CHAPTER 8
Toby had just settled into bed, and was flipping to the page he had left off on. The binding of his copy of The Catcher in the Rye was minimally functional at best, worn and torn from countless re-reads before. He had vowed that he would purchase a new one someday, but the musty scent of the pages in the one he owned was somehow welcoming. It was like being called home from a far off land, and he gleaned inexplicable comfort from the waves of nostalgia it brought.
He was turning to the next page when he noticed her, the silhouette of her frame casting a faint shadow into his room. He glanced up, his gaze traveling through his own window and across the small yard into hers. She was standing in front of the glass, a look of mysterious distress marring her features, visible even in the darkness of her bedroom.
He set the book aside on his nightstand and approached her. She was already pushing her window open, and he hooked his fingers around the handles of his to do the same.
She leaned over the sill, a warm summer breeze catching her hair in its path. When he propped his upper body out of the opening, their faces were barely fifteen feet apart. His parents had always complained about the proximity of the houses in their neighborhood, but he and Spencer had always appreciated the easy access of talking to one another.
"What's the matter?" he asked, quietly enough to ensure that he wouldn't wake his parents. The echo between the houses always served to carry his voice properly to her ears nonetheless.
"I can't sleep," she replied, wringing her fingers together nervously. "I'm home alone and I made the stupid mistake of watching The Exorcist."
He chuckled, arching an eyebrow in her direction. "Now why did you do that?"
"I don't know," she whined, her voice suddenly sounding much younger than it should. "Because I'm a dumbass."
He shook his head in playful disbelief. "You know this is what happens to you. Every time."
"I know," she groaned, chewing pensively on her thumbnail. "Can you come over? Just until I get tired?"
He bristled a bit at the idea. "Me? What about Ian?"
She rolled her eyes, pulling a face as if to say 'are you kidding?'
"I'll take that as a 'no'."
"Please, Toby? Just for a bit?"
He sighed heavily, but could not suppress the urge to smirk in her direction. This was not the first time she had requested his nighttime company, and it would certainly not be the last. Her parents were gone frequently on business, and ever since Jason and Melissa had gone off to college, she found herself alone more often than not. "Fine. I'll be over in a second."
She hopped victoriously as she reached out to shut her window.
He didn't even bother to change out of his pajama pants, slipping his tennis shoes on without socks. He crept downstairs – knowing that his parents had never and would never approve of the frequent midnight visits he and Spencer partook in – and slipped through the garage door. He jogged across the yard and up her porch, where she was waiting with the door open.
"Thank you," she breathed appreciatively as he crossed the threshold. "I can't even close my eyes without picturing Linda Blair's head spinning in circles."
He laughed teasingly. "Of all the movies to scare you…really? A low-budget 70's horror film?"
"Shut up," she snapped, punching him in the shoulder. "First of all, it's a cult classic. Low budget or not. And second – a movie doesn't need gratuitous gore to be scary."
"It's too late for big words like that," he insisted, peering into her fridge. "Can I have a soda?"
"Go for it," she agreed, propping herself onto the counter. "I saw that you were reading The Catcher in the Rye again."
He came to stand next to her, popping open the top of his can. "Yeah. You know it's my favorite."
"I know," she quipped, kicking her legs out nonchalantly like a child on a swing. "I just don't get why you like it so much. I think Holden Caulfield is quite possibly one of the most unlikable protagonists in literary history."
"He's authentic," Toby argued. "He doesn't fit the stereotype of your average hero. He has layers – and he feels like a real person."
She was peering at him from out of the corners of her eyes, her mouth pressed into a thin line as she considered this.
"I don't know why you always say you suck at English," she began uncertainly. "You understand it a lot more than you give yourself credit for."
He shrugged noncommittally, taking a sip of his soda. "Yeah, I guess."
There was a beat before she hopped down from the counter. "What do you feel like doing?"
"Hmm," he murmured thoughtfully. "You wanna watch Halloween?"
She made a face and punched him in the shoulder again. "Very funny."
