My Heart for Yours

by Jolene Perry

  Eamon rolled his eyes. I wanted to punch him in the teeth.

  “Look, if you’re going to be a dick about it, you can just go.” I said. I shoved the ring box into my top dresser drawer.

  “I don’t think I’m being a dick, Tobin, I think I’m being realistic. You’re only nineteen for Christ’s sake! I know this is the South, bro, but what the hell is the rush?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s really pretty damn simple. I don’t want the same things as you. I don’t want to go out every night searching for a different girl. I just want Delia. I just need you to try to be happy for me. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m going to drive up to D.C. and surprise her.”

  “Have you told Mom any of this?” Eamon asked, like I needed permission or something.

  “No, not yet. I’ll talk to her when she gets home from work. Now, we can go and get some food.”

  I sat on the edge of my bed to put on my shoes when Eamon said, “Tobin, wait.” He left the room for a few seconds, and when he came back, he was holding a folded newspaper.

  “Mom and I thought it’d be better not to show you this. But I’m not going to have my brother driving hundreds of miles to make a fool out of himself. I’m sorry, bro.”

  He handed me the paper, and all of the air left my lungs. No, all of the air left the entire room. The house. Maybe the earth.

  It was her. At some hoity political event at the state capitol. She’d been close and didn’t even tell me. I could’ve driven out to Baton Rouge to see her. Why wouldn’t she tell me?

  He was why.

  The caption under the photo said it all. Everything I needed to know about why she hadn’t been returning my calls as often. Why she sounded so distant. Black and white. Right there. And they’d hid it from me like I was too stupid and weak to understand.

  YOUNG LOVE: Louisiana Senator’s daughter Delia Gentry and Tennessee Senators son Weston Martins, pictured here at the Conservative Politics Black Tie Fundraiser in Baton Rouge.

  ***

  I waited for weeks for her to tell me that it was just some big misunderstanding. That they’d been forced to pose for that photo, smiling, his arm draped intimately around her. But she didn’t. And her silence when I called only further confirmed what I already knew. There was no mystery here. Nothing to figure out. The only thing to wonder was how I’d deluded myself into believing that I was ever good enough for Delia Gentry to love.

  TO MAKE YOU HATE ME

  The impossible task

  Wasn’t as hard

  As I’d hoped

  Eight

  Delia

  Weston. Here. In Crawford. With my dad—the guy who was too busy to come. It’s so like Weston to come in and rescue the girl when she’s down. I should be thrilled, but I don’t know what I am. The confusion from my whole day seems to be surrounding everything I do.

  My heart’s pounding, and I hate that Tobin saw Weston here, but I shouldn’t. That’s why I was so horrible at the end of us. We went from not knowing how to talk, to me unleashing every fear, hurt and frustration I had. My heart broke as I did it. I knew everything would be easier if Tobin hated me…until I saw him again. I wish I still wanted him to hate me now, because if he didn’t before, the hard look on his face when I got out, solidified that how I’d hurt him was all still there.

  What Tobin doesn’t know is I feel the same way—hurt, angry. I’ve just learned to be a lot better at pretending.

  We probably would have survived my family’s move. I know he loved me. I know he would’ve waited for me until we came back from D.C., but there was a lot more to overcome than miles. And that’s the part he bailed on.

  Weston and Dad are pulling suitcases out of the trunk of his car, and I’m standing in the roadway, watching each piece of luggage hit the driveway, wondering how long exactly they plan on staying here. Weston with his neatly trimmed brown hair, and perfectly shaved face, and tidy clothes—even Tobin all dressed up has something rough around the edges. And it may have been the bit of slouch that attracted me to Weston, but that wouldn’t be noticed by anyone in Crawford. Weston here is all polish and rich perfection.

  As Dad and Weston joke about something in the driveway, all I can think about is what it was like to say goodbye to Tobin. It happened where they’re standing.

  ***

  Dad sat in the driver’s seat waiting. It was one of those horrible early hours of the morning that no one should be awake.

  Tobin’s grasp on my hip tightened and he pulled me in close as he whispered, “Don’t worry, Delia. I’ll make this okay.”

  I believed him. Tobin always made things okay, he’d just been busy, distant. We weren’t over, we’d just been under a lot of pressure. I knew as I thought those things that they were excuses. He was wimping out. Leaving me. But the longer he held me, almost desperate, the more I wanted to believe that we were still okay. I imagined feeling those strong arms wrapped around me almost daily when we first got to D.C. Wishing Tobin was there to hold me up. Wishing we could just go back to before things got so out of control, when we felt like things were still fixable.

  But it was the thing he wouldn’t talk about. The thing that I can’t bring myself to think about. That’s what kept us from trying after I moved. Maybe me leaving town was a relief for both of us.

