Choice

by Kennedy, Allison J.

  His hand fell away. “Are you dating someone?”

  The words caused me to inhale sharply, my gaze leaving his. I laughed nervously and glided my fingertips across the ivory keys. “No. I’m not dating anyone.”

  He shifted to face me even more, running his hand through his hair as he cocked his head in confusion. “Did something happen? Something bad?”

  The question had been so gentle and safe, stated in a way that begged an honest answer without demanding it. How was it possible that I wanted to run to him and away from him at the same time? “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I explained as casually as I could. I didn’t want him to take it too seriously; I just wanted him to have a basic understanding of where I stood.

  He took my hand. “May, look at me.”

  I did, reluctantly. His jaw flexed. I wondered if he was angry.

  He seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say, but eventually the words came. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  “I mean, what is there to say?” I answered, shrugging it off as though he should too. His face didn’t suggest he would let it go so easily. I decided that too much had already been said to leave him hanging. He cared, perhaps too much. With a sigh, I continued: “A guy took advantage of me at the party. It’s not that big of a deal though, Alex,” I promised him when I saw his jaw muscles twitching angrily. I knew he wasn’t angry with me though. “I’m fine. Look at me. I’m fine. He was just high, and like I said, I was in his way.”

  “May . . .” His voice shook like a spinning top on the verge of falling over. “Did you tell anyone? The police? Your family?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t think anyone would believe me. By the time I realized I needed to, it was already too late for them to . . . you know . . . collect the evidence . . .”

  I hated that my admission had caused him to be sad. All this time he had been so happy, even though his own life was a stormy sea. I squeezed his hand, wanting him to know I was alright, even if it wasn’t entirely true. He was trembling. “It’s okay, Alex. Really. I’m okay.”

  He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his eyes. He displayed on his face the very things I truly felt: sadness, confusion, and loss. It was like he was feeling everything I was. How was that possible? How could this man possibly be so understanding without having walked in my shoes? He looked like he wanted to cry, but he didn’t. Instead he put his arm around me and pulled me into his side. He held me like he was protecting me from the world, and it was in that embrace that I truly felt safe to feel.

  “You’re right. I’m not okay,” I whispered. I wrapped my arm around his back and held onto his t-shirt in my clenched fist. “Sometimes I think I am; other times it feels so fresh.”

  “It is fresh,” he told me, his cheek resting on top of my head. “I’m so sorry.”

  Tears escaped and stained his shirt as we clung to each other all over again. “Can I ask you something?” I eventually inquired, lifting my head to look at him. His blue eyes were stormy and devoted. I almost couldn’t choke out the words. “Why do you care so much?”

  He smiled sadly and sighed. “Why don’t people care more? Sometimes I think I feel things too deeply, but I can’t help it. And you’re someone who’s quickly become important to me. I want to be there in whatever way I can.”

  “Who was there for you?” I asked tearfully.

  His eyes flooded. It took him a moment to blink the water away. “No one.”

  I placed my hand on his cheek and our gazes locked. “Well, I’m here.” His eyes softened when his tears broke loose. “I’m here,” I said again.

  I kissed him then. I tasted the salt of his pain on his lips. He was motionless at first, seemingly hesitant to comply, though he soon exhaled and brushed his hand into my hair. I heard him whisper my name; felt him kiss me in a way that was soothing and safe, unassuming and gentle. Because of this, I was the one to fall into him, wanting to be deeper in the safe haven he was offering.

  He met my every movement, but he never took it a step further. He was the one who eventually took my face in his hands and gently broke the contact of our lips. He seemed pained to do so. “It’s fresh, May. We have time.”

  I knew he was trying to spare me from regret, or that he was hesitant to bring back painful memories. I wanted to refuse this noble deed. I wanted this feeling to never end, because for the first time, I didn’t feel him all over me. I only felt Alex, and the difference was that I felt him to the very core of my being where the pain had been residing for two weeks. Now, I felt nothing but relief.

  But I trusted him. I trusted I could still return to this place of peace any time I wanted. I trusted he wasn’t rejecting me. I don’t know how, but I trusted.

  “Okay,” I finally said. “Will you play another song?”

  He straightened toward the piano and brought his hands to the keys, instantly playing with such fluidity that no one would ever know he still had tears in his eyes. “Another song for another painting?” He still managed to grin at me through his sadness.

  My heart ached in a way that told me that regardless of why I was falling for him, I simply was.

  Eighteen

  Now

  I WASN’T RAISED in a religious family. So, my decision to wait for marriage before having sex wasn’t because of some purity spiel given by a church. I wanted it because I didn’t believe that sex could ever be casual. I knew in the core of my being that the man I would marry would be the only one who could have that piece of me. So when it was stolen, I felt like all of my efforts were null.

  I wondered after Tyler raped me what good it was to even try anymore. But the thing was . . . Elijah never saw me as tainted. He never thought even once that some other guy had that piece of me. And he knew how important that hidden desire of mine had been after I revealed it to him on one of our first dates.

  And he waited for me. He waited until we entered the room of our honeymoon suite, where he gently, compassionately, and lovingly peeled away the layers of my clothing and my fear. He whispered over and over how beautiful I was, and how much he loved me. He showed me for the first time what intimacy should feel like. I trusted him fully, even before that night.