He chuckled into his soda, being careful to swallow instead of spitting it out. "Scrabble?"
A delighted grin appeared on her face, and she nodded once in confirmation. "That's more like it. I'll go grab it. Make yourself comfortable and get ready for an ass-kicking."
"Oh-ho-ho," he laughed with mock incredulity, calling after her from the next room. "Pretty sure of ourselves, aren't we?"
She returned with the box in hand, flicking her eyebrows at him knowingly.
"Yes, Gollum. 'We' are," she asserted jokingly, poking fun at his use of plural phrasing. "If there's one thing you should know about me by now, it's that I don't like to lose."
"You don't like to be embarrassed," he corrected, settling into a seat at the kitchen table. "There's a difference."
Something indiscernible flickered across her face, and was gone as soon as it had arrived. If asked, he would have guessed that it was some degree of shame at being called out. "You're right," she offered bluntly. "I don't like that, either."
She had started setting up the game board when he noticed that there was something additional behind her eyes – something he hadn't noticed when he came in.
"What else is wrong?" he ventured softly.
It was as though his acknowledgement of her distress was enough to erase it entirely. She looked up at him, plastering a smile on her face once more. "Nothing," she said easily. "I'm just glad I don't have to be alone tonight."
She picked a Nicholas Sparks book-turned-movie.
Of course she did. Why wouldn't she? It was a girl thing, and though Spencer defied several feminine stereotypes, she was still a woman at heart – and that meant she had some deep-seated affinity to romantic dramas.
The plot of this particular film, The Lucky One, was like a heavy dose of déjà vu, eerily reminiscent of the current situation. She, however, did not appear to notice it. Or maybe she did – he couldn't necessarily be sure. But the way she was crying softly at the ending, her face buried in her knees to muffle the sound, seemed harmless enough. If he had to guess, he would wager that they were just good, old-fashioned tears shed for fictional characters. If it were personal, she would have asked to turn the movie off long ago. She didn't deal well with confronting this sort of stuff head on. Not right away, at least. That had been made glaringly obvious earlier tonight.
Either way, the likeness was uncanny. And it was hitting him a bit harder than he had expected. It only furthered his desire to hunt Ian down for the sole purpose of throttling him, and confused him all the more about the various layers of the situation at hand. He had known her all his life and was unfailingly protective of her – he always had been. But things just felt…different, now. He couldn't explain it, and he wasn't sure he even wanted to try.
By the time the movie ended and the credits started rolling, Spencer was scooting over toward him to gently rub his arm.
"Are you okay?" she asked, laughing tearfully.
"What?" he said distractedly. He noticed for the first time that there was unfamiliar moisture dribbling down his cheek. He had actually shed a goddamn tear. He wiped it away hurriedly. "Yeah, I'm fine."
She pursed her lips together to hide a smile, raising her eyebrows teasingly.
"Really," he insisted, clearing his throat. His tone deepened, as though he were subconsciously trying to assert his masculinity. "I'm good."
"All right…" She giggled quietly to herself, standing and stretching gratuitously. "You want anything to drink?"
He peeked into his cup, finding that it was indeed empty. "Sure. Some more water would be great."
"You got it." She took the glass and made her way into the kitchen.
He was absent-mindedly watching as the credits continued rolling, wishing he could begin to understand why she was neglecting to see the connection. It wasn't as though she wasn't smart enough to find it – Hell, she had coached him all through high school English about metaphors, and allusions, and allegorical homages. The intertwining of their lives on film was glaringly obvious, even to him. But Spencer, somehow or another, was an expert at regarding her private life as something differently entirely. Maybe she was in denial. Or maybe she just knew that if she thought too much about it, it would break her.
"What's this?"
He turned to see her returning to the living room, his glass in one hand, and the small gift bag in the other. He had nearly forgotten all about it.
"Oh…Just something I picked up for you."