  Neither Tobin nor I knew how to deal with something so much bigger than us, but I’d wanted him to know. I’d wanted him to take care of me, to tell me what to do, and he didn’t. I was dealing with too much, and the move to D.C., the move away from home, and I needed him. The harder I held him, the more I more I could feel myself breaking. His lips pressed to mine, and he backed away.

  “Bye, Delia,” he whispered, and let Mom lead me to the car.

  I knew I wasn’t good enough for Tobin—he was letting me go.

  I’m actually still amazed Dad let him come say goodbye, but I paid for that one later, too.

  The shocking realization hit me as I climbed in the car. Tobin hadn’t known what to do with our situation, and he hadn’t known what to do with me.

  The hurt dug in further. It was the first time I thought that Tobin and I might not be able to survive our situation. My body shook in its first sob.

  It was like once I left, with all that weight hanging between us—everything I went through without him—we forgot how to talk to each other, and then he called.

  Tobin didn’t know Weston and I weren’t dating when that photo was taken, but my silence to him was a confirmation of what he’d called to find out. And that sealed it.

  Tobin had every reason in the world to hate me.

  ***

  “Hi Delia!” Weston smiles wide. “Surprise.”

  “Hey.” Weston doesn’t belong in Crawford, but I stumble toward him anyway.

  He wraps me up in his arms as soon as I’m close enough. “I’m sorry about your friend. I wasn’t thinking you were as close as you were,” he whispers. “I can’t be here the whole time you’re here, but I want to help, Delia. I was on my way when we spoke earlier. I’ll have to take off probably Saturday or Sunday, meet my dad in Baton Rouge, and then up to Tennessee, and down to Atlanta, but I’m here for now.”

  Tears start sliding down my cheeks, but I don’t think it has anything to do with Eamon, Weston, or Tobin. It has everything to do with confusion.

  Weston and I sit on the front porch holding hands while Mom and Dad argue inside. He’s politely ignoring the loud voices like I knew he would, but I can’t. Neither of us speaks. I start laughing because it’s such an absurd situation. We’re being so polite in front of the house, while the inside is a mess. It’s a metaphor for so many different things that I don’t even know where to start.

  “You okay, Delia?” Weston’s hand squeezes mine.

  I let myself really look into his dark brown eyes as he rubs his thumb over the back of my hand. My laughter fades slowly.

  “You’re not tryin’ to ignore that, are you?” I tilted my head back to
the house.

  A soft smile slowly spreads. “Your accent. It’s cute. It’s been a while since I’ve heard you talk like that.”

  Heat slides up my cheeks.

  “Don’t be embarrassed.” He kisses my cheek. “It reminds me of when we first met.”

  “Right.” I nod. “The informal barbeque.”

  He chuckles and lets go of my hand to put his arm around me. I snuggle into the warmth of someone safe because Weston’s been my refuge for a long time.

  ***

  The invitation said informal barbeque at Senator Willis’ home in Virginia. Dad was thrilled to be invited to his house, as was Mom. They both dressed for a late dinner at the country club, but I didn’t see the point when the invitation said informal. I’d left my cut-offs at home in Louisiana, but still wore shorts and a simple button-up shirt. I thought I was adding something nice with my chunky wedge sandals.

  Dad frowned.

  Mom said I was pretty enough that no one would care.

  Well, when we got there, I cared. The lawn felt like a golf course it was so massive, littered with perfect white tents, waiters with flutes of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The girls my age were all in dressed like I’d never seen. In fabric so soft that I’d be afraid to touch it, much less wear it. No comfy sandals for them either. Their shoes had higher heels than their mothers’ did. I wanted to hide in the car.

  Mom and Dad stood under the tent talking to people that Dad watched on the news channels. I was still in disbelief that this was supposed to be my new life. I watched the people who looked about my age—all miniature versions of their parents. I’d never felt more out of place, or more like the small town girl that I suddenly knew I was. Standing next to Dad while he gave a small speech in Crawford made me feel important. Special. At that barbeque, I’d felt lower than low.

  “Don’t worry,” a boy whispered behind me, “you’re still the prettiest girl here.”

  I turned and met Weston for the first time. His cheeks were pink, and I guessed that was pretty forward for him. He had short, dark hair, a fairly average build, and deep, brown eyes.

  “You’re Delia Gentry, am I right?” he asked.

  “Yeah…” I took a deep breath and tried to push away my southern drawl, because that’s what it suddenly felt like. A drawl. “Yes. I am.”

  “Our fathers work together. We might end up being friends.” He smiled and stuck his hand out for me to shake. “I’m Weston.”

  I pulled a deep breath in and let myself relax for probably the first time since our move, and shook his hand.

  “Hint for you.” He stood next to me and rested his hands in his pockets. It was the first time I noticed that he was the most casually dressed of the guys there—his shirt might have been plucked from the floor, and his khakis were in need of a wash. The familiarity felt good.

  “Hint for me?” I prompted, as his brown eyes didn’t leave mine.

