The Knight Of The Rose (20 page)

windowsill—by myself, cold and alone.

I buried my head in my arms and let the warmth of tears roll onto the tops of my thighs and

trickle down onto the window ledge under me.

What did I do to him? I must have destroyed him to make him leave like this. I’m a horrible,

horrible person.

My self-pitying sobs stopped with an abrupt jolt when my door handle twisted. I rubbed my

face into my knees to dry off the tears, and as the door pushed open, watched a line of yellow light

spill in from the hallway as the deep, husky breath of my friend touched my ears in a long sigh.

“Baby girl, what’re you doing asleep here?” he whispered to no one in particular.

His wide, broad arms fixed a hold under my knees and around my back, then he swept me off

the windowsill, over the desk and into his body with less than little effort. I stayed floppy in his arms,

making my breath long and deep as if I were asleep.

He laid me on my pillow—much softer and warmer than the cold glass—and tucked my feet

into my quilt, then brushed my hair firmly back from my face, pressed a quick kiss to my brow and

walked away, closing the door behind him.

“Thanks, Mike,” I whispered quietly, all owing a smile to appear f or one second befor e it

melted away in the darkness.

“It’s alive!” Mike waved his hand dramatically as I zombie-walked into the kitchen and sat at

the bench. “Hungry?” He held up a spatula.

“Not for plastic kitchen implements, if that’s what you’re offering.”

“Oh, a comedian today, huh?” He turned back

to the s tove, wearing a grin. “S o, are you

hungry or not?”

“A little.” I grabbed an apple and took a bite while I watched Mi ke at the stove, poking t he

frypan with an egg-flip. “Where is everybody?”

“Oh, um, Sam’s at school, Vicki’s gone to the movies with her fr iend, and your dad’ s at

work.” Mike turned back and winked at me. “It’s just us.”

“Okay, so, is that why you think it’s acceptable to wear a pink apron?”

Mike laughed, rolling his head back a little. “I thought you might like that.” He turned around

and untied Vicki’s apron. “Thought it might cheer you up a little.”

“What makes you think I need cheering up?” I turned my wrist over in question—the apple

still in hand.

“Ara, I know you better than you know yourself. Yo u need cheer. So—” he grabbed the fry

pan and tipped the contents onto two plates in front of me, “—I made your favourite. Pancakes!”

Hm. That might just work.

“Is there maple syrup?” I asked in a low, questioning tone.

Mike grinned and slowly, from behind the bench, lifted a glass bottle of brown l iquid.

“Would I forget the syrup?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” I snickered and took the bottle from him.

He walked around the bench and slid onto the stool next to me, then dumped some cutlery

beside my plate. My attempt at moodiness slipped away completely when the first bite of his light ,

fluffy pancakes touched my tongue. Like sugar-coated puffs of heaven, the golden exterior of the

pan-fried breakfast melted with the syrup at the perfect ratio of sweet and savoury—sending trickles

of warm delight down my spine.

With my fork in front of my lips, I studied him—the chef, the wonder-cook, the man who

knows no failure. How is he so good at every damn thing he does? Is i t just my imagination, or is

everyone I know, but me, perfect? I threw my fork onto my plate. It’s infuriating.

“Something wrong, baby?” Mike asked, mid-shovel.

Yeah, you’re making it really hard for me not to love you.
“I uh—I just remember ed I have

rehearsals today.”

“Rehearsals?”

“Mm. For a benefit concert were doing to raise money for this kid who died.”

“Oh. Okay. What time?” he asked.

“Dunno.” I shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll go.”

Mike sat taller and grinned. “Wanna go for a run with me, instead?”

“Yeah. Actually, I’d love that.”

“Great. Maybe we can make a picnic out of it. What’d ya think?”

I nodded and picked up my fork again. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“So, do you wanna talk about it?” Mike dropped to the grass by our picnic blanket and gulped

a few swigs of water.

“Talk about what?” Huffing, harder than him, I let my hands catch me on the ground, sinking

into my elbows, then rolled onto my back to watch the midday sun overhead.

