Love to Love Her YAC (9 page)

I climb the stairs to unit 2C slowly,
steeling myself for the frenzy of emotion that will almost
certainly commence the second Rhiannon opens that door. I play out
a staccato rhythm of knocks against the door and wait long enough
that I’m beginning to wonder if she’s even home. The thought has
just crossed my mind to turn around and leave when I hear the
deadbolt click and the door swings open. Rhiannon peers out, her
face even more achingly beautiful than I remembered. She’s dressed
in a pair of fitted denim capris and a blue cotton blouse that –
God help me
– is coming slightly undone at the top.

We stand there staring at each other for what
seems like hours, both holding our breath. Rhiannon realizes it
before I do, and she lets out a slow exhale and begins to laugh.
“Hi, Blake. Sorry for making you wait, I was just on the phone.
Come on in.”

I step into the kitchen, determined to quit
acting like an asshole and be myself. “No worries. I hope I’m not
interrupting anything important?”

“No no, it was just Corinne,” she replies.
“You remember her from a couple of weeks ago? She’s difficult to
get off the phone sometimes.” I notice her popping her knuckles the
same way she was when she was up on stage at that bar, right before
she began to sing, and it makes me smile as I nod in recollection
of her friend.

“So, um…Can I get you anything to drink?” she
asks. “I have milk and orange juice – and water of course. Not much
to choose from, really…” She snickers softly to herself, and it’s
so damn cute I can barely stand it.

“I’m not thirsty at the moment, but thanks,”
I say. I cast my eyes around, taking in the kitchen with the island
and the breakfast bar, then the living room. I notice a hallway to
the left that I haven’t been down before. “You know, I haven’t
really had the tour yet,” I remark.

“Oh, well please, come with me,” says
Rhiannon. She steps back a few feet and gestures at the space
around us. “Kitchen,” she says. She takes another step so that her
feet leave the linoleum floor of the kitchen to occupy the carpet.
She holds her arms aloft like one of the showcase girls on “The
Price is Right” and says, “Living room.” She starts down the short
hallway, and I follow close on her heels, intoxicated by her
flowery scent. She stops at the first door on the left and flicks
on the light inside. “Bathroom,” she says, pointing to the shower,
sink and toilet. I smile at her choice of shower curtain, a glossy
plastic rendering of the Periodic Table of the Elements.

Next she points at the second door on the
left, where the hallway ends. “That’s a closet,” she says. “And
this” – she pushes on the door across the hall – “is where I
sleep.” I walk past her into the room. It’s small but clean and
simply decorated. A double bed is covered with a pale yellow
bedspread, and deeper yellow curtains hang in the two windows. An
acoustic guitar is propped in the corner on a stand, and a candle
burns on the wooden desk, wafting vanilla-scented heat. A red
Schwinn road bike with drop handlebars leans against the left wall.
I turn back to look at Rhiannon; she’s standing in the doorway with
her arms crossed over her chest, a smile playing around the corners
of her mouth.

“And that’s the tour,” she says. “I’m still
working on being able to give it without having to take any steps.
I can almost manage from the start of the hallway here.”

I chuckle, nodding. “I like it. It suits
you.”

“Thanks.” She presses her lips together but
doesn’t budge from the doorway.

I nod over at the guitar and say, “A little
birdy once told me you have some mad guitar skills. Care to prove
it?”

She averts her gaze to the floor and laughs
self-consciously. “I think I may have been drunk when I told you
that. There’s really nothing to see.”

I can tell she’s being modest, but I decide
not to push the issue. I’ve been doing too much pushing lately, and
the last thing I want is to scare her off. I open my mouth to
suggest we watch a movie or order some dinner, but she speaks
first. “I need to run to the restroom. Try not to get lost while
I’m gone.” She winks before turning and ducking into the bathroom
across the hall.

