Your mind
It makes me wanna know you more
So tell me what we have in store
Tell me everything...
-Not Just a Girl by She Wants Revenge
It's the last day of June. Lydia is in her bedroom, getting ready to go out with Stiles. He is downstairs with Prada. From the sound of it, they are playing with the toy he got her a few weeks earlier; symphony of a jingling bell, Prada's excited barks, and Stiles's beautiful laughter filling the entire household.
Lydia smiles. If she wasn't so happy that Prada formed such a strong attachment to Stiles, she might be jealous that her little Papillon would rather be skidding across the hardwood floors in the living room, chasing after a ball, than stretched out on Lydia's bed like a princess.
She finishes pinning the front section of her hair to the crown of her head and turns her attention to her aqua-colored jewelry box. Lifting the lid, she pokes through a small collection of studs and dainty dangling earrings, none of which compliment her outfit. Quirking her mouth to one side, she pushes the lid down and opens the drawer. Inside, her bracelets are neatly arranged as usual, but beside them, there is an empty space – one that makes her stomach sink and her eyebrows cinch together.
Something is missing.
Lydia quickly removes the bracelets and lays them out on the dresser. Her fingers return to the drawer, carefully exploring every inch of its satin lining. Much to her dismay, they come up with...nothing.
She pulls the drawer out of its track and feels inside the frame of the jewelry box. It's not there.
Hastily, she refills the drawer and pops it back into place. As her eyes scan the surrounding area, Stiles enters the room and comes to stand behind her. From the corner of her eye, Lydia can see his reflection in the mirror.
"So... Prada is passed out on the couch," he informs her as he presses his lips to the side of her temple. "She'll probably sleep the whole time we're out."
"Uh...that's good," Lydia answers after a short delay.
"You almost ready?" he asks, gently massaging her shoulders.
"Yeah...um...almost." Her hands sweep along the vintage runner that is draped across her dresser. It's not there either.
Her heartbeat is a little too fast, so she takes a breath, opens the top drawer of her dresser, and starts rummaging through her neatly folded array of camisoles and undergarments. She tells herself the drawer may have been opened last time, that perhaps it fell inside.
Stiles is observing her curiously. "You forget something?" he teases, long fingers dipping into the neckline of her dress as if he is checking for her bra.
"Very funny," she comments dryly while nudging him with her hip.
His hands go still. "Lyds, what's the matter?"
"Nothing," she shrugs.
"Hey, this is me you're talking to. I know you. Something's wrong – I can hear it in your voice, see it on that beautiful face of yours... I can even feel how tense you are," he points out.
Lydia closes the dresser and lets her arms drop to her sides in surrender. She can't argue with him. Stiles knows her better than anyone ever has...and she wouldn't have it any other way.
"It's silly," she quietly confesses, finally lifting her gaze to make eye contact with him in the mirror.
He pulls a face – the one that reminds her there is nothing she could say to him that he would brush off as silly or insignificant. Hands firmly planted on her shoulders, Stiles turns her around to face him. "Tell me," he coaxes.
She sighs and hooks her index fingers through the belt loops on his jeans, towing him a bit closer. The closer Stiles is, the easier it is to ignore the nagging part of her that insists she is making a big deal out of nothing.
"I can't find my sea glass. I always keep it in my jewelry box, but it's not there...and I don't know where else it could be," she explains. "I was so sure that I put it back the last time I had it out. I know it's just a piece of glass...except it's more than that to me. It's from Beryl Cove...the day we drove up there to see the sunrise, and that day was so perfect. I just..." she trails off as she watches Stiles.
His eyelids fall shut, and he is scrunching up his face – the way that he does when one of his plans goes awry.
"Stiles?"
"I almost made it..."
"What do you mean?"
He slowly opens his eyes. "Lydia, it's not lost," he assures her, moving his hands to the sides of her neck and stroking her jaw with his thumbs. "I took it."
"What—When?"
"Last week...before we left for San Francisco."
Her eyes widen with confusion. "Why would you do that?"
He sucks in his lower lip and releases it with a response. "Come here... Come sit with me, and I'll explain."
Taking her hand, he guides her to the tufted bench at the foot of her bed. They sit down, facing each other. Stiles keeps hold of her hand, bringing it to his lips and apologetically kissing her knuckles. Lydia guesses she should be annoyed at him, but she isn't. She is certain he must have had a good reason for taking the sea glass without asking, so she smiles her unspoken forgiveness and lovingly runs her fingertips across his forehead wondering what that incomparable mind of his has been up to.