  “Oh. Right.” He shook his head and smiled. “When you’re not sure about something, just raise your chin a bit, and always look them in the eye. I have a feeling you could pull a bluff on any girl here.”

  And that, at least, was something I could understand.

  ***

  “Wanna come upstairs?” I ask Weston, still leaning into his warmth.

  “What, now?” His brows come up.

  “Scared?” I tease as I stand. My dress is wrinkled, and I’m not sure why I haven’t bothered to change.

  “No. I just worry about what your parents will think.” He follows me through the front door. “Your dad walked me to my room and very specifically said that’s where I was staying.”

  Mom and Dad’s voices echo in from the living room—still angry. I’m guessing that Mom came home and drank more than she needed to maintain. I think normally her haze helps her deal with Dad, but when she drinks too much, they argue because she doesn’t stay quiet. Dad doesn’t like it when Mom’s not quiet. Sometimes I hate him.

  “I think my parents are busy.” I try to make light. “And when they’re done fighting, there’s usually some time where they’re making up. They won’t notice.” I bite my lip and head toward the stairs. “Besides, you’re two years older, and my dad practically worships your father. I think we’re okay.”

  He sighs. “I’m coming.”

  Weston and I have been dating for almost a year. We became a ‘we’ not long after the barbeque, and partly because our parents worked so closely together. We were just together a lot. But it took Weston a long time to hold my hand, and even longer to kiss me.

  I cried all night after our first kiss, feeling guilty. And then my guilt made me angry. There was no reason I shouldn’t kiss whomever I wanted. Tobin had hung up on me angry more than a month before.

  Weston follows me into my room and I close the door.

  I just need some distraction. I need for Weston to light up those butterflies inside me, or to make me forget where I am. When I turn around he looks wary.

  “I shouldn’t be in here, Delia.”

  Always the gentleman. This is what girls are supposed to like. We’re supposed to swoon over the boys who are always trying to do the right thing. And for the right reasons, even. Instead I kiss him. The next kiss, I kiss him deeper and pull him onto the bed.

  Weston and I have never gone all the way. Part of me wonders if guilt will rip me from the inside like it did after our first kiss.

  The thing with Weston is that once he lets loose a bit, it feels like he sort of forgets me. And in minutes of being on my bed, that’s where we’re at. His mouth is hard on mine, and his hands feel desperate against me. I stare at the ceiling as his mouth trails down my neck and across my exposed collarbone.

  I’m still not feeling it. Maybe if I close my eyes. Relax into him more. But I close my eyes and Tobin’s there. Of course he is. Being with Tobin was never something I could or would have been detached from. He’d kiss my mouth so softly, and then instead of devouring me, it’s like he wanted to touch his lips everywhere. To savor each moment of being close.

  ***

  Tobin traced my palms running butterflies up my arms, stealing my breath. His lips touched me next—sliding along the trail his fingers did. He always breathed in at my wrists, to take in whatever scent I wore. His hands squeezed mine as he laced our fingers together, and his lips touched the soft skin in the crook of my elbow, working their way up my bicep, across my collarbone and then up my neck.

  Tobin took his time, until I forced him to do otherwise.

  “A woman is a beautiful thing, Delia. I just wanna appreciate you a little bit.” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a half-smirk.

  “How many times have you used that line?” I laughed. I knew Tobin wasn’t exactly new at this.

  His eyes locked with mine.

  “Be serious, Delia. You’re not like anyone else. Never have been.”

  “Fine, just don’t be such a tease,” I joked.

  He teased me, or appreciated me—kissing up my neck, and I’d part my lips, just waiting to taste him again, but he moved way. Soft kisses trailed across my chest, between my breasts and down my stomach. His fingers traced invisible lines everywhere—under my belly button and down the outer edges of my thighs, the inner sides of my thighs…Each second counted for something, just like every single time.

  ***

  “You still with me, Delia?” Weston’s pulled away, but our bodies still touch as he leans down and kisses me softly.

  “What?” I ask.

  He grins wider. “That look on your face—like you were in a different place.” He leans up on an elbow. “That’s how you make me feel, Delia. I love you.”

  I smile up at him, not because I feel my smile, but because I know I should. Have I always felt this half-nothing toward him?

  “Delia?” He runs a hand through my hair.

  “Yeah. I love you, too. Just tired.” I sigh and let my body sink deeper into my mattress. What’s wrong with me? I was the one who invited him in
here.

  “I wish I could stay, but—”

  “But probably best that you take your own room. We wouldn’t want to ruin appearances.” Also, I want to be alone.

  He scowls. “What’s going on? Is that what this place does to you?”

  Weston could be my father in this second, and I open my mouth to scream that this is where I grew up, and he should show some respect, but I know better. Its all part of pretending everything is perfect—something I’ve learned from Mom. “Just tired.” I’m pathetic.