A/N: don't own...
Don't Forget to Remember Me
He's standing there for the third time this week. The third damn time this week. I don't know when he got into town, and I surely don't know when he's leaving, but I do know that if one of my neighbors saw him pacing my doorstep, it'd rise suspicion and I'm almost positive Mrs. Petridge would call the police and have him arrested.
She's not home, though. But I know she'll be back soon, before the night is over. And suddenly, I wonder, ever so curiously, if the last fourteen years have been as good to him as they've been to me. My thoughts are motherly sarcastic and my stomach rolls like a ball.
A car turns the street corner and slows down at the stop sign. I look, cautiously, out my window, careful not to let him see him. I can tell he's already squeamish, and I'd never forgive myself if I ran him off and never saw him again.
I gasp, dropping the glass of wine in my hand.
The car that had, only seconds ago, turned the corner slows down at the end of my driveway.
Mrs. Petridge is home.
I run to the front door, fling it open, and drag him in mid-pace by his left arm. A yelp leaves his parted lips and I slam him into the wall of the entry. She's looking at me, I can see her old, nosy eyes glaring up at me.
I reach for my mailbox, as a cover. Opening it and looking inside, too bad I already got the mail. I turn my head, as if just noticing her, and smile warmly. Though I know by tomorrow morning, the entire neighborhood, which mainly consists of gossipy old women and their clumsy husbands, will know that I had a "gentleman caller."
My foot turns, and I walk away, spinning on my heel. Into the kitchen, I grab a dust pan from the closet. But when I walk back into the entry, he's bent over in the living room, picking up shards of glass. Always the gentleman.
I walk over to him and bend down to his level. His hands are bleeding and I can't help but laugh. However mean it is, he's always been clumsy.
"You could've just waited. Now, I've got two messes to clean." I say, smiling up at him. He knows I'm being sarcastic, but the look in his eyes tells me I've missed more than I thought I had.
The oceanic orbs that I had loved so dearly, all of those years ago, are darker, almost black, truthfully. My heart starts beating a little faster and I wonder if he'll ever speak. Maybe I should've left him out there.
"You look good, done well for yourself." he says. Oh, how his voice is deeper. If it's possible, its even more worn and torn. His face looks as if it hasn't been shaved in days. I sigh.
I feel the blush, it's burning my cheeks. "Thanks. You look…" I pause, honesty was always the best policy, right? "Worn."
He smiles and his eyes lighten to a shady gray. "I've heard that before." Something mumbled escapes his breath, but I don't catch it. I repeatedly think back to his mutterings, but I simply can't decipher what he'd said.
"Come on, follow me. I'll fix that cut, love." I see him blush, it's dark but visible. My cheeks redden discretely and I hold back a yawn.
"You don't have to. I should get back to the hotel, anyway. My flight leaves in the morning." he answers, glancing down at his bleeding hand.
"Oh, come on, Troy. It's eleven 'o clock at night. Don't give me your bull. Now, come on." I reach for the hand that isn't bleeding and I pull him up the stairs. Once in the bathroom, I opened the medicine cabinet and reached for a band aid and a bottle of astringent.
After pouring the liquid onto a pad, I reach for the cut and dab at it accordingly. He flinches at first then closes his eyes and leans against the back of the toilet, where he is seated. Now that we're in the light, I notice the scratches on his face. There's even a bruise just above his left eyebrow. I think to ask, but decide against it.
"So," His eyes opened as I place the pad back and forth on his cut. "how's life been?"
"Good." I answer, nodding my head as I pour more astringent on the pad. "Complicated and completely insane, but it's been alright." He nods, as if contemplating his next words. I interject before he can say anymore, "What about you? I read about your basketball super-stardom a couple of years back."
He sighs and I reach for the band aid, giving him whatever time he needs. No one's home tonight but me, and Adam won't be back until tomorrow night. For once, I'm relieved that I'm alone. Except for him.
"For me…" He takes his time, again and I can see the indecisiveness of his eyes. They seem to darken instead of brighten, like they use to do. "Life's been alright, I guess." His head lifts up and I look into his eyes. His face read guilt and sorrow.
"Tell me, I'll listen." I reassure, something's bothering him and curiosity, as always, has gotten the best of me.
"I'm not going to bother you with the awful details, because partly, I don't want you to be bothered, and because I honestly don't want to relive it again. It was bad enough once, repeating it will only make it worse." He smiles up at me, a forced smile and his lips paint a picture of nothing but pain. I want to ask so badly, but I know it's not my place. Though years ago, it was my place. Years ago, he would've told me in a second.