The corners of her lips turned slightly upwards in a shy smile as she sat down beside him. "You didn't have to do that…"
He met her eyes, doing his damnedest to look past the growing swollenness beneath the one. If she didn't want to acknowledge it anymore, he wasn't going to draw attention to it.
"I know I didn't," he said softly. "But I wanted to."
Something strange passed across her face, but was gone in the blink of an eye. She was smiling once more. "Can I open it?"
He nodded to confirm, and the moment he did, she was rifling through the tissue paper like a child on Christmas morning.
"It's not much," he began quickly, suddenly feeling self-conscious about his quality of gift selection. "I mean, I just saw it and I thought of you, and I figured with the new job and all…"
He trailed off as she unearthed the day planner, her fingers running over the embossing of her name on the front cover. It was made from a striking shade of dark blue leather, complimented aesthetically by the silver color of the lettering. She was staring at it pensively, her eyes neglecting to meet his.
His panic intensified at her hesitation, and he began to reach out to rid her of it. "I'm sorry – if you don't like it, I can take it back and get something else."
She pulled it out of reach, her gaze finally traveling back to lock with his. He wasn't sure what emotion was in her expression – the way her brow furrowed and her mouth tensed, she looked almost sad. But that reaction didn't make a damn bit of sense.
"This is not something you just saw and picked up," she murmured with half-hearted accusation. "You had my name engraved on it."
"I mean, yeah," he started, suddenly feeling cornered. "That part only took a few minutes. They just took it behind the counter, and – "
Before he could finish, she was throwing her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Hesitantly, he hugged back, inhaling the scent of her vanilla coconut shampoo. It was the same one she had always used when they were young, and was full of ambiguous nostalgia.
She pulled back after a beat and – was he imagining things? – wiped quickly at her eyes. "It's beautiful," she said at last, her voice raspy with emotion.
He smiled a bit, uncertain of what to say. In the end, he just settled for the most socially acceptable response: "You're welcome."
She set it lovingly on the coffee table, meticulously lining the corner of the binding with the corner of the wood. When she looked back at him, there was an affectionate sparkle in her eyes. He found himself wondering where he had seen that expression before, but quickly dismissed his inner ramblings as she suddenly yawned.
"You've had a long day," he surmised quietly, clapping his hands on his knees. "Maybe you should get some rest."
Just as he was making to stand, she tugged at his wrist, looking at him pleadingly. "No. No…Please don't go."
He glanced down at her, studying her face. He thought about all the nights she spent alone at her house when they were teenagers, and how she hated being left by herself. Especially when she was wrestling with something heavy on her mind.
"Are you sure?" he asked, sitting back down beside her. She was still clinging to him as she nodded fervently.
"Positive." Her eyes flickered to the list of movies on the television screen and then back to him, and she grinned. "I'll let you pick the next one."
He feigned deep thought, stroking at his stubbly chin. "Hmm…All right. Deal. But no more of this chick flick stuff. I want something with action."
She handed the remote over as a token of acceptance for these terms. He browsed through the guide.
"Okay. The Dark Knight Rises," he decided quickly, setting the controller aside and lounging back triumphantly. She pulled a face that he saw out of his peripheral vision, and he scoffed with good-natured incredulity.
"What? You said I could pick!"
"I know, I know," she agreed hastily. "I just…Batman?"
"I just…Zac Efron?" he retaliated mockingly. She walloped him in the arm laughingly.
"Okay! Okay! You win!" she conceded, throwing her hands up in surrender. The happiness etched in her features brought out a tiny dimple just beside her mouth, and he found himself surprised that he had never noticed it before.
"Damn straight," he said. "Now stop complaining and watch cinematic history unfold before your eyes."
So much for cinematic history. She was out like a light, her head lolling back against the couch, long before the climax of the movie even came around. It wasn't as though she hadn't been engaged – on the contrary. She had just about jumped out of her skin in excitement at the appearance of Catwoman. Regardless, she had continued yawning throughout most of the film, struggling to keep her eyes open. He couldn't fault her. After everything she had dealt with today – all of the physical and emotional turmoil – she had every right to be exhausted.