Mike took a couple of long breaths, wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned forward with

his elbows draped over his knees. “The reason I came in to find you asleep on your windowsill last

night.” As if controlled by a body-stiffening remote, my limbs went long. I laid very still, suddenly

no longer aware of my exhaustion from running. “No.”

“You know that won’t gel with me, baby.” A bot tle of water appeared over my face; I sat up

on my elbows and took hold of it. “You need to talk, and whatever it is, you kn—”

“It’s none of your business, Mike.” I sat all the way up, unscrewed the lid from the bottle and

rolled it to my lips, letting the cool liquid inside melt the heat in my throat. “Just stay out of my room

if you don’t like it.”

He let out a short sigh, not an agitated or a hurt one, just more….frustrated. “Here. Eat.”

I studied the sandwich for a long breath, then snatched it with just a little too much hostility.

It’s almost like he does this deliberately—it’s always the same with him; Gee, Ara, you need to talk.

No, I don’t. I’m fine.

Okay, fine then. Here. Eat.

And so I eat, and then, all of a sudden we’re talking. Well, not this time!

“Ara? Where are you going?” Mike jumped up and ran after me as I headed toward the swing

set across the park.

“Wherever you’re not.”

“Why?”

I dumped the sandwich on the ground—with a pang of regret—and said, “Because I’m not

going to let you talk me into opening up to you.”

“Okay. Fine.” He laughed. “I won’t. We’ll just hang—like old times.”

I stopped walking and looked down at my left wrist; my arms were so thin that they looked

longer now, and whiter than they’d ever been—which made the unhealed scab on my wris t look

malicious. I quickly cupped my hands behi nd my back as Mike appr oached. “Push me on t he

swing?” I said playfully.

The mask of concern dropped from his lips, but stayed in his eyes even as they lit with a

smile. “Sure, baby.”

And that was that. He didn’t even mention my weird sleeping habits again—or my mum, or

David—only Vicki and my relationship with her. But I assured him things were getting better, and he

said they must be since I willingly called her “Mum” the other day.

When the park emptied and a strong breeze swept half of our picnic away, we packed up and

jumped in Dad’s car, then headed home—with Mike driving.

“Are you okay?” he asked, looking at my knees; I looked too. My legs were so stiff and rigid

that my knees turned completely white.

“Yeah. I just—I never really feel quite safe in cars, now. It’s like,
before
, I knew they could

crash and that they were dangerous, but now I know what that feels like, I don’t feel so invincible.”

“Blind faith gone, huh?”

“Yeah. But you s till have it.” I nodded to the road. “You don’t feel the fear of these deat hly

metal machines.”

“I know. I’m just one of the lucky ones, Ara, but the same could be said about you.”

“What’d you mean?”

“You have a real sense of what danger is, now. I know that’s a pitiful consolation, but at the

same time, you’re seventeen and you have an under standing about life that no other ki ds your age

could. Cars
are
dangerous, and people are a blasé about that power. I’ve seen enough accidents in my

time on the Force to know how little people value the power of these
metal machines
.”

The car slowed as Mike fl icked on the indicator and changed gears; muscle by muscle my

legs unclenched, and as we rolled at less than half the recommended speed limit, Mike turned his

head and smiled at me warmly—ignoring the honking horns from behind us.

“Thanks, Mike.”

“Anytime.”

When we pulled up in the driveway at home, Mike pointed to my shoe. “Might wanna tie that

up so you don’t trip.”

“Uh, crud.” I bent over my legs and twisted my lace into a bow, then looked up as the door

popped open and Mike stood before me with a smile on his face, the picnic basket in hand.

“Thanks,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt and jumping out. As the door closed after me, the

look on Mike’s face became apparent. “What?”

“You didn’t yell at me for opening the door.”

“Oh.” I looked at the car, then shrugged. “Guess I didn’t.”

“I like this new, grown-up you.”