I grin, then turn to conduct a closer
inspection of the room. A side table holds half a dozen framed
photographs. I start on the end and begin to study each one. The
first is of Rhiannon with her friends, Corinne and Ruthie, who I
met the night of Rhiannon’s birthday. The second is of an elderly
couple standing outside of a church – grandparents maybe? Next in
line is a photo of Rhiannon in some sort of theater costume, her
face painted with garish makeup. She has longer hair in this one,
much longer than it is now. It feathers around her and falls
halfway to her elbows. I notice she’s flanked on either side by a
man and woman. The woman has her high cheekbones and her smile, and
the man, though bald, possesses the same caramel colored eyes.

I pause longer on the next picture. It’s of
two girls, both of whom are missing their hair. One of them, the
older one, is standing behind the younger one with her arms locked
around the younger girl’s neck. They’re both beaming into the
camera. I lean closer, wondering who they could be. The one in
front has blue eyes and looks like she could be about twelve or
thirteen. The other one looks maybe five years older. Her arms are
holding the younger girl in a loving embrace that also manages to
look protective, like she’s holding her back from some unknown
evil. I focus in on her face and find my breath catching in my
throat.
I know those eyes
…

Rhiannon clears her throat behind me. I whirl
around to face her, hoping I haven’t been caught overstepping my
bounds.

“I’m back,” she says meekly.

I point a finger at the photo I’ve been
studying. “Who is this?” I ask.

She steps closer until I can feel the heat
from her body only inches from mine. She lifts her gaze to meet
mine and offers me a smile that appears sad somehow. She scoops the
photo up off the table and points to the younger girl in the front.
“That’s my younger sister, Tawny,” she says. “And that’s me.”

My heart stutters in my chest. I level her
with my eyes. “Why don’t you have any hair in the picture?” I ask
softly.

Rhiannon sighs. She replaces the photo on the
table and takes a seat on the edge of her bed. “A couple of years
ago Tawny was diagnosed with ALL – it’s a form of leukemia.” She
looks up at me as if requesting permission to continue. I move to
sit beside her on the bed and nod at her to go on.

“When she started chemotherapy she lost all
of her hair. My sister had the most beautiful hair – it was thick
and soft, and it was this gorgeous shade of auburn like our mom’s.
People would always comment on it from the time she was a little
girl. So, of course she was devastated when it began falling out.
My sister is not vain, but she felt as if, by losing the one
feature everyone knew her by, she was losing a part of
herself.”

She looks at me as she speaks, and I can see
the herculean strength behind them. I find myself wanting to speed
to the end of the story to find out if her sister is okay.

She breathes out. “Anyway,” she says, “I
couldn’t bear to see her so broken up over it, so I had all of my
hair cut off and shaved my head, too. I didn’t want her to have to
suffer through it alone, and I was trying to make the point it’s
just hair. It grows back.”

She reaches up and unconsciously tugs at the
short hair that curls softly around her face. I try to gauge the
look on her face, but I don’t see the wistfulness in it I was
expecting to see. If I had to guess I would say she made her peace
with that decision long ago. Still, I can’t help but circle her
with my arm and pull her up against me. I hadn’t counted on being
able to hold her this evening, but I revel in the feel of her,
wanting to hold and protect her the way she did her sister at the
time that photo was taken.

“How is she now?” I ask, almost afraid of the
answer.

“She’s been in remission for the past year
and a half,” Rhiannon says, smiling. “She’s doing great. Her hair
is growing back, too.”

I smile back at her, relieved. “I’ll bet
she’s happy about that.”

She nods, looking thoughtful, then turns her
body to face me. She pulls one leg up onto the bed between us as
she studies my face. My eyes drift, and I’m momentarily dazed by
the smooth curve of her cleavage rounding above the top of her
shirt and the purple satin of her bra just barely peeking out of
the neckline.
Goddamn
. I lick my lips and force my eyes
upward again, certain I’ve been caught appreciating things I
shouldn’t. If she notices, though, she doesn’t say anything.

“So what would you like to do?” she asks. I
glance back at the very inviting bed we’re perched on the edge of
and think of the many things I’d like to do if I was able to answer
that question honestly. I take a deep breath.

“Come on, I’m taking you out to dinner,” I
breathe out quickly, standing up before I have the chance to change
my mind. Staying in this apartment is just too damn tempting.

