Chasing Peace (19 page)

Boston’s bed is rumpled while his desk is neat, his laptop
closed. He’s obviously been in bed in the middle of the day. I don’t see an
iPod, his laptop is out of reach, and there aren’t any books or notes around.

“Did I wake you?” I hope he’d been sleeping instead of brooding.

“No.”

“Oh.” I pull the chair from his desk into the middle of the
room and sit. I dive right in before losing my courage. Somehow I know he needs
something from me and I’m determined not to let him down again. “Why did your
parents name you Boston?”

His head snaps up, his soft eyes going sharp, probing and
assessing. “I already told you. I was conceived in Boston.”

“I know that, but why?

“Annie told you.” His eyes slip away from mine, a grim,
militant look appearing around his mouth like he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Did they find themselves unexpectedly pregnant after a
romantic getaway? Did they go on vacation to get pregnant?

My questions are hopeful, but I don’t expect they’re right.
I can feel pain in his name. It radiates from him as I ask my hopeless
questions.

“Boston?” I probe. He finally meets my eyes. I lean in, my
heart aching, not for myself, but for the distress that shadows his eyes.

When he finally starts talking his voice is low and rough as
if from disuse. His gaze slides away. “My parents were older. You know my
brother was fifteen when I was born.” It might have been a question, but it
wasn’t.

“Mmm Hmm. A surprise?”

“They tried several times here, but didn’t get pregnant. My
mom was too old. The doctor recommended egg donation, but they couldn’t do that
so they went to Boston.”

He talks about something I don’t quite understand, my
eyebrows drawing together in a frown, but I don’t interrupt.

“A clinic in Boston had some good luck with pregnancy in
older women. Their protocol produced a much larger number of viable eggs,
increasing the potential for success.”

“Is it just me or does it seem incredibly selfish to demand
a biological child?”

“They weren’t being selfish,” he says, his head hanging, his
voice even lower.

“Sounds selfish to me, but I’m not complaining. They went to
Boston and now you’re here.”

“Right,” he says lifting his head as if realizing something
for the first time. “They were selfish.” He met my eyes, his stormy and dark
and angry with clarity. “They would have sold their second born, if only to
save their first.”

It settled over me like the dawn. Starting slowly and then
bursting into glory so bright and fierce that I’m surprised I never saw the
dawn through the darkness before.

“Oh my God! They needed you? For Cody?” I posed it as a
question, but I didn’t need an answer. At least I didn’t need him to vocalize
his response. I could see it in the dejection weighing him down, the anger and
misery of a little boy who was so very important and at the same time not very
important at all.

My heart broke for Boston, precious for what he had to
offer, rather than for who he is. Tears flood over my eyelashes, trailing down
my cheeks for the baby who was vital and the person so much an after thought. “They
forgot to choose a name?”

Boston’s chin sagged to his chest, his dark curls falling in
disarray over his eyes, his hands limp in his lap. He needed someone to want
him, to love him for the person he is, not what he has to offer. I do, but I’d
told him I don’t and I’d sent him away.

“I am so sorry,” I say going to him, climbing onto his lap,
straddling him. He pulls his hands away, holding his arms out to his sides. His
head swivels back and forth, trying to tell me no, but he doesn’t speak and he
doesn’t push me away. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close. I hold on
tight, my cheek resting atop his head, my tears falling into his hair.

Finally he groans and settles his face into me, giving up
and giving in. His face nestles where my neck meets my shoulder. I can feel the
wet of silent tears as his arms wrap around me, loosely at first and growing
stronger as if he gains strength from me.

We doze off holding each other, sharing our misery and
taking comfort in one another. I don’t know how long we slept, but the dark
arrived before I awoke.

Boston stirred when I moved. He stretched as I climbed off
his lap, protesting muscles objecting to movement, objecting to having not
moved.

“This changes nothing you know.” He’s sitting at the edge of
the bed, his bowed head in his hands.