"Okay, I know we agreed not to do the whole anniversary thing...with gifts or some kind of stuffy formal date...and I'm good with it 'cause that's not who we are...and honestly, there are a lot of anniversaries between us...so I'd probably be bankrupt by Christmas," he rambles into a joke.
She laughs quietly while fondly shaking her head at his sardonic wit.
He gives in to a crooked grin but, following an emotional flutter of his lashes, it begins to fade, signaling to Lydia that what he wants to say is important.
"Still, I really wanted to give you something...something to show you how much you mean to me...how much what we have means to me."
He looks so sweet, so unexpectedly vulnerable that she can't help but reassure him. She tightens her grasp on his hand. "You show me all the time. Every single day."
"I hope I do...but after that day at the cove, I had this idea, and I couldn't get it out of my mind..." He slides his free hand into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.
Lydia's heart quickens, this time not for fear of having lost something but rather with excitement over what she is about to find.
"And unless I'm forgetting something," he continues, "today is just a normal day... Right?"
"Right," she whispers. At least it was...up until now.
"So, I figured it would be okay if I..." he pauses as a full smile reshapes his mouth. "Well...I was going to give this to you tonight...but now is just as good."
When he offers the box to her with a hopeful expression, it seems more like he is handing her his heart. She reverently accepts it; butterflies in her stomach and tingling in her veins that sparks from where their fingers are touching. Lydia doesn't want to let go of his other hand, and Stiles must know it because he opens the lid for her.
The breath catches in her throat when her eyes take in the sight of a pendant – orange and blue glass in the shape of a heart, seamlessly fused to resemble a sun-kissed sky over clear ocean waters.
Her eyes flick from the pendant to his eyes, which are glistening with light and brimming with love.
"Stiles..." she exhales, heat engulfing her chest and rising to her cheeks as she realizes, "that's made from both of our pieces of sea glass, the ones we found together... Isn't it?"
"Yeah," he nods.
Hand trembling, she carefully reaches out to touch it. That is when she notices a second heart pendant behind the glass one. It's solid silver, and it's engraved with their initials, LM + MS, complete with an infinity sign below...the same as the symbol they drew in the sand.
"Stiles," she repeats, "the inscription – it even looks like our handwriting. How did you...?"
"I showed the picture we took at the cove to the jeweler...the one on the corner of Ashford Street...and she copied it."
"And the sea glass..."
"It's welded together. When I asked if it was possible, she told me she'd have to test them to make sure they had the same properties. She called it some kind of coefficient."
"Shading coefficient," she fills in for him. "It's a measure of the thermal performance of glass."
"Yeah, that's it," he says, touching her cheek. "Of course you know that... You're brilliant." He kisses her forehead, then nuzzles along the side of her face, voice smooth as silk as he speaks to her. "The jeweler said the bond wouldn't hold unless the two pieces were a perfect match, and that it's super rare for that to be the case with different colored glass, but as it turns out...these are."
She lets his words set in, lets her mind process how fitting it is that these two formerly broken pieces could be permanently fused together to create one whole heart – a flawless representation of their forever kind of love.
"Do you like it?"
She arches back to look at him. "Like it? I love it," she corrects, tone hushed by heavy emotion as a single tear rolls down her cheek.
Stiles is beaming, and Lydia knows that he heard the implicit I love you in her response as well. She finally lets go of his hand so she can cup his face with her palms and kiss him. She kisses him...over and over, feels him grip her waist and pull her closer. Then she hugs him, squeezes him with all the strength in her body so he knows how profoundly he has touched her. They stay like that, Lydia with her nose buried in his neck and Stiles dropping occasional kisses on her shoulder.
Eventually, she breaks from the embrace, still smiling as she takes the necklace out of the box and holds it up between them. Sunshine is streaming through the windows; it makes the sea glass flicker with the light of an eternal flame and the silver metal shine almost as brightly as Stiles's eyes.
She admires it for a moment before asking, "Will you help me?"
"Sure."
Lydia turns and lifts her hair up, and Stiles secures the chain around her neck, his hands barely grazing her skin but nevertheless igniting fireworks inside her. The pendant falls slowly into place, landing directly over her sternum. She presses her palm above it, feels her heart pulse stronger underneath it.
"I'm going to wear this all the time," she tells him, "so I'll always have you close to me."