He peered at her every once in a while as the movie continued, checking to make sure he wasn't disturbing her. She couldn't have been more oblivious – she was mumbling quietly in her sleep, a small smile playing at her lips. The way the light from the television danced across her face accentuated the lines of her features, and he found it hard to look away sometimes. His eyes always seemed to return to that spot on her cheekbone…the place where Ian had struck her. Domestic assault in any context was far and away an unforgivable act in Toby's book – but even worse was the idea that that anyone could lay a hand on Spencer, specifically. She had never been anything less than generous and compassionate in all the time he had known her. Hurting her was like challenging God Himself to a duel. And he hoped the entire incident would come back to haunt Ian on that fateful judgment day – an occasion that, if Toby had anything to say about it, would be fast approaching.
Within the last few minutes of the movie, she had stirred enough to adjust her position, her head finding the crook of Toby's neck. She hummed briefly in her slumber as she got comfortable once more.
He gazed down at her, unable to suppress the urge to brush the hair away from her face. He allowed his fingertips to linger at her temple for a moment, tracing a pattern just outside her hairline. It was difficult to explain – nigh impossible, actually – but something about it felt right. Her scent was calming, and the sensation of her slow, even breathing tickling at his collarbone was one of the most natural things he'd ever experienced. He was lucky that he had seen the movie before. He hadn't exactly been paying much attention to it.
When the credits began, he knew it was time for him to go. A small surge of disappointment fleetingly passed through him, but he dismissed it as mere worry for the state of her wellbeing. The fear that once he left, she would be a victim of her own solitude once more, haunted by her nightmares.
He rotated his body in slight, enough to scoop his free arm underneath her knees. Her lithe frame was easy to lift as he stood and made his way back to her bedroom. Gently pushing open the door with her feet, he carried her to the bed and began to slowly set her in.
She stirred a bit again, her brow creasing unpleasantly about something in her dreams. He quietly began to lift the comforter over and around her body. Once it was tucked all around her to his satisfaction, he knelt down to admire her sleeping figure one more time. She looked more peaceful in slumber than he had seen her as of late, and he felt an unfamiliar tugging of his heart strings as a result.
He didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay here and memorize the angelic expression on her face – something he could think back to in moments of crisis. A reminder that there was a time that she was happy, and that those days would someday return.
He combed some loose hair behind her ear again, just as he had done on the couch. A small smile teased her tired mouth, and he leaned forward to briefly brush his lips against the soft skin of her forehead. It was something he had done hundreds of times before. It had always been a reminder that he would protect her, no matter what the cost. But somehow, this one was different. It had more underlying meaning than he could possibly comprehend.
"Toby," she murmured quietly, and he felt his flesh goose over in reply.
"Hmm?" he asked, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly across her injured cheek.
"Stay with me until I fall asleep," she pleaded in tired monotone, her eyes not even opening to make the request.
He chuckled quietly. "You are asleep."
She was very minimally coherent. Her breathing was evening out once more, and he knew she was about to fall back under. "Please," she said, her tone all but inaudible.
He watched her drift away, and considered the Pandora's Box that something as simple as a sleepover could open. It was innocent enough by all counts, but could be bleeding nuance by morning.
In the end, he consented to do as she asked. She had certainly had the day from Hell, and anything he could do to make it a little less unbearable was a necessary choice. He stepped out of his shoes and crawled onto the bed from the other side, deciding that it was probably most appropriate for him to stay on top of the covers. He scooted closer to garnish some of her body heat, and she unconsciously rolled over to face him. They weren't touching at all, but some mysterious warmth immediately enveloped him nonetheless.
He watched her face for a while as sleep slowly overtook him, mentally tracing the faint freckles that kissed her nose and splattered against her cheekbones. He was almost completely asleep when an earlier thought made a surprising return.
The facial expression of hers that had boggled him so brutally earlier – the face that he had seen somewhere before, and couldn't quite put his finger on where.
It was the way that Caleb looked at Hanna.