“I know.” I’m standing, hanging on to upright with
determination like dangling over a cliff by my fingernails. I’d hoped, but I
understand now that I made the worst possible mistake. “Why did you follow me
for so long?”

He chuckled, a cold hollow sound. “I had hope.”

“But then you stopped?”

“You told me to stop.”

“When did I do that? We haven’t talked.”

“The night you were lit up at the party.”

“I don’t remember the conversation. What did I say?”

“You told me you didn’t want to.”

“What makes you think I told you the truth?”

“You were too drunk to lie. All kinds of truths tumbled out
of your mouth.”

“Maybe I was protecting myself.”

He drops his gaze from mine, staring at his feet. Fingers
threaded in his hair tugged before sliding to the back of his neck on a sigh of
frustration. Disappointment in his eyes holds me frozen in place, forcing me to
listen. “I found you in the attic half dressed. I’m pretty sure you weren’t
protecting anything. Will you go now?”

* * *

“I am not gonna chase him or badger him.”

“So how’s that working for you?” Lyla asked. I’m at work and
she’s trying to give me a nudge in Boston’s direction. She means well, but she
just doesn’t get it.

“I hurt him, so I’m giving him some space.” Lyla snorts at
my response and then examines the glass she’d just polished as if she might
have got some on it. “The last thing I want is for him to hate me.”

“Oh quit being such a wuss.” Her gruff voice makes me
nervous and I set the glass in my hand on the bar so I won’t drop it. “Life is
too short. You have to go after what you want.”

“But I don’t want to scare him away,” I say as a little
voice in the back of my mind suggests that maybe I’m afraid I’ll make a mistake
and lose him forever.

“Yeah, well you don’t have him now. That’s the same as
scaring him away.” She raises an eyebrow in my direction, daring me to deny it.
“You’ve got nothing to lose except time, so go do it.”

“There’s so much I don’t know about him, challenges he’s
faced that I don’t understand. Besides, life doesn’t magically fall into place
just because I want it to.

“C’mon Sterl ing.”

“What? I’m not being difficult Lyla. It’s true. He believes
he’s unwanted and what do I do? I tell him I don’t want him. That’s it. There
are no second chances. I’ve tried and if you think you can do any better, well…”

“I think a lot of things.”

“You think I came here for advice?”

“Sterling you have a lot of options. You have your whole
life ahead of you and you’re acting like the world’s backing you into a corner,
but it’s not. You’re just backing away.” She looks away and sighs. When she
looks back, she brushes her signature curtain of hair away from her eyes,
pinning me with her gaze. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well life is about figuring out what you want and then
going out there and getting it, but you have to figure out what you want first.”

“I don’t know,” I practically shout in a loud whisper. “Wait,
I do know. I’d like to have Emma back. I’d like a mother who isn’t a drunk. I’d
like to say no to Logan and to Brock. I’d like to have a father. Hell. I’d like
to win the lottery too.”

“Oh sweetie. You have to figure out what you want for the
future. Does it include Boston or doesn’t it? Don’t waste your time on changing
the past or what you think you should do. Decide what you want and go get it.”

“I guess it’s the lottery then.” I used to think she had all
the answers. I’m not so easily impressed anymore.

“Boston needs a drink. Why don’t you take it over?”

“What?” I didn’t hear her through the hum of the crowded
bar, or maybe the hum of my own thoughts.

“I think it’s time you brought him that drink and that you
do something more than mooning around here missing him.”

I pick up the glass and head toward the piano without
another word. His music has an edge to it as if trying to keep me away, but I’m
not swayed. I can understand his anger.

* * *

I worried that after leaving him last night he might not
show, but he’s here, looking stronger than ever.

My heart aches for the lost little boy he’d been and the
lonely man he’d become. I saw it, never realizing the heartache Boston radiated
or the defenses he’d erected to protect himself.

