Unlit Star (7 page)

“Yeah?” I step back and put my hands on my hips. “Be my guest.”

Something happens to me as the seconds tick by, turning into minutes as I watch him try again and again to maneuver his body into a standing position. He struggles to get up, but every time either his hand slips or his legs won't cooperate or he loses his balance. Over and over it goes. It isn't pity I feel, although I know he wouldn't want me feeling
anything
toward him—it's more like respect. He isn't getting anywhere. Sweat lines his face and he's panting, but he
won't give up
. I wonder how long he'll do this before admitting defeat. I almost think he won't give up until he is on his feet. Then I notice the trickle of blood starting to run down his forehead and I know it's time to end this. He can prove he isn't helpless another day.

I move for him, stating, “You're bleeding.”

“I don't need your help!”

“And I don't need your shit!” He blinks at the heat in my voice. I sit back on my heels and take a ragged breath. “Look, it's obvious you're struggling to get up, and your head is bleeding. You might have reopened a wound. Just let me help you up and look at your head, and then I'll leave you alone again, all right?”

“Fine,” he grinds out.

I put my hands under his armpits and haul him up with difficulty, his hands reaching for the wall behind him to help get him to his feet. He's heavy, especially when most of his weight is leaning on me. It is awkward and takes a prolonged amount of attempts, but between the two of us, we finally get him standing.

“Did you hit your head when you fell?” When he doesn't answer, I pull back to glare at him.

“I don't know. I guess,” he mumbles.

"How did you fall?"

"Moved too fast, leg spasmed."

He's against the wall, one hand on the top of the toilet, the other on my shoulder. Tired, we momentarily rest this way with my head lowered between us. My muscles are shaking from effort and a sheen of perspiration covers my skin. I wonder if this is going to turn into a routine thing—me, rescuing him. The longer we stand this way, the more I begin to notice things. He smells like sunshine and vanilla, which is sort of different for a guy to smell like, but I like it on him. It reminds me of a beach—sunscreen, the sun, waves. His skin warms my hands where they touch him and I can hear his heart pounding near my ear. When I realize I'm staring at his defined abdomen, I jerk my head up and clip his chin. He curses.

“I'm sorry!” I cry, feeling bad for further injuring him.

“You can let go of me now.” Annoyance forms crinkles in the corners of his eyes. I wonder if creases ever form there anymore from smiling.

I drop my hands and move back. “What were you trying to do?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

My back bristles. “What? That you're rude and belligerent? Yep. That's pretty obvious.” I cross my arms.

“I was trying to take a bath.”

“Do you normally do that on your own?”

“Take a bath? Yeah. I usually manage that on my own. Are you offering to join me?”

I press my lips together as heat whooshes through me. “I
meant
get it ready on your own. You know, I think I liked it better when you
didn't
talk to me.”

“I aim to please.”

“Next time you fall, don't call for me,” I declare, stomping out of the room.

“I didn't call for you
this
time!” he hollers after me.

“Maybe you should have!”

Grumbling to myself as I finish making the upstairs squeaky clean, it occurs to me that I am seriously irritated. That doesn't happen very often. I take slow, deep breaths as I work, finding my happy place once again as I focus on the sun streaming through the windows, the calming colors of gray, cream, white, and pale yellow that make up the upstairs decor, and the lingering scent of lavender. It takes a while, but my heartbeat returns to normal and the glaze of anger melts away.

When I get back downstairs, it's after one o'clock in the afternoon and my stomach is growling for food. On my way to the kitchen, I realize I forgot to check his head injury. How could I have let that slip my mind? I blame his belligerent behavior for my brain malfunction and yet, that doesn't relieve the guilt I feel. I'm supposed to be looking out for him and he's already injured himself within hours of my presence. Maybe Monica will fire me.

Shoulders slumping, I backtrack to his bedroom. The door is closed and low music sounds from within. I knock on the door and the volume of the music escalates. Glaring at the door, I contemplate whether or not I recall ever meeting such a childish person. I don't think so. I check the doorknob and when it turns I shove the door open. Rivers is lying on the top of his made bed—the bed
I
made—with his hands behind his head and his eyes on the ceiling.

Without looking at me, he mutes the music with a remote control long enough to say, “Go away.”

I note the closed curtains and stomp over to them, grabbing an end in each hand and throwing my arms open wide. Sunlight filters into the room and lands directly on him—light and darkness colliding to form a beautiful monster. 

“Close the curtains.”

His tone is extremely arrogant and I want to punch him. Instead I put a hand to my ear and look at him with my eyebrows raised. “What? Can't hear you above the music. Too loud.” I shrug.

His jaw bunches as he sits up. He turns the music off. “Close the curtains.”

“Get up and close them yourself.”

"Isn't that part of your
job
?"

"To be your slave? No. I don't think so." Although, technically, has it ever really been discussed? Either way, he doesn't need to know.

“I didn't realize you were such a pain in the ass in school.”

The fact that he even knows we went to school together stumps me for a second. I figured I was one in a mass of insignificant people not noteworthy enough to matter to him. “That's the difference between you and me—I
did
realize you were.” 

He clamps his lips together.

“Silent treatment time again? I'm cool with that. It'll make checking your head easier without you being a loudmouthed brat the whole time.” I walk toward the bed, watching him stiffen as I get closer. “Did you take a bath then?” I don't wait for him to not answer me, continuing with, “You must have. You don't stink anymore.” Not that he ever did. I can tell he bathed, though, because his hair isn't sticking up everywhere like it was this morning and the vanilla sunshine scent is intensified.

