Unlit Star (14 page)

I see who he used to be, who he is now, and who he can be, and all of that melds together into what he is. Rivers is a scarred young man, but I am only now seeing that they run deeper than I imagined. What he told me last night closed the deal—I cannot go back to thinking I knew him. I am only starting to now. There is depth to him I wasn't expecting—there are so many layers of him to pull away and I want to be the one to do it, and that is
wrong
of me.

It doesn't matter. I can't turn off what I feel and I don't want
to.

I finish scrubbing the walls of the upstairs bathroom. It is even bigger than the downstairs one and that is already impressive. My shoulders and arms ache and my fingers are wrinkly and prune-like. I've been hiding out in the upper half of the house all morning. It's silly to think that in staying away from Rivers, I can pretend I don't feel what I do. On a positive note, the upper level of the house is shining like it has never shone before. I've cleaned three bedrooms, an office, and now the bathroom, not to mention the hallway.

The stairs are difficult for Rivers to maneuver up and I feel sort of evil about being in the one place he can't reach me, but I need to be alone to think. I am used to my solitude and sometimes the urge to return to it is unavoidable. I am sure I'm over-thinking what the kiss meant to Rivers. It probably meant nothing. He probably just kissed me because I put my lips against his and I am a girl and he is a guy and that's all. I don't even think he likes me. But he didn't kiss me like he doesn't like me.

My heart twinges when I find a turkey sandwich waiting for me in the kitchen with a note that reads,
I figured it was my turn to show off the culinary skills. - R

I eat half of the sandwich and carefully wrap the rest of it up and set it in the refrigerator. It was probably the best sandwich I ever ate, even better than my peanut butter, honey, and jelly ones. I turn in a circle, wondering what I should do now since my household chores are done for the day. I should have taken my time, but the restless energy I was carrying around made that an impossibility.

I spy Rivers' dark head in the grass beyond the deck. Curiosity, and something more, pulls me forth. He's sitting in the green foliage, his eyes lowered to his distorted legs. They are stiff and straight before him, unapologetic for their appearance—which is how Rivers needs to learn to be. He is what he is. He shouldn't feel bad about it.

“Thanks for the sandwich.”

He nods, flexing the fingers of his left hand.

I exhale, ignoring the overactive beating of my heart. “What are you doing?”

“Staring at my super-hot legs.”

Rolling my eyes, I say, “Don't you already have enough admirers without being one yourself?”

“Funny.”

“What are you thinking?” That's the real question I want answered. What does Rivers think about the kiss we exchanged last night? I am not sure I
want
to know, but I decided I couldn't hide out in the upstairs of his house indefinitely, so here I am. 

“It shouldn't have happened.” His eyes are downcast as he fiddles with the hem of his yellow shirt.

A crack forms somewhere inside me. I pretend it isn't there, forcing a lightness to my tone I do not feel. “What shouldn't have?”

He glances up, a scowl on his face. “You know what I'm talking about. The kiss.”

I sit down in the grass beside him, partially turned away from him. “Are you sorry I kissed you?”

“Aren't you?”

“I instigated it, didn't I?”

“Yeah. About that. I don't get it.
Why
did you?” Our eyes meet, his dark and searching. I don't have time to answer before he says, “When you look at me, you have to be repulsed.”

“By what?” I ask.

He gestures to the scars that line his face and then to his legs.

“I don't even see them,” I say with all honesty.

His eyebrows lower and his eyes follow. I caught the blatant yearning in his gaze just before he hid it. He wants to believe me, but can't allow himself to.

My fingers curl into the palms of my hands to keep from reaching out to him. I blow out a noisy breath and look at a caterpillar ever so slowly creeping along the grass. I put my finger out and it carefully feels my skin before crawling over it, tickling my flesh as it goes.

I smile. “He's so slow, but you know what? He never gives up. He knows, one day, he'll be free,” I say in a low voice. “He's ugly to most, but to those that matter, he's beautiful. They know his potential. They know where he started and where he'll end, and how long it will take for him to get there. It's something to be admired, not tossed aside.”

“You're saying one day I'll be a butterfly,” he says skeptically.

I look up. “I'm saying you've always been one.”

Rivers stares at me for a long time, his eyes tracing the angles and curves of my face. “You say a lot of strange stuff, you know that?”

Nodding, I hide a smile. “I guess so.”

His tone is thoughtful when he tells me, “I like it. I like being around you.”

My pulse picks up. “Why?”

With a shrug, he states, “I don't feel so sorry for myself when you're around. I don't feel so ugly or worthless. I feel normal.”

“You are neither of those things.”

“Yeah.” His voice says he doesn't believe me.

I run a finger along the soft grass as I say, "I kind of like being around you too."

"Why?" he shoots back.

I tilt my head, my hair falling to the side as I ponder this. "Well, aside from the fact that you make me look good—oddly enough, I think I like your personality."

"Hmm. You
think
? I'm usually wanted for my body and not my mind."

"Given the circumstances, we all have to make exceptions."

His mouth twitches. "What circumstances?"

"Your hideous disfigurement," I tell him airily.

"Thanks," he says dryly, a faint smile on his mouth.

“Sure. I'm all about looking on the bright side. Want to go for a walk? We'll go slow,” I add when he hesitates.

His face darkens. “I hate that—that you even have to say that. I don't
want
you to have to go slow for me.”

I get to my feet. “So I won't.” I walk to the fence gate, opening it and going through. A tendril of elation webs through me and spreads when he follows.

