Chapter 14

He had understood her meaning completely. Even if he hadn't caught her hints he still would have asked her to promise, and he looked at her lingeringly, hopefully, wanting confirmation. Billie watched him, alarmed to find he was slightly starring, waiting for her to answer. He was serious.

"Well, yes," she tried not to sound so bewildered. Concentrating on her words more confidently she tried again. "Yes, of course."

John's smile was constant, only growing slightly larger after her words. She wanted it as much as he did- more time, another encounter. A future.

It was hard to move her gaze away from his face. She thought him absolutely gorgeous. In the night as they passed patches of dull light shadows crossed his features. She had never seen a face so...perfect. His straight nose, bow lips, perfectly symmetric high cheeks. A lock of dark hair hung over his forehead and his Adams-apple moved every time he spoke and gulped. The natural movement fascinated her. She had never been so close to a grown man that she felt in any way romantic toward. The differences between them were compelling. Instead of frightening her or putting her off they drew her closer toward him like a magnet.

Through the windshield she saw a familiar road. They had reached their destination. A deep weight of sadness fell heavily upon her. Sensing this as well John began to slow the car.

"It's that house, right over there," she pointed. Her voice was a whisper, quieter than anything else she had said that night and her disappointment was clear. For John, it was painfully obvious. Her emotions mirrored his. Following her direction he spotted the house, parking the car in front of a long driveway. He would have gladly walked her to the door but as he looked at the house he imagined the others that lived there...thinking especially of her mother.

In any other circumstance this would not be a problem; her mother would not be a factor in any way. Because he felt the way he did, even if her mother didn't know, he would automatically feel unwelcome. He was the enemy. For him to have any feelings toward the girl that weren't platonic instantly signaled him out as the predator. A monster. And if the woman did realize his feelings, his intentions (whatever those were), she would undoubtedly be disgusted. Not to mention, the more people that saw his face the more he risked.

After the car was parked he reached forward, pulling the keys out of the ignition. A deeper silence drifted over them. She had not run from the car or gathered her things to leave even then after they had stopped, after she should have properly gone. She stayed there in her seat, unmoving. Now he was able to turn his body toward her slightly, observing her stagnant form. Aware that her behavior was strange she knew why he watched her and at the moment could only offer another nervous smile. He returned in and she adjusted in the seat but did not make to move any further.

"I just...don't want to leave yet," she admitted in another whisper. Her eyes shifted to him anxiously, seeing that her words caused a joyous reaction. He looked at her dreamily, in a way no man had ever looked at her before, even those her own age.

"I don't want you to either."

Her smile widened, her eyes downcast while she blushed. John couldn't see it clearly but he was almost positive the color was rising to her cheeks again. In her lap she held books, her hand resting gently on a notebook atop the stack. His eyes followed her beautiful hands, her slender fingers with their long nails, as they rested on the cover. Her notebook had handwriting across the front, the name of its owner. Evelyn Frechette. His brows furred slightly. "Evelyn Frechette," he repeated the name aloud, pronouncing the last name precisely. She did not correct him; he'd spoken accurately. "Evelyn?"

With his last word, her name, John's eyes rose to meet her face. She nodded, feeling a strange tingle of pleasure inside her at hearing her name spoken with that deep drawl. It faded quickly enough, the explanation she was about to tell giving off somber vibrations. In fact, the words would be so dismal she paused a moment, wondering if she should say them at all. Would it ruin the moment? What moment were they having, anyway? She realized with a sad sigh there really wasn't anything, at least nothing tangible, happening. She had nothing to loose. He was asking her something and she would answer.

"That's my name. Evelyn. Billie is...just a nickname. You see...when I was eight my father died. His name was William, and so I've become Billie in his honor."

She did not look at him as she said this. John watched her carefully, aware he was hearing for the first time a serious piece of information, one she wasn't as quick to talk about. She found him worthy of this knowledge, telling him openly, and he felt heavy waves of sympathy, empathy and...love...pouring out for her. There was a need he felt to protect Billie from such sadness and loss and also a wanting to share; to know the burden of it all, be there with her in it, and to maybe take some of the load off. There was no way for him to do this, the events having happened in the past, but his desire for it was overwhelming. That, to him, was love.

He cleared his throat quietly. "My mother passed away when I was three."

She looked up, surprised at his words. "Really?" He nodded without speaking, she trying to imagine all the feelings and thoughts they shared, that he would understand in a way like no one else. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Likewise," he replied quickly but softly. The biggest gap between them was years. There were things she had yet to experience that he had, that she couldn't know about other than by living through them. This experience they shared, all the ache and burden of it, and they felt closer, like some of those years were being shaved away. He mentioned to her how he was younger when it happened; he being three and she eight. There were differences in their situations due to that but the loss was the same. Living with it and the thoughts and emotions that came after were things everyone in their position felt.

A small discussion came after this. He thought her loss to be a greater one for she had more years with her father, therefore more understanding, than he did with his mother passing when he was only an infant. Adding to his point was the fact that John's father had remarried quickly. He had another mother figure soon. Billie's mother had never remarried. The space where her father had left had never been filled again. Billie countered John's thoughts by saying though this was true, their loss could also seem equal. John didn't get a real chance to ever know his mother in the way Billie knew and had memories with her father. That, she said, was a loss just as great.

Feeling funny that she was making him think and ponder emotions and thoughts he always left buried deep in himself, he started getting quiet. A heaviness had let itself into their conversation and the general mood. It wasn't bad but it wasn't what either of them had set out for. Through the shadows in the car a patch of light rested on the dashboard. John raised his hand so the light reflected on the back of his hand, a shadow of his fingers then appearing in front. For some time he twisted and turned his wrist, watching the images his hand contorted on the dashboard.

Billie looked over at him, seeing his eyes downcast in thought and though she desperately wished she knew what he was thinking, she knew she ought to change the subject entirely. Once again she thought back to where they had last been.

"And what's your name, then? Your last name," she asked specifically, speaking with a smile to indicate to him they could free themselves of the previous moment. "Jimmy...?"

Meeting her eyes, hearing her inquiry, the heaviness was not lifted from John but added to. She wanted to know his name, the one that accompanied "Jimmy." Sometimes John wasn't Jimmy. He was Jack, or Carl. He was everyone but himself, and to this girl that's exactly what he wanted to be but couldn't. When she said the name "Jimmy" he cringed inside. It was a reminder of the charade he was putting on and the deception he was putting her through. What he wanted with her, and he wasn't quite sure of the specifics yet, was something fundamentally honest. It was he, himself, who was ruining that already.

He gazed at her face, so pure and beautiful, and hated himself for lying the way he did; for the hurt it might give her if she knew.

"Lawrence," he answered in a whisper, one filled with heartache. "Jimmy Lawrence."