Chasing Peace (18 page)

I press the doorbell and then knock on the door, shuffling
my feet and hoping his parents don’t answer.

No such luck. “Hello Mr. Lambert. Is Logan around?”

“Sterling. We haven’t seen you in such a long time.” He
pushes open the storm door. “Come in. Come in.”

I step inside, biting my lip so the apology doesn’t tumble out
of my mouth.

“Logan,” he hollers up the stairs, “Sterling’s here to see
you. We’ll be in the family room.” Mr. Lambert turns toward me and waves his hand
in invitation. “Come on back. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No thank you. I’m fine.”

“It’s too bad Janine isn’t here. She’ll be sorry she missed
you.”

“Please, tell her I said, ‘Hi.’” I hear Logan’s footsteps in
his room above me.

“I will. Sit. Sit.” He gestures to the sofa while lowering
himself into his chair. It feels like I’ve gone back in time, being here. “How
are you Sterling? I heard about your sister. Are you all right? How’s your
mother? It’s such a tragedy.” His face is more a mask of polite inquiry rather
than an expression of true concern.

The muscles on either side of my jaw tense as I bite back
words that are desperate to come out.

The truth is making a ruckus, pounding at the back of my
mouth, just waiting for a chance like this to break free. I take control of
myself, clenching my laced fingers together where they rest on my knees as I
respond with a tight voice. “It’s getting easier over time and I’m adjusting to
the new normal.” I hesitate, taking a shaky breath. “Going to college has
helped me focus on something new. It keeps my mind busy.” My answer is
practiced, the kind of answer people expect to hear in polite company. It’s not
the answer I want to give, but I’ve learned people are nice. They ask, but they
don’t really want to hear the answer.

“Logan mentioned you’re going to Central. Good for you.” He
smiles like a proud father and then he frowns. “Janine and I would appreciate
it if you could talk some sense into that son of ours. He’s given up his
football scholarship and dropped out. We thought he might be involved with
drugs, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. It’s as if something happened and
he won’t talk about it.”

“Give him time,” I say, marveling at the irony that the
tragedy he doesn’t really want to hear about is the same problem he’s trying to
understand in his son, if he only knew. I hope Logan will tell his parents the
truth someday.

I can hear Logan’s feet, thumping on the stairs, coming fast
as if skipping steps. Mr. Lambert rises from his chair as Logan walks into the
room. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

Logan’s eyes move sideways with suspicion first eyeing up
his father and then me. He looks worried that I’ve let slip the truth.

As soon as Mr. Lambert leaves, I reassure him. “I haven’t
said anything.”

“We can’t talk here. Come on.” Logan led me back toward the
kitchen. I follow past the family dining table. It’s all connected and wide
open, so no privacy here. Veering left at the table, Logan heads to the patio
doors. The deck is cold but the bright sun makes up for it.

“Why are you here?” he hisses, enunciating every word.

“You know why I’m here.”

“You better not tell them. This is difficult enough, without
their judgment.” His face is red, his lips pale with anger.

“I’m not planning to tell them anything, although I think
you should.” We’re alone, away from his parents, yet still I whisper.

“Hell no!”

“They care about you Logan and they’re worried.”

“Well I’m not saying anything.”

“Fine, it’s none of my business now anyway.”

“Right, so what the hell are you doing at my house?”

“You know why I’m here and I want you to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“C’mon Logan, I know you’re harassing me and you need to
stop. Besides, it’s not working anymore.” It’s a small lie after my reaction to
the open door. I watch the color on his face fading, cooling back to normal as
mine heats in irritation at his denial.

“I’m not doing anything but trying to get through this
myself.” He’s angry at my accusation, at the injustice. I see it now. He’s
changed over the years, but one thing that hasn’t changed is Logan’s contempt
for injustice. He’s quick to stand up for the little guy. He stuck up for kids
who were bullied in school. He served as big brother to two or three others.

“You’re not doing it.” I shake my head, my cheeks going
pale, my eyes losing focus as I contemplate what this means.

“It’s him isn’t it?”

