by Lindy Zart
"You won't forget me." I'm telling him, but I am also asking him.
He steps back, his hands falling from me. A minute passes like this, with him wordlessly watching me, and I in turn watching him. Even now, he is forming me into a memory so he cannot.
"I am incapable of that," he solemnly says.
I reach for his shirt, kissing the bare skin it regrettably covered. Within seconds, his clothes are in a pile and he is against me. When the heat of him becomes flush with me, I cannot breathe. Every nerve-ending of mine is standing up, bristling with desire. I need him. I need him in ways I cannot name.
He grabs me and pulls me under him as we fall to the ground, cushioning my landing with his arms beneath my back. My hands are all over him, feeling the corded muscles of his back and chest; my lips tasting his salty skin. His mouth burns a trail over my collarbone and down my stomach and moves on to my neck, my body shivering despite the heat of the night. He pauses above me, his eyes scalding mine as they ask a silent question. Instead of answering him, I push against him, a low moan leaving him as our bodies connect. My breath hisses through my mouth at the feel of him. I move my hips and he responds. It's fast, frantic, and shatters me.
And it happens again.
And again.
Slower each time, but no less passionate. He devours me, he loves me, he ignites my fire and puts me out. It is exquisite torture. And when we are finally sated, we lie in the grass as I silently replay each magnificent detail, a smile of content on my lips. This is what it's supposed to be like.
“I want forever with you,” he whispers into my ear, his body naked and still wrapped around mine. Enough time has passed for our breathing to even out and my heart to steady in its beat, but I cannot let him go yet. He apparently has the same idea, his limbs still intertwined with mine, his arms around me, his chin next to my cheek.
I smile into his flat chest, my hand running up and down his arm, liking how his muscles tense and the skin pebbles beneath my fingers. “You'll have me for forever. No matter what, I'll still be in your heart. You know that. That's how I'll live.” I set my palm on the place above his beating heart and feel it pound. "You'll live for me," I whisper, kissing the spot my hand just moved away from.
"Are you afraid? Because I'm terrified."
I move to sit up and he grudgingly allows me to. “I don't want to be afraid. I'm trying really hard not to be. It wasn't exactly easy at first, but now...it is so hard knowing this is all temporary. And you know what's really stupid of me?” I take a shuddering breath and tears form, trailing down my cheeks in rivers of despair. “I still have hope. There is still some part of me that thinks the doctors were wrong and that I am not dying.” I stare at my clasped hands.
Rivers puts his boxer briefs on, handing me his shirt. I put it on, enveloped in the scent of him, and wait until he is sitting before me to continue.
“I was so angry at first, so angry. I didn't understand. I couldn't believe it. Why me? That's what I kept thinking. And why my brother? And why...why...my mother? She is a good person and she doesn't deserve this—not any of this.” I look up with burning eyes and meet his stricken gaze. “But even in the corner of my mind and heart, there was you. I saw past my pain and saw yours instead. And it helped me. Don't you see? All of this, everything I've experienced with you this summer, has made me able to cope with it. And you, all of you, are going to get through this,” I tell him in a voice thick with sorrow, but also conviction.
"My accident...the start of the summer—it all feels like it happened a really long time ago. I don't even remember why I was feeling sorry for myself." His eyes dim. "I was feeling sorry for myself, and there you were, with...this. I'm such a jerk."
I laugh softly. "You didn't know."
“I don't believe that this is it,” he mutters. “That just...it can't be. There has to be another way, there has to be a way to fix this.”
“There isn't. Remember what you told me? I couldn't fix you and you can't fix me either. The chance that I would survive an operation of this magnitude is microscopic, and even if I did survive, there is no guarantee I would be me.” I press a hand against my beating heart. “I don't want to live half a life. I'd rather live a full one now, while I can.”
“You're giving up.” His voice is accusatory, but I see the laceration of anguish in his features.