The walk takes twice as long as it normally would for me, but I don't mind. Being with Rivers is all I really focus on. Each smile of his opens a wound inside me at the same time it heals it. When he brushes a lock of hair from my eyes, I try to swallow and have to repeat the motion three times before having success. I can tell the farther we walk that his legs are beginning to bother him. I wonder if each and every step he takes is painful to him or if his legs start to ache after a while. He doesn't say anything about stopping or going back, so I don't either. It isn't for me to decide when he's had enough. Rivers will make that decision.

“Your mom owns a flower shop, right?”

I nod, the mention of my mom causing a hint of longing within me. I blink at the realization that I miss her. I always thought I wanted to be on my own, out of the house where the past lingers in much too fine detail, but now that I've been away, I want to see her, to sleep in the bed I have always slept in, in the house I have always lived in, knowing my mom is but a short walk away. I feel homesick, something I never expected to be.

“What's the name of it? 'Flower Appeal'?”

“How do you know the name of my mom's flower shop?” I can't help smiling that he would know such a thing. It seems too trivial a detail for him to remember.

Rivers shrugs. “My mom's sent me over there before to get flowers. And I've been in there for myself too,” he adds.

“Really?” I wonder if his mother knows my mother. It's possible they've even had actual conversations, although I doubt they knew they were talking to one another. I can see Janet and Monica becoming friends. In fact, I hope one day soon I can arrange a meeting between them.

I also wonder if my mom talked to Rivers without knowing it. The thought of Rivers holding a discussion with my mom makes my cheeks heat up and I don't understand why. I think because it makes me think of a boyfriend talking his girlfriend's mom—totally
not
what I should be thinking about, not with him. I don't think
anyone
I ever dated met my mom, not that I had a lot of boyfriends. I never dated anyone for long and I never felt inclined to introduce them, because I never cared about them. Rivers, I already care too much for.

"Why does your mom allow Thomas to treat you the way he does?"

He squints at the sun, his body unconsciously tensing. "She can't exactly make him stop."

"But she could say something. She could...leave."

He shakes his head. "She did once. He cried and begged her to come back. She went back. I think they love each other, in some way. He isn't a bad person, he just...isn't the greatest either."

The wind is cool and the sun occasionally peeks out from behind gray and white swirled clouds. It's always windier in Prairie du Chien than it is in surrounding towns. I'm assuming it's because it is at a higher elevation plus the river is nearby, but I do not know that for a fact. I was book smart in school, but that is because I worked my butt off. My academic glory didn't come naturally to me. I had to work for it. Some people have brains that just seem to
know
stuff. Mine isn't one of them.

"Sometimes I think it's a jealousy thing. Like, I remind him of his cousin, the man my mom first loved, still loves, and would be with if he hadn't died, the man who is my real father. He's the replacement. Maybe he realizes it. In me he sees what he can never be." He shrugs.

"That's terrible to put that blame on you."

Half of his mouth quirks in a sardonic semblance of a smile. "Is blame ever logical?"

Traffic is heavy as we cross the highway, my feet unconsciously taking me to St. Feriole Island and the Mississippi river. I don't realize where we're at until Rivers mentions it.

“I don't want to go there.”

I blink, lost in the floral beauty around us. There are flower beds along the sidewalk, alive in the hues of red, yellow, pink, and orange. It makes me think of sunsets and fire. “Where?”

He nods toward the vastness of the moving waters farther down the path.

The Mississippi is still far off in the distance from where we stand, but I don't think that little tidbit matters too much to Rivers right now. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”

“Might as well see if the Villa Louis really is haunted.”

The silence is heavy between us as we make our way toward the historical building that was once a house and is now used for reminiscent tours of years long passed. In 1843, Hercules L. Dousman—a wealthy man well-known as a fur trader, lumberman, and land sculptor—built a Greek Revival style brick home directly on an Indian mound. Apparently he wasn't worried about cursed land.

He was the first millionaire in Wisconsin. After his death, his son, Louis, tore down the House on the Mound, as it was called, and built what currently is known as the Villa Louis estate; a large Victorian Italianate-styled structure. The building is now a museum, open for scheduled tours, and holds the title of being the first state-operated historic site. It's reputed to be haunted, but then, most old structures are. There is an ambivalence to them that is old and heavy with years gone by.

The building is a sprawling mansion of window upon window, pillars and multiple levels; surrounded by colorful flowers and greenery. As I look at it, I am struggling to aptly describe what I am seeing and feeling. Just standing near it fills me with nostalgia. It seems like I am trespassing upon history. It is eerie, almost surreal, like we have stepped into the past and are not exactly allowed. We walk along the outskirts of the lawn, neither of us anxious to get too close to the beautiful, untouchable house.

“Thomas was driving the boat.”

I keep my face forward and my pace even, waiting. What he is about to tell me is big, and I don't want to screw it up by talking and having him clam up in return.

He draws in a lungful of air before continuing. “It was the twenty-seventh of April, but we'd been having warmer weather and wanted to take advantage of it. Of course, on that day the weather was a little cooler, but the sun was shining, so we still went.  It was Thomas and me and a friend of mine—Dustin Richter.”

Rivers seems to struggle for words, his lips pressing together. He finally looks at me, his expression sad and tormented. His voice is ragged as he says, “I don't know what happened. I got up to get a drink out of a cooler and I swear he chose that moment to jerk the wheel and aim us right at the waves. The river was already choppy and we hit hard. I lost my balance from him turning the wheel so sharply and when we hit the first wave, I fell into the water. I didn't even have time to react before I was already sucked under. And then...then I remember fighting to breathe...and the pain. I blacked out, woke up in the hospital. It was crazy. People were shouting and I didn't fully know what was going on. The pain was excruciating and I felt like I was in this fog...”