Stiles kisses the nape of her neck, then leans his forehead there. His warm exhales delicately caress her skin as his hands curl around her hips. "I didn't ruin the surprise...by making you think you lost your sea glass?"
"No, you didn't ruin anything," she replies, turning in his arms. "You make everything better," she adds before resting her head on his shoulder. Then, she directs her gaze to the pendant once more, holds it between her fingers while smoothing her thumb over the sand-polished glass. "Orange and blue..."
"Yeah, orange and blue," he echoes softly.
"Because..." she lifts her head to look into his eyes, "sometimes things you wouldn't think would be a good combination...end up turning out to be a perfect combination."
"You remember that?"
"Yes. I remembered the night you came home, but..."
"What?"
"There's a blank space. I remember sitting on the bleachers with you. I also remember when I saw...well, you know..."
"Yeah, I know," he says, tightening his arm around her.
"But in between...there was something else. Wasn't there?"
"Yeah. In between...there was just us."
"I wish I could remember. I've thought about it a lot in the past weeks, but I always get stuck at the same point."
"Where?"
"As soon as we set foot on the ice, I go blank."
"Maybe you need a little help." His expression is pensive as he tucks her hair behind her ear. "Why don't we ditch our plans...go ice skating instead? It might trigger your memory."
"You don't mind?"
"No, not at all. We'll be together...and today, there won't be anything to interrupt us. What could be better?" he questions, leaning closer.
"Nothing," she smiles, in anticipation of his kiss.
He presses his lips to hers, eases the pain of forgetting with the overwhelming amount of affection he communicates. She kisses him back, savors every second of it too, silently thanking whomever aligned the stars in her favor so that she can share a heartbeat and another breath with Stiles.
When he stands up and holds out his hands for her, she accepts them without hesitation. He leads her to the closet they now share. Lydia digs out her leg warmers and a creamy white cardigan. She watches Stiles peel off his tee shirt, swap it for a long-sleeved one, then grab a charcoal grey hoodie and sling it over his shoulder. Together they head downstairs, passing by the living room to check on Prada, who is still sleeping peacefully on the sofa. They exchange a smile before locking up the house and hopping into Lydia's car.
Twenty minutes later, they are sitting on the bleachers at Lynbrook Ice Rink, both of them pleased to find that they are the only two people in Beacon Hills who had the impulse to go skating on a hot summer day.
Lydia had been optimistic on the short drive through town. Shades of orange and blue seemed more prevalent and more vivid; colors of an unexpectedly perfect combination were everywhere in sight. In the California poppies blooming in the square at Andrews Hill and the wings of monarch butterfly that fluttered past the windshield when they were delayed at a stop sign. In the cerulean of the cloudless sky and the saturated lapis of her dress. There were even orange and blue rainbows splashed across the dashboard, where sun rays were refracting off her pendant. Whenever she looked over at Stiles, he was smiling at her. His eyes were happy, his left hand confidently resting on her thigh, pleasant weight of it anchoring her to him. Every block closer to the rink felt like one step closer to another memory. Another memory of Stiles and all of the awe-inspiring ways he has imprinted his mark on her heart with a word...or a touch...or a glance.
But now, Lydia feels a burst of nervous energy. She stares at familiar surroundings with pursed lips while she fusses with her leg warmers. She didn't assume reclaiming her memory would be as easy as walking inside the building, however nothing is any clearer than it was before they arrived. She makes an effort to concentrate on securing her skates, but her hands won't cooperate. They clumsily fumble with the laces, until Stiles stills them with his own...because he understands her on a level which goes beyond spoken word, beyond reason; Stiles understands her on a level that goes soul deep.
He tilts her chin up. "Lyds, look at me," he tenderly instructs. "There's no pressure here... Okay? Whether you remember or not, we'll still have a great time."
She closes her eyes briefly and exhales slowly. "You're right. I just...don't want to disappoint you, if I can't—"
"Hey, you could never... You've been trying so hard to remember everything. Do you have any idea what that does to me..." he asks with bewilderment as he takes her hand and places it over his heart, "in here?"
Her vision blurs as she waits for him to finish.
"All I want is for us to be together," he affirms, sliding his fingers between hers. "I love you, Lydia, so much, and even if you never remember another thing about our past, I'll be happy just to be with you for the rest of my life."
She never ceases to be astounded by the limitless scope of his love, how it equals her adoration for him in every possible way.