“Could be.” I struggle to remember when the district
attorney tracked me down on campus, my eyes turning up as I visually sift through
the memories trying to organize by date. Running my fingers through my hair, I
sigh in frustration, disgusted by myself for not putting this together sooner. “He’s
out on bail,” I say, my voice quiet, resigned to the truth of it. “The
harassment started a couple days before the DA told me he got out.”

“Not exactly on the ball are they?”

“I’d been ducking their calls,” I admitted, not wanting
Annie’s friend Rand to take unnecessary blame.

“What are you going to do? He could be dangerous.”

“I’ll let the DA know what’s happened. I have a restraining
order, but it looks like Brock isn’t taking it seriously.”

“I can’t believe they let him out. You be careful Sterling.”

The sliding door is heavy as I yank it open. The house feels
unusually warm after the cold wind on the deck. I hear Logan closing the door behind
us, but I keep going, heading toward the hall that takes me to the front door.
Then it occurs to me. I stop, turning toward him to speak. “You should come.”

“Now? With you?”

“No. You should come to the trial. She’s your daughter.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I never met her.” He
dropped his head, hunching his shoulders over arms folded across his chest,
shame riding heavy in his posture. “I don’t understand why I didn’t want to.”

I pull my wallet from my bag, digging out a photo. “Here.” I
held it out, but he didn’t take it right away. “I want you to have this.”

His arm stretched out, taking the photo, not sure he wanted
it. His chin tipped down as he studied it. “She has my hair.”

“Yeah.” My smile is tremulous. “Come to the trial. Testimony
starts a week from Tuesday. We can ride together.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I nod, nothing left to say. I let myself out the door. When
I turn back to pull the door shut behind me, I see Logan still studying the
photo cradled in the palm of his hand, big fingers curled around it as if
protecting her.

* * *

“Go ask him.”

I’d made a terrible mistake and I can’t fix it. Annie is
supportive and encouraging, but she doesn’t understand. Oh sure, she tries. We
commiserate while lounging on her bed, me huddled under a blanket. We’d been
studying, or should I say she’d been studying while I daydreamed.

“You don’t understand.” I’m whiny and petulant. “I can’t go
back.”

“I’m not telling you to go back. Go forward. Try again.”

“He warned me. No second chances. That’s his only rule. He
had to think about himself and he’s not waiting for me.”

“There’s someone else?”

“No, I don’t think so. He doesn’t want me anymore.”

“Sterling.” Annie bowed her head, swaying it back and forth
as if in despair. “You’ve made a fine mess of this.” She sounds like a mother
or maybe like Lyla.

“I’m just trying to protect myself.” Moisture gathers on my
lashes.
I will not cry again. I will not cry again. I will not cry again.
My mind chants as if saying so would make it so. I’m sinking into myself, my
shoulders slumped, my head bowed. I’m falling into that cold place inside of me,
the place where I can survive, the place that isolates me from my surroundings,
from the people around me. The cold numbs my nerve endings, allowing me to go
on, to exist. I’d been here before when Emma died and now that I’ve sent Boston
away, its my destiny, the only place I can protect myself from the heat of
others.

“You’ll have to ask him.”

I don’t respond. The cold that surrounds me keeps her voice
far away.

“Sterling!”

“Hmm?” I lift my head, my frosty cloak in place separating
me from my surroundings. Moving outside of me, sharing myself can be dangerous
and I’ve learned my lesson.

“You have to ask him.”

“Ask him what?” I’m really missing something here.

“Ask him why he’s named Boston.”

“Oh, I already know. That’s where he was conceived.”

“That’s not all of it. Ask him why his parents named him
after the city. Everyone is conceived somewhere, but very few are named after
the city unless there’s a reason. Ask him.”

“What difference does it make? We’re through. There’s no
going back.”

“This isn’t about you anymore. It’s about him. Go ask him.”

“If it’s so all-fired important, why don’t you just tell me?
Obviously you know something.”

“Of course I know.”

“So tell me.”

“It’s not my story to tell. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Fine, I’ll ask him,” I snap and she stops pestering me.

I’m not going to ask. My icy cloak is in place. I can face
the world again, protected. I’m not coming out and I sure as hell am not
letting anyone else in, especially not Boston.