Rhiannon – Sunday, September 23, 10:30
AM

A
fter days of clouds
and intermittent thunderstorms, I was overjoyed to wake up this
morning to a bright blue, cloudless sky. My first thought was to
call Spencer for some Frisbee, but I have two major exams this week
I’ve been putting off studying for. I think it’s fair to say I’ve
been a bit distracted as of late, but it’s time I let bygones be
bygones and went back to living my life.

I have most of the day free before I meet
Ruthie for dinner at six-thirty, so I decide to go somewhere else
to study. After breakfast I gather my books and notes and push my
bicycle out onto the landing and down the steps. The bike was a
gift from my grandfather when I graduated high school, and it’s
gotten a lot of mileage over the past couple of years. Knowing it’s
more or less just been gathering dust since the start of this
semester makes me feel guilty and lazy all at once.

Once I’m in the parking lot I roll up the
cuffs of my jeans, then straddle my bike and fasten the cross strap
of my book bag over my left shoulder. My hair isn’t quite long
enough for a ponytail, so I secure some of the loose strands at the
back of my head with a clip before taking off. It feels good to
stretch my legs; by the time I reach Fifth Street I’m sailing along
at a pretty swift speed, loving the warmth of the sun mixed with
the gusting breeze.

I pedal the six or so miles to Riverview Park
and find a picnic table next to the river under the shade of a tree
whose leaves are still green but will soon turn a vibrant yellow.
The river has risen up out of its banks, swollen from all the
recent rain. One of the nearby tree trunks is submerged at the
base.

I unpack my books and bottle of water and sit
down with my back to the trail, facing the water. I haven’t been
here since studying for finals last spring – I had forgotten how
quiet and peaceful it is.

A few hours later I’m finding it difficult to
concentrate. I’ve spent most of the past half hour staring absently
out at the quickly flowing water rather than at my notes. My field
of vision is hazy from focusing on the small print in my textbooks.
Prepared to give myself a break, I reach for my phone, which I’ve
had on silent since I arrived here. I’ve missed a call from Spencer
(likely an invitation to play Frisbee) and a text message from
Blake asking me to have lunch with him tomorrow.

Oh, Blake… What to do? I know I should take
another step back. I think of last Thursday when I allowed him to
put his arms around me while sitting on my bed and then somehow
wound up letting him pay for my dinner. I can already tell we’re
blurring the lines between friends and more-than-friends. I look
back at his text message, and my fingers ache to accept his
invitation. God almighty,
yes
, I want to go to lunch with
him – but I shouldn’t…right?

I’m still vacillating over what my response
should
be when I hear a jogger’s footsteps rounding the path
behind me. They seem to be slowing down as they approach, and on
instinct I toss a look back over my shoulder. My mouth opens in
surprise when I see Blake in a cutoff t-shirt and running shorts.
Speak of the devil… What is
he
doing here?

He stops several feet away from me, seemingly
just as stupefied as I am. “I
thought
I recognized that
bike,” he says, gesturing with his head to the tree I’ve leaned it
up against. He takes a few more tentative steps in my direction,
and my eyes are drawn to the sheen of perspiration on his shoulders
and arms, as well as the damp tendrils of dark hair that frame his
face. I swallow and focus on breathing in and out.

“Did you follow me here?” I ask, only half
joking, as he walks around the table and stands across from me.

“You wish,” he says with a teasing smile. “I
live right over there.” He signals with a jerk of his thumb. “This
is
my
park.” Pointing down at the bench across from me he
asks, “Mind if I sit?”

“Be my guest,” I mutter. “It’s
your
park, after all.”

He laughs as he steps over the bench and
takes a seat. He lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe at his
forehead, and I suddenly become fascinated with my pencil in an
effort to avert my attention from the expanse of bronzed skin he
flashes in so doing.

“What are you up to today?” Blake asks,
leaning forward on his elbows and fixing his gaze on me. His hard
stare gives me the uncanny sense of being pinned up against a wall,
and unfortunately I can’t say the feeling is entirely
unpleasant.

“Just studying,” I say rather absently, my
mind still someplace altogether different. “I was just about to go,
actually…”