"Have I told you lately...how amazing you are?" she inquires with dewy eyes and a budding smile.
Stiles instantly responds to her cue, seizing the opportunity to lighten the mood. "Hmm...not since yesterday... I don't mind hearing it again though," he winks before leaning in to kiss her cheek.
She winds her arms around him, and he eagerly reciprocates.
"It's gonna be alright," he croons. "Tell me everything you remember, and we'll take it from there."
She nods into his shoulder. It's barely sixty degrees where they are, but Lydia isn't cold. Not even a bit. She is wrapped up in Stiles, and his perpetual warmth defies the laws of science.
"We were sitting here. Allison... Allison and Scott were over there," she begins, pointing to the right.
The mist returns to her eyes as she pictures her friends; Allison, the girl who was more like a sister to her, in a flowy lace dress and a black and white striped sweater, her dark brunette hair woven into a braid that Lydia styled for her; and Scott, the boy who has become as close to her as a brother, huddled next to Allison, wearing a green shirt, black jeans, and a bashful smile. She can almost see Allison running her hands through Scott's mass of unkempt waves.
"They were...shamelessly flirting with each other," she tries to kid, but her voice cracks with emotion.
"Aww...Lydia..." He turns into her and strokes her hair.
"I miss her. I miss seeing them together."
"Me too," he replies. "Listen, if this is too much, we can stop."
"No, it's good to think of her. It makes me feel like she's not...so far away." She sighs wistfully. "This past month, there have been so many times when I wanted to talk to her...to tell her how good things are between you and me. She would have been really happy for us. I know it."
"I like to think she is happy for us...that somehow she and my mom are out there, watching over us. With all the things we've seen, it doesn't seem so far-fetched... Does it?"
There is a purity in that concept which tugs at her heart. Stiles is more aware than most, of the dark side of the supernatural realm, yet his resilient mind still finds ways to deny the shadows the power they seek. He shines his light on them until they recede, gives Lydia solace...and she falls more in love with him with each passing second.
"No, it doesn't. I like it. I like it a lot."
He kisses the top of her head, and she can feel his chest swell against hers as he inhales.
"What else do you remember?"
"I was complaining that it was too cold. You offered me an extra shirt that you had in your backpack, but I said I couldn't wear it because it was orange and I was wearing blue."
Regret starts to nudge at her stomach, but Stiles gives her a reassuring squeeze. So she keeps talking, striving to focus her attention on the good, on what connected them, rather than what needlessly encouraged distance between them.
"Then, you gave me a Reese's."
"That's right. Ooh...hang on a sec..." he says, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie and pulling out a package of peanut butter cups.
The gesture makes her smile; his thinly veiled excuse for loitering by the vending machines while she was choosing her skates suddenly made sense. She accepts the candy and tears open the package, listening to the distinct crinkle of the orange plastic between her fingers. Then she offers one to Stiles and takes the other for herself.
"I remember what you said to me about perfect combinations, how much it impressed me...the way your mind works."
"Yeah?"
"Uh-huh. But instead of telling you that, I pretended to think you were referring to Allison and Scott." She shifts her gaze to the chocolate candy in her hand. "I wish I hadn't done that. Ugh...I was such an idiot," she grits out.
"Hey, watch it," he cautions her. "You're talking about the woman I love."
"Stiles—"
He puts on his resolve face; left brow arched, lips in a straight line.
She rolls her eyes but when he leans his forehead against hers, she melts into the contact.
"Seriously, it's alright," he resumes. "I'll admit, I was frustrated at first, but...then I realized something."
"What?"
"That you were just being careful with your heart."
"But I didn't need to be. Not with you."
"You didn't know that...but look at how much we've learned about each other since then, how close we are. That changes everything. It changes everything because now I know better..." He pauses to give her a chaste kiss. "Now, I know I was getting to you...even back then."
The corners of her mouth curl upwards. "You definitely were...and you still do," she remarks, touching the pendant he gave her.
"Then, there's nothing to feel bad about," he smiles before devouring his peanut butter cup.
Lydia methodically peels the paper from her Reese's, then she follows his lead, popping the entire candy into her mouth, rather than taking small bites like she did on the night in her memory. She can see how pleased Stiles is, and it makes her happy too. The last traces of regret that burden her conscience dissipate in the time it takes for the chocolate to melt on her tongue. All that remains is the salty peanut butter center and the lasting sweetness of his kiss – an undeniably perfect combination.