I’m not surprised that his parents would have a second child
to help the first. I would do anything to give Emma a chance at life. She may
be my sister, but I cared for her as I would my own. I guess what bothers me
most is that his parents either never noticed or didn’t care that Boston felt
needed, but never really wanted. If they love him, he doesn’t know it. They
were so worried about their first son; they completely justified all they did
to their second. It sounds like they still don’t realize the impact of their
words, and the consequences of their actions.

Boston doesn’t see me coming and only looks my way as I
arrive at the piano. Light flares in his eyes when he spots me. He masks it
fast, but I saw it. The nerves in my stomach relax, melting fingers uncoiling
and radiating through me.

I lean across him to put the glass on a coaster at the other
side. I want to taunt him, but Boston has other plans. Foiling the teasing I’d
had in mind, he pulls one hand from the keys, continuing to play with the other
as he reaches for the glass.

We touch when he takes it, in a purely accidental slide of
fingertips against fingers. I almost jerk away as electricity zings through my
hand, but I remain motionless luxuriating in the sensation, the jolt to my
heart, then hope for something more.

I’m not the only one who feels it. Boston missed a note as
he pulled the glass away from me.

Thrilling at the effect I still have on him, I smile,
feeling smug as he scrambles to get his fingers back on the keys.

“We need to talk.” Now even more confident and secure that
his interest in me isn’t waning, I make it a statement instead of a question.

“I’m not sure we do.” He objects with a tight voice and
tension holding his back and shoulders rigid.

“We do, but not here. Can I give you a ride home?”

The tension melts away. He relaxes as his fingers dance
comfortably on the piano keys again.

“Sure. We’ll talk then.”

I beam at him, a bright open smile because he’s giving me a
chance. I might have been wary, but I walk away certain that our relationship
will be repaired shortly.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Lyla says as I arrive back
at the bar.

“I guess I am. We’re gonna talk after work when I give him a
ride home.”

“Good for you.”

I finish my shift, my mind going over and over what I want
to say. I clean up after close in record time, grabbing my bag and glancing
around the lounge for Boston. Digging for my keys, I head to the door thinking
he’s waiting outside as he did every night for several weeks while keeping an
eye on me.

He’s not outside waiting. “What the hell?” I mumble turning
to go back, thinking I’d missed him. I didn’t. As I turn, I see a bus stopping
at the end of the block and Boston getting on. He’s ditched me.

Whipping out my phone, I tap out a text in record time. “Coward,”
I say. I don’t expect him to answer. He hasn’t answered my texts in weeks, but
I hope he reads it.

After sending, I have regrets. Insulting him, without
hearing his side of the story isn’t the best way to get him back. Turning
toward my car, I hope the text isn’t a fatal mistake.

I make it to my car in a daze, still second guessing having
sent that text. Unlocking the door and climbing in are a chore. It’s late and I’m
tired. I wasn’t tired when we planned to talk tonight, but I am drained and
disillusioned now that he’s ditched me.

Every bit of energy has been sucked from my body. I slouch
in my seat. Why doesn’t anyone want me? My anger dissolves into hurt as I bang
my forehead against the steering wheel. I want to cry. I want to wallow in my
misery, but the tears don’t come. I did this.

He’s always been such a nice guy. Pulling myself together, I
turn the key and shift into gear.

Driving away from the curb, I wonder if this is a defense
mechanism. Maybe it is. Hope rises like a helium balloon. He gets a reprieve by
agreeing to talk later, and then later never comes.

Stopping at a flashing red light, I pull out my phone. “Sorry.
That was mean. I’ll give you some space.” After punching in the last letter, I
think about work tomorrow. I’ll see him and want to talk.

I punch send. “I guess I’ll have to leave him alone,” I
whisper, dropping my forehead back to the steering wheel and squeezing my eyes
shut while the red light flashes.

* * *

“I thought you two had worked this out.”

“I’m sorry Lyla. I gave it a shot and it didn’t work out.”

“So that’s it? You just throw up your hands in defeat? You
guys could have a great life together. You’re going to look back on this and
regret that you didn’t try harder.” She shook her head in irritation before
turning away, turning her back on me.

