Star-Crossed (28 page)

“And now you're leaving.”

Will rested his head against my chest; his eyes fell to the empty wall on which our shadows were only visible through a slant of moonlight through the open window.

“I need to find a way to forget you,” he said wearily, strained. “I want to forget you.”

“Do you mean that?”

Water pooled and spilled down my stomach; a soft inhale, a shuddering breath. He was crying.

“Yes,” he said. “I need to forget you.”

He wiped his nose with a bare wrist, covered his eyes with his hands. Will couldn't look at me, and I couldn't look at him.

On the night-stand sat the ring; the chain was coiled around it, as if Will had been holding the thin string with a tight fist. It was knotted, tangled.

I picked it up and held it in my palm, my face still burning, every bone cracking beneath the skin. My heart felt as if it had been stitched in two, and the seams were slowly fraying. Forcibly being tugged apart.

“Where do you plan on going?” I asked.

“Home,” he said. “I'm going home.”

He was leaving the country; we would be severed by an entire ocean. The distance, the hours; the unavoidable reality that we would become nothing but vague memories to one another. Eventually we would blur, shift, bleed out like old watercolors that are eventually replaced with something vibrant and new. With something real.

I took the ring, leaned towards the window, and let it fall from my hand. Will watched me, unmoving and yet completely horrified.

There was the faint sound of metal against metal; a gentle
ting
. I glanced out the window, and saw that, perhaps by the grace of God, it had fallen into a vent. There was no retrieving it; no frantic scramble to locate where it had landed.

It was gone forever.

Will covered his face. I collapsed on the bed. The both of us wept.

But there was no holding one another.

“There really is no place for us,” I said. “This is really over.”

He sniffled, swallowed, tried to catch his breath.

“A place like that can't exist,” he said coldly.

“Do I need to apologize to you again?” I begged. “It can if we want it to. Anything can exist if we want it to.”

“Kaitlyn,” he said.

He reached over, took my hand. I didn't pull away.

“Why would you touch me?” I asked. “Why let me in here again?”

There was a pause, a long pause. Through the window we could hear the collective sounds of a thousand lives being lived; the children still laughed, the cars still sped on. There was talk amongst friends, screams of youthful rebellion. The city night was an ever-lit catalyst, changing lives. Bringing people together, defining moments. Severing ties, ending lives.

Mothers were weeping in their lonely, crumbling apartments. Couples were falling in love beneath street-lamps.

“Love makes us fragile,” he said softly. “Lovers are built to break.”

I dressed myself, unable to look at him afterwards. I had never felt more exposed; more confused; more uncertain of anything in my entire life. And the only thing that I was unquestionably certain of, that I loved Will, was an impossible pursuit.

“I'll let myself out,” I told him. “If you want to find me, you can find me on the boardwalk, serving up cheap food to the cheap-thrill seekers.”

Will watched me go, still naked; still seated on the edge of his bed with his beautiful face imprinted with a permanent, exquisite sadness.

As I reached the steps, I pulled out my phone and called Tyler. I asked him if he would pick me up; I didn't need to tell him the destination.

As he pulled up, dimming the headlights, he rolled down the window and regarded me with a sad, empathetic look.

“Get in,” he said. I slid into the passenger's seat, slammed the door, and hugged my knees to my chest. “You're certainly bent on breaking yourself, aren't you?”

He toyed with the radio volume. Bastille's
Overjoyed
hummed through the speakers. All the lights, through the windows, were nothing but a blur of color through my tear-clung eyelashes.

I didn't say anything, but I could feel Tyler watching me. After a moment, he turned up the volume, reached over, and took my hand. His sole means of saying, without using the words that perhaps I wasn't even that deserving of,
I care
.

“I guess it's just as well,” he said. “Something needed to knock you off that pedestal.”

“Do you speak from your heart?” I asked. A butchered line from a play that already seemed an eternity passed.

Tyler smiled.

“From my soul, too,” he said. “Or the Devil take us all.”

TWENTY-THREE

There was no graduation for our class; we received our diplomas on paper that essentially resembled napkins run through a broken printer. I stowed the document away in a small shoebox along with my other essentials; wallet, passport, my birth certificate.

Marius had stopped by after my calling him for the first time in months. I asked him if he would bring only the things I'd need – and nothing else.

He arrived not long after, pulling up in his hot little Audi. The look on his face as he watched me jump down the front steps was a mix of disbelief and discomfort. He regarded my hair in the same way he had first looked at Tyler; like an alien. Like something strange.

“What have you done to yourself?” he asked. He combed a bit of hair back – it was shorter now, and he wore a pair of thin-framed glasses. These were new, and as I squinted into the lenses, noting the thin bifocal line, I saw that they were real. “I can barely recognize you.”

“Good,” I said. “I'm glad. That makes me happy.”