I'm bent down, sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor, directly in front of the toilet. My hand grips around his, the bandaged and the not-bandaged. Tears come to my eyes and I cannot tell you why, but I wanted to scream and cry.
Life hadn't been good for him. Apparently, it had been awful. Dreadfully awful.
He continues, "I'm happy that you're happy." His bandaged hand runs through my hair and I feel sensibly comforted. More comforted than I've felt in fourteen years.
I force a smile, he's always been selfless. "I'm sad that you're sad." He seems to grimace, and I know it's because of my words.
"Don't, Gabriella. Really…" He goes on, making excuses as to why I shouldn't feel the way I do; awful inside, terribly awful. But his comforting words aren't going to help me this time, it'd be impossible. "None of what has happened to me or my family is your fault, and you damn well know it." His family, so he did move on.
I couldn't help but feel a pang of regret wash over me, but then again, I moved on too, hadn't I?
"Your family? What happened Troy?"
"Nothing of importance."
"What about basketball?" I feel like I'm intruding, but I know he'll understand.
"I quit."
"You quit." It wasn't question, just a statement. Me repeating his words, as if registering. I'd never think of him as a quitter. Life must've been hard.
He sighs, his eyes reading mine. I know he can read my thoughts, it's what has always scared me about him. Freak.
"My daughter…" Silence. "She was murdered by a crazed fan, and my wife," His words seemed strangled but his face seemed to lighten. It was as if he was letting something off his chest, "She killed herself a few days after the funeral."
"Oh, Troy." My arms are wrapped around him before another word is spoken.
"Don't feel sorry, Gabriella." He smiles. "You were always so strong, don't go letting my problems put you down." His eyes fall downcast and I know that there is more to the story than his voice will ever divulge. I feel guilty, myself. Maybe if we hadn't separated, everything would be perfect for him. And even me, as well.
"What about you? Kids? A husband?"
"His name's Adam and we did have kids. A little boy, named," I paused, well, this was embarrassing. "Troy." His eyes lightened sufficiently and he, finally, smiled that genuine smile. "There was a baby once, too, but she passed away a few days after she was born."
"I'm so--" I cover his mouth with mine and I'm not too sure why. I feel his heartbeat against my chest as he kisses back. I pull away, bringing my finger to his lips.
"Don't say it. Don't pity me, you hypocrite." I punch him in the shoulder and he hugs me. A tight, warm, needed embrace.
Somehow, I will never recall when because sincerely, it's all a blur, but somehow we ended up in my bedroom. Mine and Adam's bedroom, really. Tousled in the blankets, tangled in each other's arms. And the night -- we spent together, talking, reminiscing, and never speaking a word of our pasts. Right then, it was only about the 'now.'
- - -
Sunshine swarms through my window like someone switched on a flashlight the next morning. I rub my eyes, remembering the night before. I fell asleep, wondering what I'd say; what I'd do.
I didn't love, love Adam. I merely loved the thought of him. Because after Troy and I went our separate ways, I swore to never love again. Him leaving to practice on some famous basketball team that I had never heard of, and me heading off to an internship in London, symbolized the end of our relationship. And we both knew it.
I avoided him on the occasional holidays when I visited my mother. He was like a mouse, and I was the elephant. I did see him, though. Walking past the grocery story window, or playing ball in the park at one of the courts. I looked the other way each time. And then my mother got transferred again, to New Hampshire. After that, avoidance took a new level.
I haven't been to Albuquerque for a holiday in ten years. And I was satisfied with that. But now, one night had me re-evaluating my life, my marriage, and my choices.
Always the over-analytic one, Gabriella, I thought to myself. Then there I was, lying in my bed, stumbling into conclusions. The bed was the ship, and I was about to jump overboard.
When I rolled over, my body met nothing but empty space and cold sheets. A crinkling noise filled the air and I stood up, wrapping a sheet around myself. I looked down at the bed to see a piece of East High School notebook paper, our alma-mater. A wildcat was in the bottom left corner, with the words "Wildcat Pride!" in red lettering. Then scribbled, in Troy's messy handwriting, were the words that would forever plague my mind; permanently branded on my heart.
"Don't pity me for who I am,
just be happy you knew who I was
Live your life to the fullest, Gabriella.
You really do deserve the best.
Just promise you won't forget to remember me.
Love always,
Troy."
The words were hushed, and my voice quivered, but my mind never wavered for a second.
"I promise." A wind blew through the open window, dragging my words a long with it.