  Because he waited for me, even when I didn’t want him to, I knew I was valued. I was worthy. And now, nothing can ever take that away from me.

  Then

  I PUSHED THE ROLLER up and down the wall, watching the color of Whispering Meadow coat the porous surface. Alex had told me I didn’t have to paint; that if I wanted to talk instead, he was willing. But I didn’t want to talk, at least not about the same thing. Enough had been said.

  “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” I asked, standing on my toes to make the roller reach higher.

  Alex rummaged around with supplies behind me before answering. “Crazy dangerous or crazy crazy?”

  I laughed. “Crazy dangerous, or daring. I can’t picture you being crazy.”

  “Good.” He laughed too. “Well, I have gone skydiving and bungee jumping a few times. Does that count?”

  I turned around, my jaw agape. “Does it count? I’d say that’s pretty daring. You couldn’t get me to jump off of . . . or out of anything.”

  He bit his lip, grinning. “I couldn’t?”

  I shook my head. “You’d have to throw me.” I imagined standing on a tall bridge, trying to convince myself to leap off. Even just imagining it made me feel unsteady on my feet. “What does it feel like?”

  “Well,” he began, dunking his roller in the paint. “Bungee jumping is an enormous rush. There’s nothing like it.”

  “I never took you for the adrenaline seeking type.”

  He pushed his roller over the wall. “I wouldn’t say I seek it. Dad took me to do both when I was a kid, and I guess you could say I was hooked. I haven’t done either since he died though.”

  I watched him for a moment. He was lean and muscular; not a bodybuilder, but still built. He really w
as beautiful, and not just in the physical sense. “What is skydiving like?”

  He paused, a smile gracing his lips. “The initial feeling after jumping is really intense, but then you feel like you’re flying. You see everything for miles and miles, and for a few minutes, you feel like you could go anywhere.” He looked at me, eyes twinkling.

  “That’s beautiful,” I murmured. I bit my lip, glancing at him. “Alex . . . have you ever heard the ‘bird or fish’ metaphor?” I instantly froze up. Why had I asked that? Why in a million years would I ever want to even think about that question again? Maybe it was because I wanted to hear him say it: I wanted him to say what I already knew he was. I wanted to feel like it was possible to feel free again.

  “I have,” he nodded. “My psychology professor brought it up once. Birds are independent, strong thinkers who don’t let life, or the storms in life, hold them back. They are free spirits. Fish stay—”

  “On the ocean floor. They’re afraid to be off on their own. They go with others like them.”

  “Right. Each have their own thing to contribute to the world. Why do you ask?”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek and avoided looking at him. I wished I had never brought it up. “I was just wondering what you think you are.”

  He contemplated my statement, tilting his head. “I would say I’ve been a bit of both at times, but lately I feel more like a bird.”

  I didn’t say anything. I could feel him looking at me as I used a small brush to edge along the trim of a window. I knew he was waiting for my side of this equation, so eventually I spoke up when he didn’t stop watching me. “I used to think I was a bird.”

  Could a bird and a fish really see each other eye-to-eye? Was I only fooling myself? Was he fooling himself? Alex took my arm and gently turned me around. “You still are. Don’t let anything change that.”

  “I just . . .” I sighed, overwhelmed. “I don’t want to let it change me, but I’ve been so lost. And I feel foolish for letting one thing like this disrupt my life. I have so many things I want to do; so much I want to accomplish.”

  “I know. And you ultimately have a choice about whether or not you’ll remain tied to this memory. But May . . . it’s been two weeks. You get to feel whatever you need to feel to find your way again.”

  How did he always know what to say to put things into perspective? I sighed, smiling softly. “You’re really perfect, you know that? I mean, what kind of guy would say these things? Would make me feel alright like this?”

  “I’m not perfect.” He shook his head. “I care. I think we met each other at just the right time.”

  I couldn’t speak for him, but I knew it was true. I had needed to know I could trust someone outside of my small circle of friends. I needed to know that a guy could treat me with respect. I was just afraid of being so broken that I would be the one to hurt him.

  “Can you show me how you do the trim so perfectly? I think my hands are too shaky,” he smirked, looking down at the brush I was still holding.

  “Don’t you need steady hands to play music?” I teased.

  “They’re only shaky around you.”

  I rubbed my lips together and fought a smile, turning away before my face turned too red. Our circumstance wasn’t normal. Part of me felt like there had to be something wrong with me that I would enjoy Alex’s company after what had happened only two weeks before. Shouldn’t I have been cowering in a corner somewhere? Shouldn’t I have been afraid of him? I just wasn’t. I didn’t know why, but I felt better with him than alone.

  The rest of the morning was perfect. I showed him how to paint around the trim. We laughed a lot. We exchanged phone numbers. For a while, it was almost like neither of us was wounded. Until the end, at least, when he looked at me as I was getting ready to head back to my car. It was like he didn’t know whether or not to kiss me, so I stood on my toes and showed him he could.

