the short ebony locks, the angled jaw with the shadow along its sharp edges—the eyes that are so dark, yet so full of light when they choose to be. The air around us is still as I wait for his perusal to end. When he finally looks away, I hide a smile, feeling a tug in the center of me.
“Where are you going to college at in the fall?” he asks as he angles the car toward a little diner on the outskirts of town.
The smile falls from my face. “I'm not.”
He brakes abruptly and I put a hand out on the dash. “Sorry,” he mumbles, putting the car in park and shutting it off. “Why aren't you?”
I unhook my seat belt and open the door. “It seems like a waste.”
He limps around the side of the car and meets me near the hood. “You're not serious. You were the smartest kid in our class. The valedictorian. And you think college is a waste? What are you going to do, clean houses for the rest of your life?” His tone is incredulous.
I cross my arms. “I wasn't the smartest. I just studied the hardest. It almost seems like you care, for some reason, but that can't be. I sort of thought your life revolved around feeling sorry for yourself. How did you find the time to squeeze the details of my future into your brain?”
Anger tightens his mouth. “I don't care.”
“Great!” I head for the door of the pink and white building. It makes me think of pink frosting over vanilla ice cream. A sign above the door reads 'A Dash Of Delicious'. I turn to him and say, “I'm related to Eric Bana.”
Confusion filters through his eyes. “No you aren't.”
“You're right. I'm not. But you had to think about it for a second, didn't you?”
“Weird, Bana, really weird,” he mutters behind me as we walk inside.
The scents of coffee, bacon, and cinnamon tumble over me as I head toward the booths. The restaurant has six of them, four tables, and a counter for people to sit at as well. It's a small, but popular establishment. The walls are lined in framed black and white photographs of Prairie du Chien throughout the years, complete with the historical Villa Louis and dozens of years worth of rendezvouses. I like coming in here. It reminds me of sitting back in time, observing what once was and meshing it with what is.
I pause as I feel Rivers hesitate behind me. I wonder if this is his first social outing since the accident. I decide to pretend I don't notice his faltering steps, focusing on the Eric Bana discussion instead. “It would be weird if I was related to him. And unfortunate. He's really hot. Sigh.”
“Did you just say sigh?”
I stop beside a booth. “I really did.”
“No one says sigh. They just...you just sigh, okay? You don't say you're sighing. That completely defeats the purpose of sighing.”
I stare at him. “Sigh.”
Rivers looks torn between finding me hilarious and super annoying. He settles for sighing as he angles his body into the booth and I burst out laughing. He rubs his mouth and I think it's to hide the smile he wants to unleash.
“What happens if you smile? Do you turn to stone?”
He grimaces. “No. But you might.”
I grab a pink and white laminated menu and flip it open. I don't understand why he thinks his scars detract from his good looks in any way. Or why he cares so much about how he looks. How you look does not define you as a person. I set the menu down and place my chin in my hand as I study him. He's all dark smoldering looks that attracts one like a moth to a flame. Pretty to look at—deadly to get too close to. He scowls back the longer I stare.
“What?” he finally snaps.
“You're conceited, shallow.” I pause. "Vain."
Rivers blinks.
“I mean, sure, you're not perfect anymore. You have an uneven, gouged-out line that goes from under your eye to your mouth and you have a smaller one that slants down your forehead with a little patch of hair missing around it. And, yeah, your legs are a mess, but at least they still work. Do you think anyone really cares about a few imperfections on your face and legs? Big deal. You're still living. You still have your eye. You still have your mouth in one piece. You still have your legs and you can walk. Be thankful instead of resentful.
“So you have a few scars. You're good-looking regardless, more good-looking than most. No one cares about how you look as much as you do. And anyway, perfect is boring. At least now you have some character to you. Who wants to look at something perfect all the time? It just makes the rest of us feel that much more imperfect. So, really, you're doing everyone else less fortunate in the looks department a huge favor. You should look at it that way.” I suck in a lungful of air and catch my breath.
“I should be glad for the boating accident then, is that what you're saying?” he says with narrowed eyes.
I shrug, turning my attention back to the menu. “I think I'll have pancakes.” I slap the menu down and give him a smile.
His response is a stare.
I raise my eyebrows.
Shaking his head, Rivers takes my menu and looks it over.
The waitress, a sixty-ish woman with pale blonde hair, glasses, and black painted on eyebrows, shows up to take our drink orders. I get orange juice and Rivers orders coffee and water. I kick my feet in beat to 'Son Of A Preacher Man' by Dusty Springfield playing from a radio somewhere in the restaurant, and when that isn't satisfactory, I hop to my feet.