I shake my head. “I'm not giving up. This is my life, for however long it lasts. My life, my choice. Giving up would have been staying in my house for the duration of the summer, for the rest of my life, really. Giving up would have been feeling sorry for myself instead of choosing to help you and your mother, to not decide to take this heartache and make something good come out of it. I'm not saying I haven't had my moments. There were times when I tried to hide away, but I couldn't do it, not for long. There will be more moments when it gets to be too much and I can't deal. But I refuse to give up. I haven't yet. I won't. I never did, not really. Giving up would have been pushing you away instead of jumping at the chance to love you.”
He goes still, his eyes flying to mine.
The smile that touches my lips is large and sad. Joy and sorrow—my two constant emotions lately. “You have to know. I love you, Rivers. Desperately. Undeniably. Wholly. Without regret.”
He averts his eyes, standing and turning partially away from me. “I don't—I can't.” He grabs his head and spins away, his back lifting and lowering with his breathing. His eyes are filled with tears when he turns back to me and says, “You love me? I'm going to be the one left behind, still loving you, long after you're gone. I'm going to be the one missing you. I'm going to be the one looking for you, reaching for you, and never again finding you. I love you, Delilah. I love you to a catastrophic depth that I didn't even know I was possible of having. I am filled with you. And...” He tries to speak, but his throat bobs as words fail him.
“I don't want you to regret loving me, or to be sad about it. This is why I didn't tell you sooner, why I didn't know if I could tell you. I didn't want my condition to change how people acted around me. I didn't want people to feel sorry for me, or themselves. I just...I wanted to live like a normal person while I still could, and you let me. I will forever be grateful that I got the chance to know you, and to love you. I realized you were so much more than I originally thought you were. And I fell in love with you, every part of you. I am so glad I got the chance.”
I touch his tear-stained face, my heart swelling. “I can't regret this summer, not even if it only happened because of this illness I have. Without this disease and without your accident, we would not be where we are right now. And I can't take it back, not even if it meant living the rest of my life, because that life would have been without knowing you, and that, that would be the real tragedy here. Can you just love me back? Knowing what you know about me shouldn't change anything, because really, no one knows when their last day will be, right? So let's think of this as both of us having an indefinite number of days, months, or years left on this earth, and let's make the most of what we get.”
He crushes me to him and I wrap my arms around his trembling body. I press my ear to his heart, hearing the thundering beat of it. I kiss the spot above it. I kiss his neck. I kiss his lips. They taste of salt and sorrow, love and fear. He breaks away, resting his forehead to mine.
Taking a deep breath, he slowly nods. “Okay. I can do that. I'll love you. I'll keep loving you, for always. I'll love you even when you can't love me back. I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you. I love you. I love you, Delilah. Desperately. Undeniably. Wholly. Without regret.” Each declaration is marked with a kiss to my forehead, my nose, my cheek, and my lips.
I FIND HIM NEAR THE window, watching the rain pour down on the grass outside. I have been struggling with myself all morning, with what I need to tell him, with whether or not I can physically say the words to him. I want to tell him not to mourn me for too long, that it is okay to be sad for a while, but then he has to snap out of it. I want
to tell him to smile, to find a way to be happy. I want to tell him so many things and yet all the words in the world seem inadequate in the face of the storm we are approaching.
He feels me behind him, his body straightening. A moment later he is turning to face me. I can tell he is trying to hide his pain, but it seeps out in the lines around his mouth, the darkness beneath his eyes. I hate what this is doing to him, I hate watching him trying to break through the despair that wants to pull him down. He's trying so hard to be strong for me.
"When I..." I trail off, tears burning my eyes. I gather my courage and try again. "When I—"
"Stop," he says in a bleak voice. "Don't even say it."
"I have to. There are things I need to tell you before...just...before."
"No."
A small smile claims my lips. "You're being stubborn."