Marius wore a sweater and jeans; loafers and a small, uncomfortable smile. He went back to the car and returned with the items in a paper bag; as he handed them to me, our fingers brushed, and he gaped at the sight of my hands. They were cracked, raw, and marked up from the toils of common labor.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly. “What have you been doing?”

I took the bag, glanced into it, and hugged it to my chest.

“School, work. I finished my degree out at one of the local colleges,” I told him. “You look different, too. Are you still living at home?”

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he answered hesitantly. “But I'm leaving at the end of the summer. My dad wants me to come work with him.”

“Are you going to take over his company?”

His shoulders rose, fell, and he sighed.

“Eventually,” he said. “But I guess it's not like I didn't know that education was just a formality for me. Some things don't change, Kaitlyn.”

I looked at him; really looked. Even in the short span of months, he appeared different – the haircut, the glasses, the simpler clothes that still came from extravagant labels. There was a greater humbling to his stance, a certain nervousness to the way his arms crossed.

But I guess he was. He was the same.

“I'm sorry I never told you that I loved you,” he said quietly. “I've got some things I plan on working out with myself.”

In the evening overcast, his car resembled a silver bullet. There was a faint echo, a promise of escape. I would be lying if I said that there existed no temptation for me to beg him to take me with him anywhere, and everywhere. That there wasn't a fleeting moment where, because I'm only human, I wanted to go running back to all the safe and comfortable things.

Instead, I nodded.

“You can tell me now,” I told him. “It's going to be your last chance.”

Marius looked down at the cracked asphalt, his eyebrows falling slant. I knew, as I watched a sharp swallow move down his throat, that he was forcing himself not to start weeping.

“I love you,” he said. “And I'm so sorry.”

He touched my face; not as a brother, or a beast, but as a boy. A frightened, sick little boy.

“I'll be fine,” I told him. “I've got my whole life in front of me. Everything is full of fantastic promise.”

“And what about him?”

I shrugged.

“I think we both know that there was never a place for us.”

I wiped Marius' face with the sleeve of my shirt, stood on my toes, and kissed his cheek tenderly. As he retreated, the space between our bodies gave me a momentary feeling of sadness; I would miss Marius. Even if he never knew, and I never told him. I would.

“Goodbye, Marius,” I said. “Have a nice life.”

A door slammed; an engine roared; he sped off across the pavement.

And then he was gone.

I sat for a long time in silence, watching the cars pass by. My back ached, the muscles in my arms felt worn and weak. Every joint in my fingers sang with a terrible soreness as I clenched my fists and tried to swallow, tried to breath; tried to clear my head of any residual thoughts of the life I would never have.

Eventually I decided that I needed some kind of closure, I needed to know if there existed one last chance. So I took a cab to Will's apartment, parked outside the steps, and took a moment to straighten myself up before speaking with him again. One last time.

And if it was really over, if there was no hope, no place for us, I would accept it and forge something new for myself completely.

I pressed the button, but there was no buzz. The door didn't click open. Nothing happened; like a failed magic trick.

I tried again, and then a third time.

Through the glass I could spy a security guard preoccupied with whatever was amusing on his phone. I tapped on the glass, and he squinted at me as I were some punk rampant whose only intention was to break in and vandalize an already heavily-soiled apartment building.

I thanked God, silently, when he opened the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, slightly breathless. “I'm looking for Will Tennant.”

He frowned.

“I don't know names, kid,” he said plainly. “What's he look like?”

“Tall, brown eyes. Black hair that's usually kind of messy. He might have been wearing a band T-shirt.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “He did. I mean, he does. He's British.”

The security guard promptly withdrew a few folded bills from his pocket, smiling smugly.

“I helped him take the last of his boxes into some moving truck,” he answered. “Whatever his name is, he's gone now. He left early this morning.”

We stared wordlessly at each other; the security guard eventually retreating into the doorway. He looked puzzled, vaguely distressed.

“Listen,” he said. “I can't help you. I'm sorry.”

He closed the door; as it clicked shut, I was only reminded of the fact that like everything else, I would never be walking through the halls of that apartment building ever again.

I sat down on the steps and tried to convince myself that this was nothing but some terrible illusion; I awaited the grand prestige. Will running through the door, taking me into his arms, and telling me that he was inside all along. He just wanted to see if I would be truly willing to wait for him.

Leaves were kicked up in the wind; the summer heat hung heavy. And I was reminded, as the sound of humming branches rang through the air, that this wasn't a trick. He was really, truly gone.

The cab ride home was silent, and I still had the paper bag in my hands. I opened it, touching the familiar items gingerly. All plastic, nothing special. But to me, these basic things were the last relics that I had to hold onto.

It was only when I went inside that I noticed the envelope. I felt around, feeling for what it could possibly be - a letter, perhaps. I knew that it was something he felt I wouldn't have accepted if he tried to give it to me face-to-face.

When I finally opened it, it was during an evening spent alone, after Tyler had left to visit his grandmother. His last visit before leaving for California. We'd celebrate the next day.

