I turned the knobs into the OFF position with my foot when the water was high enough. The shivering had finally stopped, but I ached everywhere.
The door opened and Mom walked in. “I’m going to wash your clothes,” she informed me, bending to retrieve them from the tile floor. I knew better than to let them soak the luxurious bath mats she had purchased recently.
“Thanks.”
She looked at me and sighed, setting the clothes in a pile so she could sit on the edge of the tub. “You scared me. Your dad called and told me you were missing. What were you thinking?”
“Dad asked the same thing,” I sighed. “It was just a lapse in judgment. The sky was clear when we left for the trail.” She looked spent, as if she had given all of her energy to worry. It was something I wasn’t used to seeing. “We were only gone for an hour, Mom.”
“It seemed much longer.”
We looked at one another for a moment. I didn’t know what to say.
“This guy . . . Alex. Do you like him?”
Mom had never discussed boys with me. She looked as awkward as I felt. “He’s just a friend. I’m not interested in him.”
She lifted one perfectly shaped brow. “You don’t have to lie, May.”
I hadn’t lied, had I? But the way Mom was looking at me as if I were hiding something brought a startling revelation to light: I might have liked Alex. In another time and another place, perhaps.
It was too soon. I knew it would always be too soon. He was amazing. Too amazing.
And all I had to offer was myself: broken, lost, and closed off. Even he couldn’t make me vulnerable, even if he did for some reason want more than friendship.
“He’s just a friend,” I reiterated.
She inhaled a deep breath and resigned with a nod. “I’ll wash his sweater too.”
I watched her part and wondered if I could even bring myself to go to his shop, as planned, to give it back.
Sixteen
I FELT SICK ON SUNDAY MORNING. I attributed it to the hypothermic exhaustion from the day before. Standing in the shower, my legs were weak and my stomach queasy, and by the time I dragged myself downstairs for breakfast, I was completely drained.
“Morning,” I mumbled, passing my mom on my way to the refrigerator.
She marched to her office with a steaming mug of coffee in hand, pausing in the doorway to look at me. “Morning. Did you sleep?”
“I think so.” I searched the shelves of the fridge with halfhearted interest before finally settling on a cup of Greek yogurt. I retrieved a spoon and sat at the breakfast bar.
“Don’t forget that tomorrow is the twentieth.”
I looked at her blankly, confused.
“Dr. Fletcher wanted to discuss your medication after school, remember?” She sighed as though dismayed by my lack of organization. I just couldn’t remember such an appointment ever being made. Then again, I was having a hard time focusing lately.
“Oh. Right.”
The twentieth: that date sounded important for another reason. Maybe not the twentieth in particular, but a day close to it.
The seventeenth. That was the important day. That was when my period was due.
My mouthful of yogurt sat unmoving on my tongue as my hand paused halfway to the cup. I was late. I had never been late, not even once.
“May?”
My heart hammered like a drum, making my head spin. This was nothing. It had to be nothing! Maybe it’s just because I’ve been stressed, I told myself. Stress can cause disruptions in a woman’s cycle.
It was then I realized Mom was standing over me, looking at me as though she was examining an alien substance. I remembered to swallow my yogurt and it immediately tried to come back up, but I forced it down. “Sorry, I just remembered an assignment that’s due tomorrow.”
Bad choice. Since when had I been one to lie to my mother without a missed beat? I was growing reckless. She would see me for the liar I was.
“Oh. Alright,” she said, click-clacking her way back into her office.
I put my hand on my forehead and forced myself to breathe. Growing up with a doctor for a father meant medical things were never glazed over. I had talked about my period with my dad more than I ever had with my mom. I knew the facts.
I touched my breasts to see if they hurt. They were sore, but no more than when I had PMS. I realized I had a dull ache in my abdomen like I usually did just before starting my cycle. “I’m just late,” I whispered.
Besides, Tyler wore a condom. Pregnancy hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“Stupid. You’re so stupid, May . . .” I fought the blur of tears. For the first, time I regretted never going to the doctor after it had happened. I could have taken Plan B, and then I wouldn’t have been so afraid. But I hadn’t; I had buried the facts like they never existed. I had let Tyler off the hook and now I knew I might be paying as a result.
I tossed my yogurt into the trash and felt a sharp cramp twist my insides. Leaning on the counter, I waited for it to pass.
Just as it did, another one hit. I climbed the stairs to my bathroom and pulled my jeans down to check.
The bright red stain was a small victory and a large relief. Exhaling heavily, my shoulders slumped as the tension left my body. “Thank God,” I whispered, cleaning up and changing into fresh underwear. I felt even more tired than before, but I figured it was from the brief but intense roller coaster I had just endured. I wanted to go back to bed, but Alex was expecting me. I braided my hair and dabbed on just enough makeup to make me look alive before heading into my closet to dig through my paintings.
I had a promise to keep, and besides, I really wanted to hear him play.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, I was hauling my canvases to the door of Alex’s store, sighing in relief when it opened before I reached it. “Hey,” I smiled, sidestepping past him to come inside.