The fury is swift and potent. “I don't care. I don't want to hear whatever it is you feel the need to tell me. I can believe whatever the hell I want to believe. Who are you to take that away from me? If I want to believe one day you will be miraculously cured, than I get to. You said you had a choice, right? Well, so do I. And I don't choose to believe I'm going to wake up one day and you won't be there. That's my decision. That's what I want.”
I nod and the slight motion releases a trail of tears from my eyes. “All right."
He presses his lips to mine and higher yet, warmth spreading through me at the touch of his lips to my forehead. I wrap my arms around his hard frame and hold on tight.
"We're going to be fine," he tells me.
I inhale, nodding. We will be. After it is all over and faded with time, he will be okay as well.
He takes a shuddering breath, his body trembling against mine. “Don't let the future dictate the present. You're stronger than that.”
“It's official; I rubbed off on you.”
“I know. Don't tell anyone.” Rivers stares at me, his eyes shining with wetness as he moves back. His hands forms into fists at his sides. “I don't want you to go,” he whispers.
I look down. “I don't want to go either.” I walk to the window and touch the cool pane of glass, watching the sky's tears blur it—or maybe those are mine. I look up just as a tear is released and slides down his scarred cheek. “I hate seeing you so sad. I hate what this is doing to you. I didn't want this. I don't want you to be sad.”
He shows me his taut back. I stare at the hard muscles, tense beneath his shirt. I want to ease the strain from them, but keep my distance. “All of this is bull shit.” He whirls around, his features darkened by pain. “This shouldn't be happening. Not to you.”
“Rivers—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“No.” His jaw is clenched. “Don't tell me some philosophical crap that's supposed to make this all okay. It isn't okay. It will never be okay.” He stares at me, his chest rising and lowering faster the longer his eyes are locked with mine. And then his face crumples just before he covers it with his hands.
I move for him, pulling his hands away. He resists me at first, but then it becomes too much and he sinks into me instead of trying to push me away. His fingers cup the back of my neck and he lowers his head to rest against the side of my face, his arms moving up to lock me to him. He pushes us back until I am to the wall and he is pressed against me. He's trying to meld us together, to give me his strength, his will, to continue to live. He's trying to give me his life. I feel it in the confined darkness trembling through his body with the need to lash out in grief, and my heart swells for him.
“I would trade places with you if I could,” he tells me brokenly.
“I know. And I'm sorry I have to leave you."
“What am I supposed to do with you gone?” he whispers against the side of my neck.
“Keep living.” I close my eyes and turn my face to kiss the corner of his mouth. I take a deep breath and say softly, "At the beginning of summer, I asked myself what it all meant, what it was all about—this whole living and dying business. I wanted to know why there was so much pain in life, why others hurt others, why we hurt ourselves. Why we have to die before we've lived a whole life. I wanted to know the point of it all. I know now." I press a kiss to his shoulder.
He tightens his hold on me, quietly listening.
"First of all, you can be eighty years old and not really haved lived; just as you can be eighteen years old and have lived enough for two. It's all about perspective. And the meaning of it all...it's about not being scared to live, no matter what it brings you. It's about not being scared to love, no matter if you eventually lose it. It's about forgiveness and acceptance. And hope—it has to be about hope. It's about knowing, sometimes, there are no answers, and you don't necessarily have to be okay with that, but you have to know that whether you're okay with it or not, that's just the way it is."
We stand like this for an indefinite amount of time, and yet when he pulls away, I miss him immediately. I smile at him, in awe that I am with him, that he is with me. I will hold this love close to me, close to my heart, and I will live in the overwhelming wonder of it. “I didn't get to choose whether or not I wanted my life this way, but there was one thing I did choose. It was you. I chose you.”
The breath he takes is stuttering and he tugs me back to him, enclosing me in his arms that make me forget I can be truly okay anywhere outside of them. His arms protect me from the ensuing darkness, from the night that never truly goes away.
He murmurs, “I chose you.”
