The Knight Of The Rose (23 page)

“He’ll be back.” She shrugged, then smiled and walked off to bark orders at the next act.

It really is such a shame David never fell for Emily. She would’ve been a perfect match for

him; she isn’t complicated and moody, like I am, and she would’ve given him eternity.

She wandered over to Spencer and fell into his chest; he kissed her on the tip of the nose,

dropping his hand to her lower back, just under the waistband of her jeans.

A jaded smile grasped my lips whil e I watched them—so in love, like normal teenagers; so

innocent and so easy. They’ll never know the complexi ties of my life, and they could never even

imagine them.

Somehow, that made me angry, or maybe it wa s jealous. Or maybe it just made me feel

more—alone.

“It’s not all bad.” Ryan sat beside me on the piano stool.

“What’s not?” I switched on my happy face.

“He’ll be back.” He elbowed me softly. “David? I know you were missing him just now.

There’s no way he’s leaving a gir l like you behind, Ara. So just, you know—c hin up, and it’ll work

out. He’ll be back before you know it.”

“Thanks Ryan.” I smiled. “Thanks for cheering me up.”

Only, it didn’t cheer me up. Not much.

Ryan’s kindness and the fact that he cared enough to notice I was down made me feel a little

better, but he was wrong—about David.

David’s long gone. None of us will ever see him again.

I scribbled on a piece of paper and rested it in the lip of my windowsill, then closed the

window and headed for the door. I couldn’t leave my room for the evening without making

sure David knew my priorities, should he see fit to come back; one tap on Mike’s window, and I’d

magically materialise in my room.

“So, how was rehearsal?” Mike closed the DVD drive and grabbed the remote as I closed his

bedroom door.

“Crowded,”
but lonely.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you play.”

I bounced onto his bed and propped my back up against his pillows. “I wish
you
were doing a

duet with me.”

“Well, maybe we’ll have to sneak over to the school during lunch and use the piano one day.”

His face lit with a cheeky grin as he slumped down next to me—right on top of the popcorn bowl.

“Ah, crap!” We both cursed as popcorn scattered all over his sheets like pebbles on tiles.

“Here, I’ll get that.” Mike knelt by the bed, took the bowl from me and start ed scraping the

salty snack off the edge with his broad, square palms.

He’s always had such big hands. So strong and protective. I never realised it until now, but

they’ve always been a representation of safety—of security, to me. Like somehow, if he was holding

me and the world was burning around me, I wouldn’t be afraid.

“Something wrong, kid?” He looked up.

Forgetting his question, I grabbed his hand and turned it over, placing my pal m against his.

My hands were thinner, more petite than his, and the top of my oval-shaped nail fell just in line with

the first fold of his fingertips.

He laced them through mine, then flipped my hand over and traced circles over my knuckles,

seeming distant and almost sad.

“Are you okay, Mike?”

After a sigh, he shuffled up and sat with his back against the pillows. “You have her hands,

you know? Your mother’s.”

I smiled and fell into his chest. “I know.” I do have her hands, and her hair, and her heart-

shaped face. But I go t my dad ’s eyes. Harry had her eyes. Harry had her smil e—my smile. But

they’re gone. The only thing left from that life now is Mike—and I’m so glad I at least have him.

It makes me wonder—about his hands, how they make me feel so safe when I’m in them, and

his eyes, how I love the way they cr inkle on the edges when he smiles, and the dimple in his cheek

when he grins, how it makes my heart warm—if I lo ved Mike, if I went with him to Perth and loved

him for the rest of my life, woul d we be happy, get married and ha ve little dark-haired babies with

caramel-coloured eyes and strong hands?

I like the idea of being with him; I like the idea of always feeling like I do now. Loved.

Mike looked down at me, watchi ng my eyes expectantly, like he was waiting for me to say

what he knew was in my heart. And I wanted to say it—wanted to tell him I loved him, but my

mouth just hung open like a frog waiting for a fly.