“Here, let me help.” He took the largest of them in one hand just before it fell from my grasp.
“Thanks,” I answered. I followed him to the counter, where he had already laid the large canvas on its back. He was staring at it quietly.
I leaned the others against the counter and took his sweater off my shoulder, putting it next to the painting. He still hadn’t said anything. I looked at him for a moment, and then at the artwork, trying to imagine what he was thinking; trying to see it with fresh eyes. “Do you like it?” I asked shyly, biting my lip.
“Like it? This is incredible!” He looked at me, blue eyes wide and enthralled. “Tell me about it.”
His reaction surprised me. I took a deep breath and dove in. “Well, I painted this one this summer. I’ve always been fascinated with England, ever since my parents took Grace and me there a couple years ago.” The painting featured London’s skyline. The hues were all bright and smooth with intense brushstrokes that made it look more like a dream than realistic. “It took me a few weeks.”
He shook his head, amazed in a way that was still taking me off guard. It was as if he had an original Monet sitting before him. “It’s amazing,” he said.
“Thank you. Do you want to see the others?”
“Definitely.”
I lifted the second of the three and laid it over the first one. The painting showed a girl sitting in the middle of a vast canyon, her face tilted up toward a sky that was pouring rain. You couldn’t tell what she really looked like because she was obscured by stormy shadows.
“So full of emotion,” he said reverently. “Who is she?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I wish there was some grand story behind it, but there isn’t really.”
He nodded. “Well, I think everyone feels like this at some point. Secluded, surrounded by a storm. It’s very true to life. It’s beautiful.”
I found it ironic that I had painted something that matched how I would feel months after it was finished. I smirked at Alex. “You know you don’t have to lie to make friends.”
He looked at me, hi
s eyes serious. “I would never lie to you, May, even if I didn’t like them. Brutal honesty is a trait I’ve always had.” He smiled softly. “I’m telling you the truth.”
I rubbed my lips together, resisting the urge to look away. Somehow I felt like he was seeing more than my art: he was seeing me, exposed. Brutal honesty. I wondered what he would say he thought about me if I were bold enough to ask, but I wasn’t. “Thank you. Okay . . . one more.” I picked the last one up and laid it on the stack. “This one was just practice, but I like how it turned out. I wanted to show the blur of a carnival as if it were in motion.”
“Well, you definitely succeeded. It reminds me of those time lapse photos photographers take.”
I grinned. “Really? That’s what I was going for.”
“Success.” He matched my grin.
Being around Alex was already making me feel better. It was as if he had awoken me from my morning stupor. “It’s your turn.”
“Ah. Indeed it is.” He gestured toward the stairs at the back of the store. “After you.”
I led the way up the rickety staircase; it creaked under our weight, but not in a weak way. It was more like the structure was talking to us, revealing its age and memories. I wondered what kind of stories Alex’s grandfather could have told about his life here. The top of the stairs opened up into the living area of the apartment, which still had its antique appeal but was newly decorated with things that could only belong to Alex: old records, a couple classical music posters, two acoustic guitars, and various pictures that were pinned to the walls rather than framed. I glanced around quickly, hoping he wouldn’t think I was being nosy. My gaze settled on one picture in particular: a little boy with enormous blue eyes and a popsicle-stained grin. The melting treat remained in his grip as he dangled by his feet in the hands of a man that could only be his father. He looked just like him.
And of course, there was the piano. I wondered how this masterpiece had even been hauled to the top floor. Alex went straight to it and sat on the bench, glancing at me over the dark, weathered lid, which was propped up just enough to show the piano’s internal parts. I realized I had never really looked at a piano before, even having one in my house.
Alex lifted the cover over the keys and it thudded lightly. “I’m working on a song. I haven’t named it yet, but I’ll show you what I have so far.”
“Okay,” I smiled excitedly, watching him.
He turned to the keys, his expression shifting. He was thinking. Concentrating. Breathing. It was as though he effortlessly slipped into his true self: the music maker; the person I knew he was even before hearing him play. He stroked one key a few times, a light but haunting intro that built as he began to include more notes. The sound instantly entranced me, making me long for the words that would explain such a deeply emotional sound. And the moment he sang the first words, I felt goose bumps rise on my arms.
His voice was like silk, yet gravelly. Every word was filled with longing:
Stop running, running
Just breathe, breathe, and you’ll
Find a way to find your strength
I know I’m meant for more than empty lungs
And an empty heart
So stop running, start breathing
Just start
I closed my eyes when his voice reached a powerfully high octave, a shiver rolling down my spine.
You lost your mind in cityscapes
Forged a path you weren’t meant to take
And life turned to death and took you by surprise
But you could stop running
The music faded and I opened my eyes. Alex was watching me. “That’s all I have,” he said with a slight shrug. He looked back down at the keys, for the first time seeming unable to keep eye contact.
“Cityscapes,” I murmured. “That should be the title.”
He glanced at me again. “I like that. Come sit down.”
I stepped around the piano and sat on the bench beside him, folding my hands in my lap. I kept a little space between us. “Did you write that about your parents and your grandfather?”