Anger flares. Lyla has always been on my side. She’d was
there when my mother went off on a drinking binge or ended up in jail and now
she’s turning her back on me? “You’re getting way ahead of yourself Lyla. I’m
not ready to build my life around a guy I barely know. That’s crazy.”

“You didn’t pick him up in a bar last week Sterling. You’ve
known each other for a couple months. You’ve grown close. What’s the problem?”

I don’t have an answer. I fling myself around the end of the
bar and hurry for some privacy. Halfway down the hall to the alley, I stop and
lean my head back against the painted cinder block wall. “Oh God Lyla. Don’t
you think I’ve tried?” I groan into the empty hallway.

My knees give way and I sink to the floor, my back sliding
along the wall until I’m huddled on the ground, my face buried in my knees.

“Sterling? Are you okay?”

I gulp, frantic for composure. “I’m fine.” My words sound
hollow, but I pray that he’ll take them at face value.

“Let me help you up.”

I look up from under my brows, my chin still buried by my
knees. His hand wavers before my face. I don’t take it.

He drops his hand back to his side. “I saw you run away. Are
you okay?”

“I thought I’d try something different this time.”

“Huh?”

“I always stay. I always deal with the aftermath, pick up
the pieces. Does that sound cliché?”

“No. Well maybe, but no.”

“This time I thought I’d try something different. I’d try
running.”

“Did it work?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Now I have to go back, make amends, apologize to Lyla.”
I looked up again, resting my head back against the wall, no longer hiding,
maybe a little defiant. “Apologize to you.”

“Huh.”

“You should try it sometime.”

“Apologizing?”

“No, staying.”

“Staying?” He looks perplexed. I guess I’m not making sense.

“You’re always running and it never gets you anywhere. Maybe
you should try staying.”

Confusion hovers over his face like a mask. I push to my feet
to go back to work not sure if he understands anything I’ve said. I’m not sure
I understand.

Boston grabs my arm as I pass. “And you should run sometimes
too. Not all the time, just when you need to. Then come back. Don’t stay away
forever like I did.”

I continued back to work, his words weighing heavy on my
mind.

* * *

The roads are empty as we drive away from work. Clean up
took forever after Boston asked for a ride. Every time I tried to leave, Lyla
found something new for me to do or something I’d missed. In reality I finished
everything in only thirty minutes while Boston waited patiently, sitting near
the door, not running. Could it be that simple?

Now, riding in the dark, I sneak a peek sideways. His eyes
are looking forward instead of meeting mine. He says, “I’ll try.”

“Try what?”

“Try staying.” I smile into the dark at his words, a
tentative hopeful smile. “You’re right Sterling. I always run.”

“Just don’t be me. I may stay,” I confess, “but I close
everyone out, except when I ran from whatever this is happening between us.”

“I noticed.” His fingers lace with mine and clench holding
tight. I can feel the tension coiling in his arm as we share the armrest
between us.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Just don’t tell me you’re leaving me again.” His voice is rough
and tense.

“No. That’s not it.” He relaxes some, but not completely. “I’ve
done a lot of thinking over the past few weeks.” My words stumble to a halt as
I stop for a flashing red light, not sure how to say this.

“Whatever it is we can deal with it, as long as we both know
what it is.” His voice is stronger, no longer tense as his fingers press mine,
comforting and reassuring.

“I’m afraid.” I’m embarrassed too, hearing the words,
hearing how silly I sound.

“I’m afraid too.” He squeezes my hand again and I pull away.

“I don’t know how to do this, to share my life with another
person. I don’t know how to be a partner. I don’t know how to do it.”

“Sterling,” he sighs.

“This is who I am and I’m not good at this.” I gesture from
me to him.

“Yep. You suck at it,” he says. I can see a flash of white
from his teeth as he smiles into the dark. “You’re going to need a lot of
practice.”