He pulled me back to his chest and pressed play on the remote.

As the opening credits rolled acro ss the base of the scr een, I closed my eyes and lis tened to

the hum of human normality. I love this. I love Mike, and I wish I’d told him that. I wish he just

knew. When I’m with him like this, snuggled up in his arms like we’re already together, I get the

strong urge to tell him I’ll go back to Perth.

But then, when I walk away, go to my window and look beyond the eastern hills where David

ran to that day he told me what he is, I can’t help the inexplicable gut wrench that makes me want to

scream to the world below and tell them to find hi m for me—to bring him back so he can change me

into a vampire.

It’s not fai r of me to off er myself to Mike when, in my heart , I’m not totally decided on

David. So I haven’t said anything yet, and I don’t know if I will. I just don’t want to hurt him if I

ever do see David again and he convinces me to change my mind.

“Ara?” Mike swept his hands through the front of my hair, hi s voice coming low from above

my brow.

“Mm,” I muttered sleepily, keeping my eyes closed.

“You still with me, baby?”

“Hm?”

“Shh.” He kissed my head and the volume on the TV became lower. “Just sleep.”

The smell of morning and the crass s ound of a crow somewhere outside brought my mind

back from sleep. I rolled up on my elbows and looked around the room—my room.

Wait,
my
room?

Feeling as though I was holding my breath, I clarified everything in my mind; my room was

dark, the curtains closed—obviously by Mike, and unopened by David. The hous e sounded quieter

than usual. Even the gentle hum of cars and the distant chatter of schoolkids outside was absent from

the day; it almost sounded like a Saturday, but without the lawnmower.

Last night, while I fell asleep in my best friend’s arms, a few things became so clear to me

that I was afrai d clarity would be gone morning come. But the fee ling I had as sleep arr ested me

remained the same.

I jumped out of bed, dashed my curtains across and looked to the eastern hills. Somewhere

over that rise, somewhere further than I cared to imagine, my David went away. I could feel him, feel

his soul aching beyond the rising sun. He never told me where he lived, or even which direction he

ran to each night, but I could feel him over there—somewhere.

Down below, nestled in to t he long yellow-tipped grass in the backyard, the oak tr ee sat

gloriously staring back up at me. As many times as we’d studied each other, I had also let my heart

skip a beat, expecting to see David beneath its leafy bows.

But, for some reason, when I watched the gentle motion of the rope swing, absently touching

the brittle bark for a second before floating along the wistful breeze, I was surpri sed none that he

wasn’t there. The only thing pres ent was that warm feeling I had in Mike’s arms last night, which

suddenly burned into a flaming heat within me.

With a tight fist, I rubbed the left side of my chest and winced against the brightness of the

morning.

Is it possible that Mike managed to crawl his way a little bit deeper into my heart while I was

sleeping, or that my brain has finally comprehended the fact that David’s gone—that even tomorrow,

when I look f or him on the stage where he shoul d be performing our duet, I won’ t see him? Do I

finally get the message?

Clutching my locket, I backed away from the window and turned to face my dresser mirror.

I think I finally do get it.

I sat down on the stool and slowly swiped my hair from my face; the girl in the mirror did the

same.

“He is gone, isn’t he?” she said. Well, I think she did, anyway.

“Yes.” And I knew he wouldn’t re turn for anything. Not for the concert, not for al l the tears

in the world, not if Skittles got stuck in the tree, and not even if I threw myself from the window and

splattered all over the ground.

David Knight is gone—for good.

So, then, why don’ t I feel anything? I should be crying or kicking t hings. The admission of

fact should change something in me.
Anything
. But it hasn’t.