He was looking at me now, but I couldn’t meet his gaze. I had just peeked into his soul, and for some reason, I felt undeserving of it. “Yeah. I’ve been working on it for a few months, but I can’t seem to finish it. Maybe because I don’t feel like I’m running anymore.”
I nodded, reaching out to touch the keys so I wouldn’t have to look at him. I felt like crying. My heart was throbbing and I didn’t know why. “Maybe that could be the transition in the song,” I suggested. “Will you play another?”
“Sure.” He straightened his torso and rubbed his faded jeans for a moment, thinking. Then he dove into playing as though he didn’t even have to find the right keys.
I couldn’t stop the words I said,
Couldn’t lie to save my life
Here she was inside my head,
The place I’ve always been alone
She’s breathing in, under my skin,
Torn apart, yet held within,
My soul
And I would lie to save my life,
But I don’t want to live,
No, I don’t want to live alone.
He stopped playing suddenly; the last note was out of place without the next one to follow. Then he turned to me and sighed. “Can I tell you something?”
I braved a look at him. “Sure.”
“I wrote this song years ago and it didn’t belong to anyone. Kind of like that painting you showed me of the girl in the canyon. I don’t even know why I wrote it, but . . .” he trailed off.
I swallowed. “But what?”
He stared into my eyes, his hand slowly lifting to touch my face. His thumb caressed my cheek and sent a current through my body—one that made me freeze, but not in fear. I didn’t know what he was doing; didn’t know what I should be feeling. But then his face neared mine and my eyes fluttered closed just before our lips touched. It was the briefest kiss, over in a second, but I could still feel it lingering. Opening my eyes, I saw he was still close to me. I was the one to lean in for our lips to meet again.
My head was spinning, bright flashes dancing behind my closed eyelids. I heard him sigh and his other hand cupped my face as he deepened the kiss. I was forgetting. I didn’t feel my pain. Just for a moment, I was free. But then I heard Tyler ordering me to stop moving. I broke away, trembling and breathless.
But I was holding it together. I wasn’t panicking.
“May . . . ” Alex whispered. “Why are you crying?”
I touched my wet cheeks in disbelief, then quickly dried them with my wrist. I couldn’t answer except for a simple, “I’m sorry.”
He watched me. I could sense he was thinking deeply, trying to put the pieces together. When it seemed like he was going to ask more questions, he exhaled a slow breath. “Don’t be sorry. It’s okay. Come here.” He enveloped me in an embrace that felt safe and protective. “I don’t know what you’re going through, but I feel that you’re hurting. I just want you to know I’m here for you.”
That was when my arms went around his waist and clung for dear life, for the first time letting my tears flow without feeling the need to hide them. “And I’m here for you,” I answered.
I didn’t know what good that promise was. Alex didn’t seem to need anyone. But the way he was holding me, though comforting and strong, told me he was thankful for my embrace too.
Seventeen
WE HELD EACH OTHER until both of us were quiet and content. The strangeness of this new embrace had been replaced with something that felt like coming home. We pulled apart slowly, and my heart was calm. I was calm. I looked into Alex’s eyes and smiled, but he still seemed concerned. He moved my hair away from my forehead with his fingers. “I know you’re dealing with something. You can always talk to me.”
It was as though we had crossed the bridge from acquaintances to something much deeper, but to my surprise, that didn’t unnerve me. His statemen
t worried me though. What would he think if he knew the truth? I didn’t think I could handle putting my trust in someone only to be discarded like a bag of trash. “I know,” I said softly.
He tilted his head, his eyes soft and gentle. “What are you thinking about?”
I was wishing I could be overflowing with butterflies. I wished that Alex’s touch made me giddy, like it would have under any other circumstances. I wished he had been my first kiss instead of Tyler. I wished I knew what this meant for us.
I wished I knew if I was falling for him, or if I was just mistaken because I had nothing to compare him to except someone who only wanted to use me. Was I just hungry for true, honest affection? Was I just enthralled with Alex because he made me feel safe?
I considered telling him to never kiss me again, but then I realized I would miss it. I would miss him.
“I’m thinking I want to know you even more than I do now. I, um . . .” How did I say it? What were the right words? “I really liked that, but . . .”
He contemplated my words with a thoughtful nod and I knew I didn’t have to say more. “You want to slow down.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “Yeah.”
“Was it too soon?”
I shook my head. It wasn’t too soon. It wasn’t too much. “I just don’t know what to feel about things lately,” I said honestly. “I’ve had a lot going on . . . and . . .” Why were words so difficult? I felt like I had to tiptoe around the truth, yet he wasn’t even asking for it. He hadn’t asked once.
But he had told me his truth: about the wreck, and through his songs. He had told me the truth from our very first conversation. Suddenly I felt as though the words were there, choking me in their efforts to reach my tongue. Tears pricked my eyes when I felt him lay his hand on my back. “I went to a party a couple weeks ago, and a guy there . . .” I felt like I was going to throw up. I gulped for air, soothing the feeling. Just say it, May. Say it before you’re in too deep, so you can weed him out of your life if he is going to run.
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