RIVERS IS ON A QUEST to show me all the wondrous moments I have missed while wrongfully looking down on sports. One day, he made me play catch with a football. He decided I'd already showed enough of my prowess with a basketball not to have to endure that again. We went roller skating—I stayed on my feet all of five seconds. He wanted me to try golf, but I argued and argued until he relented and we spent the afternoon playing mini-golf instead. Not that I was any better at that, but at least I had fun hitting the ball up and down the green mat.
I know what he's doing—he's making sure I experience all the things I have not thus far before it is too late. He's forcing me to live; just like I forced him to. And tonight, we're watching baseball.
The stadium is huge. I mean, massive. Rows upon rows wrap around the ball field, each filled with an incredible amount of people. The layering of voices is just one loud buzzing. I don't think I have ever been around so many people at once. I find I don't like it all that well. I tighten my grip on Rivers' hand as we take our seats and face the field below us. It's a night game, but you wouldn't be able to tell it's dark out with all the lights ablaze within the vicinity.
"Thomas used to take me to a Brewers game every summer."
I adjust the Brewers cap Rivers got me and look at him from under the bill of it. "Why'd he stop?"
He shrugs, looking at a man walking up the stairs to the left of us. "I don't know. I guess he decided it wasn't necessary anymore. I think he wanted to love me, but his insecurities wouldn't allow him to, not in the way he should." He nods at the man. "He's a computer programmer and spends his weekends living in a wondrous haze of role-playing video games."
I study the chubby man with balding blond hair and glasses, noting the strain on his face. "He lives at home with his mom and his bedroom is beneath hers. She thumps her cane on the floor when she wants him to turn the computer off."
He grins. "His avatar is a Viking with long, beautiful locks of blond hair and he calls himself Hans."
"His online girlfriend is big and busty and thinks he's sexy in a geeky kind of way."
Giving me a strange look, he tosses a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "Her name is Betsy and she sells makeup."
"They're going to meet this fall."
"And he's going to move in with her, wherever she lives, if for no other reason than to escape his battleaxe mother."
I grin and sip my fruit punch. The air is electric with energy, the crowd alive with anticipation for the game to start. I feel it pulsate
through me and even I am anxiously tapping my shoes against the bench.
"You look so cute in that hat," he murmurs, grabbing the bill of the baseball cap, flipping it around to reveal my face, and pressing his lips to mine. He tastes like butter and fruit punch.
"Have you talked to Thomas much since everything? I mean, are you guys all right?" I ask when he releases me, leaning back as three girls shuffle past us to get to their section. I can tell he doesn't want to talk about it, especially now, but he had to have brought him up for some reason.
"He called me a few nights ago when you were out riding your bike."
"And?" I prompt when he apparently loses his ability to talk.
He glances at me, offering the bag of popcorn. It's a stall tactic and my look tells him I know it is. He knows I don't like popcorn. "We talked about you. We talked about college. My car. That day on the river. He apologized, said he never wanted that to happen. He wants to take me fishing the next time he comes back." He becomes quiet and I patiently wait. He snorts, shaking his head. "The fact that we talked about anything of significance is monumental. He's trying, I'll give him that. I don't think we'll ever be what I would like us to be; I just don't think it's possible, but maybe we can be something."
"So it was a good talk."
A small smile captures his lips as he nods. "Yeah. I guess it was."
"And you're going fishing." I bump my arm to his.
The crowd shoots to life, droning out his answer. The game is about to start. He gets to his feet, pulling me up with him, and we grin at each other as music blares out of the overheard speakers. The grin turns mischievous, apprehension flashing through me just as the crowd quiets down.
"You can stop thinking you need to be more like me now," I hiss into his ear as I clutch his shoulder to keep him from straightening up and doing whatever it is he is planning on doing.
"You only live once," he counters, tugging away. "And anyway, you imprinted yourself onto my soul, so...you're there, for always. You're a part of me." Half of his mouth lifts. "You're just going to have to deal with it."