* * *

We’d discussed want versus need in philosophy. For some
reason the lesson comes back to me now as I wonder if I want Boston or if I
need him.

I walk down the hall to his room. I move slowly, not strong
enough to do any more than wander. That’s not true. I’m procrastinating. The
hallway is long with what looks like hundreds of identical doors. Oh, there
aren’t that many and they’re not so identical. Many have posters and signs and,
of course, they all have different numbers, but my tunnel vision extends the
length of the hallway as if it might go on forever.

Of course it doesn’t. All too soon I’m outside his door and
I just stand there. I can’t bring myself to raise my hand and knock. The longer
I stand, the more I hear, doors slamming, muted voices, laughter, music,
thumping like someone is jumping or pounding. There are other sounds too that I
can’t identify, but Boston’s room is quiet.

I can walk away without knocking and pretend that he isn’t
there, although I can’t really be sure unless I knock. I raise my hand, fingers
curled in, knuckles facing forward. I don’t knock. I can’t.

The door behind me opens, just as lower my hand, giving up,
because it’s easier than stepping outside of my frigid wrap. I hear them
coming, but I can’t see. They aren’t watching either because they crash right
into me as they tumble into the hall.

“Sorry.” One says as he continues down the hall while the
other closes the door.

Now it’s too late to leave. Their jostling had knocked me
forward into Boston’s door, my lowering hand and my forehead both knocking
against the wood.

“Yeah.”

That’s all he says. Maybe I can still get away. I pull
myself from the door and turn to follow the guys from across the hall just as
Boston whips his door open. “What? Oh.”

I don’t look up; afraid his eyes will see all that I hope
for, all that I want. I’m not going to let him reject me before I have a chance
so I don’t look up and that turns out to be a mistake too.

He’s wearing jeans, kind of. They’re on, but not buttoned or
zipped. The belt, threaded through the loops, hangs open framing black boxer
briefs. The weight of the buckle pulls his jeans low. I can see hip bones
cradling an inverted triangle of muscle. It points south and disappears into
his underwear, drawing my eye along with it. He doesn’t have a shirt and his
muscles are even more defined than usual.

“Ohh,” I breathe, realizing why. He’s always been lean, but
today he’s thinner than usual. My eyes float upward. He’s much thinner, his
collarbone sharp, his cheeks hollow, eyes soft and dark and a little sunken. “Are
you sick?”

“No,” he snaps, the muscles on the sides of his jaw
bunching, two or three days growth shadows his jaw. “Whaddya want Sterling?”

He regains his composure, bracing an arm against the door,
over his head, fingers curling over the top of the door.
Man he’s gorgeous
.
Even thinner than usual, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bulge. His abs
ripple as he crosses one foot over the other. He’s barefoot, his sagging jeans
bunching at the ankles.

I clear my throat. “I ... I need to ask you a question.”

“No. I don’t give second chances. I warned you.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“It’s personal. Can I come inside?” I’d gone from planning
to run to asking myself in. Seeing Boston and the toll our breakup had carved
from him tears at me. How selfish to think only of myself without considering
what I might be doing to him.

In this moment, I understand that it’s not about whether I
love him or not. It’s about my fear, not fear of love, but of love dying. Of
course I’ll hurt him or he’ll hurt me or both. It’s inevitable. Love will end.
If there’s one thing that life’s taught me it’s that love never lasts. It’ll
fade, be snatched away, burn out, or die. The beauty is in the time we have
together, not the end looming before us. I realize that now.

We stand, face to face, me wanting back in, him blocking my
way. I make a decision. I’ll hold tight and fight with every bit of daring and
determination I have. I’ll luxuriate in the here and now, doing everything I
can to enjoy it, appreciate it and preserve it.

Boston steps aside. He smells different. The warmth of him
is still there, but overpowered by a funky, haven’t-showered kind of stink.

Closing the door behind me, Boston sits on his bed. I stand
in the middle of the room. There are desks on either side of the window. Beds
come next followed by closets with plastic accordion doors, both in disrepair.
It’s just like Annie’s, but she doesn’t have a roommate, giving her more room.