I tore it open. There was a letter, and in the letter, a check. Seven digits, beginning with a 1.

I know that you probably won't accept this
, he said.
So I left a space blank. In the event that you should change your mind, it's yours.

Do well, Kaitlyn. In whatever it is you choose to do.

I caught my breath, folded the paper in half, and stared at the check. It had been made out to no one – the spot was blank.

I smiled to myself, glanced out the window, and ignored the feeling of impending finality to it all.

The next day, Tyler left for the Golden State. In a perfect world, his parents would have been able to see him off – but they had to work, and he insisted that they take care of what was necessary. It was just him and I, traveling in his old Mustang, with the aching soundtrack of the city streets and The Atari's
Boys of Summer
accompanying us. We both sang along, and I thought briefly of that night at the dive-bar, singing on stage and spinning in Tyler's arms.

“You could come with me,” he said. “To California. Buy a ticket and get on the plane with me.”

“I can't do that,” I told him. “I need to figure this out on my own.”

The airport was blanched-white; everything slick and sterile. As he clutched the handle of his suitcase, I handed him the envelope. I had signed his name on the blank line.

He glanced down at it, his mouth parting.

“I need you to do something for me,” I told him. “I need you to promise me that you'll take this. Can you do that?”

“I don't understand,” he said. “What is it?”

I smiled, throwing my arms around him. I could feel his heart as it pounded beneath his T-shirt, his smell sweet and pungent; apple shampoo and spiced deodorant.

“It's something that will help you,” I told him. “And your family, too.”

Tyler Dawson started to cry. I did, too.

“I'll miss you,” I told him, laughing even though it was choked with tears. “Everything's ending.”

“No,” he said, smiling. “Everything's beginning.”

I watched him take his final stroll down through the sprawling, white room that was filled with a bustling, catalytic noise. When he was gone, I did the only thing I had left to do. I went to work. I ignored the splattering grease and the smell of hot onion rings that had only come to make me sick. I contemplated my own future, my own fate, and what I would do now.

I wasn't planning on going back to Tyler's; I had already said goodbye to his parents, giving them both the biggest hug, and was planning on booking a room at some cheap motel by the waterfront until I could either find a second job and afford a decent apartment, or figure out some sort of college plans.

The thoughts were distracting enough that Joey cut me loose early. Partially due to concern, and primarily due to a lack of supplies. We were closing shop for the night.

He slipped me my earnings under the table, tucking the bills into my palm with a wink. I left, rolled through the crowds, and slipped into the old dive-bar for a drink. I bought myself a Coke, settled into one of the tables, and watch the drunken scene from afar unfold on stage as lit twenty-somethings gave their best attempts at covering thrashy, trashy pop songs.

I set my head on the table, my temples starting to throb. It was hard to think, hard to process the defining moment of loss that stood with its unmoving, rooted certainty.

The music shifted; a gentle strumming of guitar chords. From inside my pocket, my phone vibrated; I looked down. It was a text from Will.

Look up
, it said. Two words, nothing else.

My eyes narrowed in soft confusion; but I looked up, anyway.

Will stood on stage, his hair a fine mess; his hands wrapped around the microphone stand. He wore his jeans low on the hips, a leather belt, his favorite pair of Chuck Taylors that were reserved for out-of-classroom only. His shirt was thin, black-and-gray striped.

He looked like a rock star; a perfect mix of passion and pain and all the things that make us so tragically mortal. And he was looking at me.

Everyone seemed to lean forward; a joined acknowledging of the pretty man on the pretty stage that was drowning in darting lights; all bright green and yellow and pink. As the guitar chords kept running, he started to sing, and I immediately felt my breath hitch, my heart tremor.

I had never heard the song before, but it took me less than a millisecond to realize that I was in love. A Dire Straights cover, someone said it was. Will sang about a love-struck Romeo who, after an unspoken time apart, went back to seek out the lost affections of his Juliet.

He had one last chance, and like most lovers, he tried to save her with a single serenade.

Will seemed to break through the cloud of cigarette smoke and human exhales; the vapors of alcohol that had seeped from pores and lingered in the thick air. He sang with a reverberation in his vocal chords that rang of both sadness and hope, loss and gain.

Around me, everything started to blur. I covered my face, but kept watching him through the space between my fingers; a phantom, he was, standing in front of me.

I didn't believe that any of it was real. Not the song, or him standing on stage, or even the sound of applause as he finished and the entire room erupted.

He hopped off the platform, sauntered forward, and fell to his knees in front of me.

“Tell me you're really here,” I said to him. “Please tell me that this isn't something I'm imagining. That I'm going to close my eyes, open them, and you'll be gone.”

“I'm here,” he said. He took my hands, pressed a warm mouth to even warmer skin. “I'm here.”

It was all enough to make me dizzy. I fell against him, and he led me outside, handing me his water. I sipped it slowly, watching him, watching his figure – like a slow-forming painting – finally solidify into something real.