Surprisingly enough, he doesn't pull away or complain when I hover over him. I pause, staring down at his lowered head. Maybe he is finally resigned to me. Good. It'll make life easier for the next few days if he just accepts the situation. Once again, I am aware of the closeness of my body to his face, and my pulse picks up because of it. I gently touch the gash on the top of his head, his hair thick and soft against my fingers. The wound is scabbed over with freshly dried blood evident only in a small area of it.

Without thinking about what I am doing, I brush my fingers across the silken locks of short black hair, an unconscious part of me wanting to comfort him like I would anyone hurting. He is torn into a million different parts; none of them resembling who he used to be, and I do understand that, even if he is a pretty unlikable person. I've been lost before. I've lost myself, I've lost those I love. I think we all have. Tingles start at my fingertips and move up my arm as time freezes and spins by at the same time. I glance down and notice how still he is—only his chest moves in time to his breathing.

Snatching my hand away, I hurry to put space between us. I refuse to look in his direction because I don't want to know the expression on his face. “It, uh, it looks fine. Are you hungry? I'm going to make food. I'll be...in the kitchen.”

I turn my mind toward filling my stomach with something, because that is something I
do
understand, and grab random things out of the fridge. I take in my stash—an onion, deli sliced turkey, garlic and herb-flavored wraps, spinach, and cranberries. One thing is missing. I open the freezer and search in vain.

I am about to give up hope when a voice says from behind, “She puts it behind a wall of frozen vegetables. She figures if she doesn't see it all the time, she'll be less likely to eat it.”

Without glancing over my shoulder, I ask, “Does it work?”

“Not really.”

I demolish the barricade made out of bags of frozen vegetables, uncovering a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I swear I hear the heavens rejoicing. Mint chocolate chip wouldn't be my first choice, but I'll take what I can get. I pull it out, the container cold and covered in a layer of frost, and set it on the counter. Finally looking up, I meet Rivers' gaze. It isn't exactly unfriendly, but it isn't open either—it's more of a guarded, wary look. He's lingering by the doorway like he isn't sure if he's welcome in his own kitchen.

I look down, finding it hard to swallow. “Want some?”

I make a sound of exasperation when he doesn't say anything and go about making us each a wrap.

His gait is methodical as he makes his way over, getting bowls, spoons, and an ice cream scoop out. The time it takes him to do this is drawn out to the point of being difficult to watch. I have two wraps made and two glasses of lemon iced tea ready by the time he procures the ice cream necessities. When that is done, he leans against the counter with his hands clenching it, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered.

I turn away, it is paining my heart to witness him struggling to make the broken pieces of his body work as a whole. “Why don't you sit down and eat?” I suggest, focusing on keeping my voice even.

“I'm...fine,” he answers slowly.

“You look it,” I say with a nod.

A scowl is his response, but it's better than nothing.

I don't really want to torture him further, but the thought of the two of us sitting on bar stools side by side is a little too farfetched, so I take the plates and glasses over to the table near the sliding glass doors. I scoop ice cream into the melon-colored bowls as I wait for him to make his way to the table, careful to keep my eyes down so he doesn't think I'm staring if he happens to look my way. When he is seated, I head over, sitting across from him.

The silence is awkward as we eat, neither of us looking at each other for long. I search my mind for conversation topics, deciding on the future. It's either that or the weather and that seems a little too overused. Everyone talks about the weather when there is nothing else easily thought of to talk about. I do it all the time when I'm at the shop and customers approach me. It's safe, non-invasive.

“Are you going to college in the fall?” It hits me that this was a poorly chosen question at the same time his shoulders tense. Should have went with the weather.

“No.”

It's my turn to not reply for once, swirling my melting ice cream around with my spoon. I know why he isn't going, though his reasons are illogical to me. Just because he can't go to college on a football scholarship doesn't mean he shouldn't go at all. He could use his brain or something to get through it. He's smart. Even if the plaques in his room weren't evidence of that, I remember from school.

“I didn't graduate, not that I would have been able to use my football scholarship even if I had. I suppose I'll have to use my good looks to get by in life now,” he says, sarcasm lacing his words.

“You didn't get your diploma?”

“I was in the hospital or at the doctor most of the last month and a half of school.”

I frown. “Why aren't you in summer school then or working on getting your GED?”

He drops his spoon, it clattering against the side of the bowl. “What's the point?”

Anger builds inside my core. “Meaning?”

Leaning back in his chair, he replies, “Meaning I'm deformed. I can barely walk. I'm ugly to look at. What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Sit at some desk job and talk to people over a phone?”

I jump to my feet and begin to clean off the table.

“I'm not done,” he tells me.

“I think you need to go practice up for your future career as a nobody. Go sit in your room and hold a phone in your hand or something.”

I take his bowl and plate away, dumping the food and tossing the dishes into the sink hard enough to cause a burst of noise, but not break anything. I put the stopper in the sink and begin to fill it with hot, soapy water that smells like synthetic lemons. I count to thirty before I turn around, not surprised to see his back as he makes his way out of the room.
Probably going back to his bedroom so he can mope some more and feel bad about his poor, pathetic, worthless life.

I grab a dishrag and take my frustration out on the dishes. “Deformed,” I scoff. “Ugly.
Stupid
. He acts like his whole life is over just because he has a few scars and a limp.” I toss the rag into the water and suds fly up to coat my face. I absently wipe them away with my arm, staring out the window at the fence and yellow house beyond it. It seems far away, a different world from where I stand. “Fine. Whatever. That's his prerogative, I guess. It's none of my business.” I talk myself into a better mood and finish the dishes with less animosity.