The girl in the mirror looked out at me; her pale-blue eyes reflected the hazy lines of a yellow

sun. When she smiled, I looked away. That reflection told a different story to the reality of the world

behind me. My room was light and airy, with th e softness of a morning decided on summer all

around, while her world—the world beyond the glass—was a dar k forest, backdrop to t he face of a

lonely girl, trapped, staring out from beyond her prison of secrets. Love was the key—my starry

night, my David—but he left.

I remembered back to t he day I first thought of him as the ni ght, and how, in that same

thought, I smiled for Mike, because he was always my blue sky; my happiness.

I looked back at the mirror. The contours of the girl’s face became shadowed as the sun rose

around her and the light touched the darkest shadows of her illusory cage. The iron bars behind her

were really white tree-trunks, and the leaves became visible as green star-shaped foliage for the first

time. Blue sky. The night was gone, now, there would always be the blue sky.

But is it enough?

I looked away from her again, seeing her hopeful smile dissolve before I turned my head.

My stomach grumbled; the ogre’s attempt to steal the attention. I clutched my hands to my

belly. I need to think. I can’t go down there and have breakfast with Mike. I might tell him I love

him and then regr et it when I come back to my room, cl ose my door and feel the emptiness of

missing David again.

“Run,” the girl in the mirror said.

“Run?” I looked back at her.

She smiled and nodded. “Run.”

A sneaky tempo guided my steps as I passed the dining area where Vicki and Mike sat

laughing and drinking coffee. Then, without first eating, ran out the front door.

My shoes tapped the pavement soft ly at f irst, but as I reached the end of the drive, they

picked up. I zipped my sweater up around my neck—trapping my lock et inside. It wasn’t cold, but

for some reason I felt exposed and naked. Like I was being watched or followed. I think a part of me

knew that if Mike caught a glimpse of me running from the house without him, he’d come after me.

And I really didn’t want that. I really needed to be by myself for a while.

There was a pa rt of me that kept trying to believe that the reason David hadn’t come was

because he’d been held up at work or hadn’t realised how much time had passed since we last spoke.

But the part of me that knew David, also knew he wasn’t that absent-minded.

No. He’s not here because he has no intention of coming back. I wonder if he fell out of love

with me when he realised how deep my connection with Mike went. If he was lingering around the

day Mike confessed his love, then he would’ ve heard an awful lot of thoughts a girl wouldn’t want

her boyfriend to hear about another man.

I wonder if he really did have to go to New York for two weeks, or if he just told me that so

he could quietly sneak around and intrude on my thoughts.

I smiled as I jogged past a couple in matching tracksuits. But the smile wasn’t for them, even

though they smiled back; it was for me—because I knew my David, a nd I knew that was exactly his

intention. I should’ve realised the whole New York thing was a complete lie . I mean, it was pretty

convenient how he came up with it right after he found out how I felt about Mike.

Great. I stopped running. I’m such an idiot.

Feeling unbelievably weak and tir ed, I bee-lined for a park-bench and graced the seat with

my bottom. The leafy shade of the tree f elt nice, protective, almost. I looked around the park at the

children playing in the distance—the mums and dads pushing their kids on the swings, and even t he

big sisters running to their little brother’s aide when they fell over or got sand in their mouth. It made

me miss Harry—miss being a big sister.

Flopping back with my chin tilted to the cool breeze, I let my troubles consume me; including

the fact that the only moisture left in me was the salty, sticky mask of sweat the wind was drying off

my brow.

I still loved the way a breeze felt on my face; it took a month for my wounds to heal enough

that I’d let Dad take me in public—on a plane, over to his home.

My days were spent in a motel, in the dark—a way from civilisation. I never even l et Mike

see me. Dad tried to let him i n once, but I screamed and freaked out like I was going to tear myself

apart. I couldn’t let him see me like t hat. I felt so ashamed—felt like a monster, and worse—looked

like one.

By the time Dad brought me here, there were only a few yellowing bruises left, and I could

bear the wind on my face—never to take it for granted again.

It brushed my hair over my cheek in a tickly touch, like a thousand butterflies dancing on my