“What are you doing?” Rivers asks worriedly, looking around us.
“I'm dancing.” I spin around and strike a pose, grinning at him over my shoulder.
With a groan, he covers his face. “I swear you have it out for me.”
I shake my shoulders and bend over to bump one against his. “Want to join me?”
“I don't, no.” He leans over and hisses, “Sit down. You're embarrassing me.”
“Maybe you're embarrassing me,” I say close to his face. I admire the lush fan of his eyelashes around his eyes, noting the line of chocolate brown around his pupils. His brows furrow as he r
eturns the stare, his eyes shifting over my features.
“You look different without all your makeup on. You're sort of pretty,” he says in a hoarse voice, clearly stunned by this knowledge, or maybe by saying it out loud.
I grin, my stomach clenching and releasing. “You're sort of talking a lot.” I straighten as the waitress stops by our table with our drinks. I sit down and place my hands on the table top, eyes on Rivers. He won't look at me, which is okay. I think he shocked himself with his halfway compliment.
I order pancakes and so does he.
“Have you had the pancakes here before?”
“Who hasn't?” he says after a pause.
I almost sigh, or say the word. I guess it's back to him being all moody and non-responsive. I sit back and look out the window, wondering when the next train will come. I feel his gaze on me and wait for him to ask whatever is on his mind.
“How'd you get hired to clean our house anyway?”
“Your mom apparently thought I was qualified.” I hear the faint roar of an engine, my eyes glued to the window as I wait.
“Why? How? She just saw you on the street and asked you to clean our house? And why would you want to anyway?”
“I need the money.”
“For?”
I glance at him. “I'm going on a trip.”
“You're going on a trip,” he repeats slowly. Leaning back, he crosses his arms over his chest. “What kind of a trip?”
“One that requires money.” The train appears in green and black. I avidly watch it, the sound and speed of it breathtaking.
“Most trips do. You didn't answer me. How did you come to work at my house?”
I turn from the window, the vibration of the locomotive faint from this distance but still noticeable. “We were at the grocery store, in the checkout lane by each other. The line was long and we started talking. She looked frazzled, said the regular cleaning lady who also did the grocery shopping had just gone on vacation and with everything the way it was, she hadn't had time to hire a temporary replacement. She said she had planned on not hiring anyone for the summer and doing it all herself, but realized she didn't have the time because of situations at home. I think she was desperate.” It isn't the full truth, but a close variation of it. Everything I said is true on his mother's part. I just left some details out.
“And you volunteered.” His tone says he doubts this.
I nod. “I did.”
“Again, why?”
I jut my jaw forward, fighting to keep irritation at bay. “I told you why. I needed the money.”
“Did you know it was my house when you offered? Did you know you were talking to my mom?”
I shift my eyes from his and cross my fingers under the table. “No. Not at first.” A partial truth again. Another jolt of annoyance sparks through me. I promised myself this would be a peaceful summer, but there are times—most of the time, I should say—in Rivers' presence that I forget this. “Why are you asking me all of these questions anyway? What does any of it matter?”
“I'm just trying to figure it all out.”
“Well you have. Now you know the mystery behind my employment. Bully for you.”
“Right. You wanted to work at my house so you can get enough money to go on a trip where the destination and activities of it are apparently top secret.” The expression on his face is dubious.
“I like trains.”
He gives me a look. “Okay.”
“I've never been on one before and I've always wanted to go on some kind of trip on one. I'm planning on going on a six-day Amtrak trip to Memphis and New Orleans. It's called 'Blues and the Bayou'. Both are places I've always wanted to see.”
“Oh.” His look tells me he doesn't understand why I would want to do such a thing.
"Have you ever been on a train ride before?"
Rivers shakes his head, his attention captured by those around us. He seems to shrink in size, as though he is trying to make himself as uninteresting as he can. Such a complete reversal of how he used to be. He used to shine when others paid attention to him; now he seems to deflate. Rivers' eyes shift over the other patrons and he looks down, clenching his jaw.
“What is it?”
“People are staring at me. This was a bad idea. We should go.”
I lean against the table top and crane my neck back to look over him. There are five other customers in the diner; all older, and not a single person is looking in our direction. “Who?”
“I don't know. People.”
“Mmm-hmm.” I sit back. “Do you know any of the people in here right now?”
“No.”
“Okay. So they have no reason to be staring at you then. You're imagining it.” I thank the waitress as she sets the white plate of fluffy round pancakes before me. “And if you don't stop thinking everyone is obsessed with your looks as much as you are, I'm going to punch you,” I tell him pleasantly.