  * * *

  ADDISON WAS THE FIRST person I told. She was also the first person to voice her concerns. “Isn’t it too soon, May?” she asked over the phone. “I really think you should talk to someone—maybe a professional—before you think about dating anyone.”

  I was glad she couldn’t see the look on my face: one that would have shown how appalled I was that she would suggest I needed professional help. I rested my hand on my cramping abdomen, reminded that my period would be hitting full-force soon. “Only I can decide what is too fast for me. It’s not like he’s my boyfriend or anything . . . there’s just something there. He makes me feel better.”

  “And that’s exactly how I know this is too soon! I’m no psychologist, but I know how lost you’ve been up until this conversation. He’s not a remedy; you know that, right? I’m just afraid of how this might turn out if you are lying to yourself.”

  “I’m not lying to myself!” I snapped. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  She sighed. I knew she was trying to arrange her words before saying them, so I let her. “I am happy that you’re happy,” she finally breathed. “You have no idea how good it feels to hear this joy in your voice.”

  “But you think it’s not real joy.” My words were strangled with tears. I sat up on my bed and they fell. “It’s not like I’m back to my old self, Addi. I know he’s not the solution. I don’t even know what he is. I’ve just never felt this way and . . .” I shook my head, confused. Was she right? Were my feelings merely a way of ignoring my pain? I just didn’t believe that was true. “We just have a connection. We understand each other.”

  “And that’s great,” she agreed. “Just be careful. And I know you don’t think you need to talk to anyone, but it really might help.”

  “Any therapist would have to report what I tell them since I’m a minor. No thanks. There are plenty of self-help blogs these days.”

  I couldn’t see her face, but I knew she was frustrated. She sighed again. “Enough of this. Do you want to go get some fro-yo? I miss you.”

  I looked at the clock; it was two: the perfect time because it wouldn’t be too busy. I was craving something sweet. “Yeah, that sounds good. I miss you too.”

  * * *

  I WALKED INTO the frozen yogurt shop in a haze. A wave of fatigue had hit almost instantly after getting off the phone. Addison was waiting for me and we smiled at each other as I approached.

  “Hey,” she said, hugging me. She was dressed in yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt, her hair tossed into a messy but perfect bun. Even without makeup, she looked so pretty. It was effortless for Addison. Sometimes I wondered if she thought the same thing about me. I never felt pretty. I felt especially ugly as we waited in line for our yogurt, with my stomach painfully bloated and my clothes hugging me a little too tightly. I had always had terrible periods. This one was taking the cake already.

  “Your boobs are huge,” she whispered. “Are you wearing a different bra?”

  “No.” I shook my head, adjusting the top of my tank to cover them a little better. “I started this morning.”

  She nodded casually. “I mean, it’s not a bad thing,” she smirked. “What do you want? It’s on me.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I insisted, reaching into my purse for my wallet.

  “Shut up. You’re clearly PMSing and I feel bad for being insensitive.”

  We looked at each other and started laughing. “Okay, fine. But I’ll get it next time.”

  “Deal. So, you and Danika seem to be doing better. Did you guys work it out?”

  “I think so. I mean, we haven’t been quite the same since the party . . . but that’s probably my fault. Even though she’s working on herself, I still can’t forget she . . .” I sighed. I didn’t want to say it.

  “She was the whole reason you were there,” she said, looking up at me. “I get that. I do.”

  I nodded. It was our turn next. “Sooo,” she mumbled, smirking at me. “Tell me more about Alex.”

  I chewed on my lip. “I met him at the barn the weekend of t
he party. He was so nice and respectful. He’s a musician. He played for me this morning . . .”

  I realized I had trailed off when the brunette in a white paper hat tapped her pink, chipped nails on the counter. Addison jumped in and ordered hers: plain with fruit and nuts. I asked for plain too, but with roasted coconut and chocolate.

  “You hate coconut,” Addison reminded me as we stepped to the side to wait for our order.

  I shrugged. “It just sounds good. Anyway, he played for me this morning and it was just . . .” I didn’t even have the right word for it. “You know that feeling you get when you are lost in your dance routine? I’ve never felt that before, but I think this must have been close. He played piano and sang his own songs. I’ve never heard a voice so beautiful.”

  She nudged me with her elbow playfully. “I think you might just be biased.”

  “I’m not!” I insisted. “You should have heard him. It was incredible.”

  “I’ll bet. What else?”

  We took our yogurts when they were ready and headed for the only available table. The chair wobbled when I sat down and I slowly made it rock back and forth while I thought of what to say. I knew enough about Alex already to tell Addison plenty of things, but somehow I didn’t feel like it was my place to tell her about his parents. I scooped the tip of my spoon into the frozen cream and sighed. “His grandfather used to own a little store called Adair Books. He passed away recently and Alex inherited it. So he’s taking over until he can figure out what his plan is.”

  Addison’s eyes widened. “How old is this guy? That’s a huge responsibility . . .”

  “Twenty,” I mumbled, shoving my spoon into my mouth. My friend tilted her head as if to ponder the age gap. “It’s only three years,” I reminded her. “And it is a huge responsibility. He had to leave college early and he has no one to help him figure this out.”

  “Not even his parents?”