Deliberately scanning his broad shoulders, his proud, tall stance and school-boy grin, I said,

“And I like this new, hot-guy you.”

We walked up the fixed previously-broken bottom step of the porch and Mike laughed as I

darted through the front door when he opened it for me. The genuine surprise in his intake of breath

caught my escaping happiness and labelled my face with its presence. “I can’t believe you let me

open that for you,” Mike said. “You’re so different, now, Ara.”

“Eh, not really. I just couldn’t be bothered arguing with you.”

“Exactly.”

“Hey there,” Dad said as he came down the stairs.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Did you have a good day?”

I looked at Mike, then back at Dad. “Actually, yeah.”

“Well, I’m going to unpack this basket. I’ll see you upstairs for a movie?” Mike looked at me

suggestively.

“Yeah, sure.” He walked away, and Dad’s gaze seeped into my skin. “What, Dad?” I asked

with a smile.

He leaned in, kissed my cheek and said, “I’ m just happy to s ee you happy agai n.” Then, he

followed Mike into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the wake of his odd suggestion.

I’m glad he thinks I’m happy. But I ’m not happy. Well, at least—I looked up to the coming

night through the small window above the front door, hugging my arms across my chest—at least, I

won’t be in a few minutes.

It might’ve been a dream, but it was as close as I’d been to him in two days; I rolled over in

my bed and fli pped my pillow to the dry side, wi ping the moist layer of ageing tears from my

cheeks as I settled my face against the cushion.

While thunder grumbled somewhere outside in the real world, the daylight fill ed my eyes

behind closed lids again, and the face of the boy I love smiled back at me. “Where have you been?”

I asked.

“In another time, another place—where love was real.” He turned away from me and looked

out across the valley of golden lit trees below our feet.

“But, it is real, David. I love you. You know that.”

He nodded once. “But it will never be enough.”

Wait! Stop! Rewind. This is
my
dream. It doesn’t have to be like this.

In my mind, I scrolled back through the images until I found the one of his smi le, and as I

was about to press play, I stopped.

What am I doing? Laying here making up scenes where we’re together isn’t going to change

things. It just makes this—when I open my eyes to an empty room—so much more regrettable.

I just never thought David would do this. I always thought he’d give me a chance to explain

if ever I did something wrong.

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t seem like the way
my
David would behave.

But then, he did tell me once how strongly he feels about infidelity—and with good reason,

too, after a biblical warning on a wall above his mutilated aunt’s body was the first thing he saw the

day she died.

But I didn’t cheat on him with Mike. I know I dreamed of a wedding, but t hat’s different,

right? Or maybe not. Maybe not in David’s eyes. Maybe, much like the dream that destroyed him,

life is all just black and white.

As I watched the numbers on my digital clock change, one by one, the glowing green light

all the while reminding me of David’s eyes, I felt the numbness of fatigue set into my bones. I tried

to sleep through the night—through the pain—and many times I’d felt its grasp pull me down, but

then I’d see his face in my mind and sit bol t upright, calling out for him—covering my mout h

quickly upon realising how loud my voice was.

Outside, the thunder rolled again; it’d been that way all night. Bad weather was brewing, but

it hadn’t the strength to burst out and become a st orm. It was a dormant eruption, a traveller lost in

purgatory, a lovers quarrel with no happy ending.

I didn’t mind the thunder tonight, though, because I understood its pain—how it fel t as

though it just couldn’t get free—to be where it was supposed to be. It was trapped, caged in by the

wrong conditions.

My door cracked open and Mike popped his head in. “Hey, you’re up—you ready to leave?”

he half-whispered.

“What, you wanna go
now
?” I sat up in my bed.

“Yeah—it’s a long drive.”

“You never mentioned leaving
this
early.”

“I know.” He grinned and opened my door fully. “I planned to wake you—figured I’d save

myself from the whingeing last night about getting up early.”

“What makes you think I’d have whinged?”

Mike just raised his brows and rolled his head down a little.

“Oh, fine.” I jumped out of bed. “I’ll get my bag.”