He snorts. “Try it.” Rivers smears butter on his pancakes with a knife, his eyes down.
“You always thought you were so important,” I say, carefully setting my fork down. His eyes lift to mine. “I don't think you ever realized how unimportant high school and your role in it really was. High school is what happens before your life begins. You can be the top dog in that big brown building and a nobody outside it. You and your friends thought everyone wanted to be like you, because you were so self-absorbed you thought everyone else loved you as much as you loved yourself. You were wrong.” I pop a straw in my orange juice and sip, the tangy citrus bursting over my tongue.
He puts his knife down and straightens. “That's it? I was wrong? You make this big speech and that's your summary of it? I was wrong?”
“Yep.” I pour a generous amount of maple syrup on my pancakes and dig into them.
“What did people really think about me then?” He takes a sip of his coffee. “What did you really think?”
I pop a forkful of pancakes into my mouth and chew. Swallowing, I say, “You completely missed the point of what I just said.”
Frustration flashes in his eyes. “What was the purpose of putting me down then?”
Sitting up in my seat, I look at him. “You missed the point again. I didn't put you down. You care too much what others think.”
“Maybe you don't care enough,” he retorts.
“I don't care at all,” I answer evenly. “I was making an observation. It wasn't intended to hurt you or make you feel inferior. The point of it was, it doesn't matter. None of it matters. High school is over. So whatever anyone thought of you, whatever I thought of you, you shouldn't care.”
“It's not that easy,” he mutters.
“It really is.”
His fork clanks to his plate as he shoves it away. “You know, maybe for you it is. It's easy not to care when you don't have anything worth losing, when you don't have anyone to disappoint or anyone looking up to you, depending on you to be a certain way.”
I flinch, my appetite dispersing like leaves falling away from a tree. And then the headache starts. I drop my head to my hands, aware of Rivers asking me if I'm okay, but it's background noise to the sharp twinges forming in my temples and progressing all the way to the back of my head. Not now. Don't do this now. My brain is wrapped in throbbing pain. I'm sure he thinks I'm crying or something because he hurt my feelings. He did hurt my feelings, I'm annoyed to realize, but that is minor compared to the agony flashing through my brain like bolts of lightning. I swear I even see streaks of light behind my closed eyelids.
A presence is next to me, a hand strong and warm against my shoulder. “It's okay,” I mumble, massaging my temples. “It's just a headache.” My voice is weak and faraway at the same time it's unusually loud to me. “Just give me a minute,” I continue when he says something else.
I inhale and exhale slowly, counting to sixty. The pain lessens, but doesn't fully go away. I am aware that all kinds of attention is being drawn our way because of me and not Rivers, som
ething he should be grateful for, but will probably be irritated by because attention to me brings attention to him.
A glass is pressed into my hand along with two pills. I carefully raise my head, the scene coming at me in jagged pieces. I focus on the face before me until all the faces of Rivers morph into one, seeing the concern drawing his eyebrows down. I concentrate on him, watching him watching me, until I am able to swallow the pills. They will dull the headache, but only sleep will take it away for good.
Until it comes back.
I didn't want this to happen in front of anyone, especially him. In fact, I wanted to pretend it hasn't happened at all. Part of me was hoping it wouldn't happen again—that the headaches and what they mean was all a mistake. I do feel like crying, but not because of Rivers and what he said to me.
Bravado waning, I stiffen my shoulders and force it back into me by will alone. Be positive. Enjoy the rest of the day. Even try to enjoy Rivers' presence. That last thought eases some of the tension from me and I almost smile. I would, if the pounding in my head would allow me to.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a low voice, his hand dropping from my shoulder.
“Yes.” I'm not, but I am well enough. I thank the waitress for the pain pills and she nods, turning away to help another customer. “I'm sorry I ruined the meal.”
“I think I can take most of the credit for that,” he says, moving to stand. “Do you want to stay and finish or leave?”
“Leave. Pancakes don't really sound good anymore.” I touch my head. “If that's okay?”
“Somehow, I'll manage to return to the solitude of my home.” A ghost of a smile captures his lips and even that semblance of one is enough to make his features turn from handsome to inconceivably exceptional.
I ease into a standing position, dizziness hitting me. I grip the top of the booth until the diner stops moving. “Is this...” I take a deep breath, directing my mind to concentrate on walking in a straight line. I feel drunk. I might not mind it so much if I'd actually consumed alcoholic beverages. One foot in front of the other, Delilah. Distract yourself. Keep talking. Maybe he'll even talk back.“Is this the first time you've gone anywhere since the accident?”