"Is there anything else you remember?" Stiles asks after an extended yet comfortable silence.
"Um...we got up from the bleachers and got in the rink, and that's it."
"Okay, so maybe you need to be out there. What do you think?"
"Yeah, it's worth a try."
They link digits, and together they approach the ice. Lydia hasn't skated in more than two years, not since that night, but with Stiles holding her hand, she swiftly gets her bearings. Things are already becoming more and more familiar – the bright lights bouncing off nearly every surface, the cold air rushing across her face, the blades of their skates cutting into the ice, the synchronized cadence in which she and Stiles glide together. It feels good, natural...the way everything does when she is with him.
After they take a lap in unison, he tugs on her hand, and they both come to a stop.
"Anything?"
"Not yet."
"You were by yourself for a bit. You want to try that?" he suggests.
She hesitates to answer.
"It's okay. Just...try to relax. I'll be right here," he promises.
"Right," she nods.
She backs away, keeping her eyes on Stiles and clutching his hand for as long as she can. When she lets go, she takes a breath and follows his advice. She stops trying to remember. She simply feels. Her body begins to unwind; there is a serenity in the rhythmic motion of skating. As she swishes from side to side, her hand automatically moves to her pendant, and Stiles's heartfelt words resound in her mind.
I love you, Lydia, so much, and even if you never remember another thing about our past, I'll be happy just to be with you for the rest of my life.
Her heart races and flutters at the thought of him, at the thought of their future. There is so much to look forward to, and nothing holding her back anymore.
She feels free. She extends her arms and travels in fluid, figure-eight patterns. Her legs are strong beneath her, the fabric of her dress soft as it ripples over the skin of her thighs. Her hair whips around as she pivots and picks up momentum, then she tucks in her arms, closes her eyes...and she spins...and she spins...and she spins.
When she finishes, she instantly finds a focal point. Stiles. He is staring at her; brows arched, eyes wide, wondrous smile gracing his parted lips. She knows that she has never and will never be regarded by anyone else in a way that makes her feel this loved, nor would she want to be. She can't wait to be held by him again, so she pushes off and skates towards him at full speed. Just before his arms open for her, just before she lands in his welcoming embrace – she remembers.
She remembers the night during sophomore year, when everything she needed was in the palm of Stiles's hand.
Lydia stood up and headed to the rink. Stiles was a few paces behind, but they stepped onto the ice together. She remembers the first strides she took. Although she hadn't skated in several years, it felt almost as natural as breathing. She remembers looking to her right, where Stiles was, and he appeared to be equally at ease. She wondered how someone who tended to be unsteady with two feet on solid dry ground could also be so assertively composed on a slick plane of ice...while balancing on four-millimeter-wide steel blades. It was an impressive sight to behold.
She remembers that he allowed a fair amount of space between them. She thought it unnecessary, a bit odd even...but when she considered their conversation just minutes earlier, she understood why he might assume it was appropriate. The notion jabbed at her stomach with surprising intensity.
She hadn't meant to be dismissive. It was obvious to her when Stiles said,
Okay, um...maybe orange and blue is not the best. But, you know, um...sometimes there's other things you wouldn't think would be a good combination...end up turning out to be like a perfect combination. You know? Like two people together...who nobody ever thought would be together – ever
that he had been talking about the two of them – not Scott and Allison...like she had led him to believe she assumed.
But, in the moment, she seized up, and she couldn't curb her compulsion to deflect. She was used to dealing with boys who brazenly pursued her – eyes conspicuously ogling her body, mouths parroting stale pick-up lines and hollow compliments, all the while leaning nearer and nearer, respect for her personal space be damned. It was easy to respond to those boys because they didn't matter to her, they didn't make her feel things. She could prepare a clever retort before they even managed to utter a couple of disingenuous syllables.
What she was not prepared for was for Stiles to communicate with her in such a timid and subtle, yet clear manner. There had been such a hopeful expression on his face too, like he really wanted her to see his point of view. And it got to her. He got to her...more than she was able to admit...especially on a day when the last boy she spent more than ten seconds with had scowled at her, shoved her up against a tiled wall, and forced his unkind hands on her – poking at the still very sensitive wound in her side and grabbing her wrist with the tension of a vice. Hours later, it still hurt.
As Lydia discreetly rubbed her sore wrist, her thoughts wandered down a dark path that took her to an even darker place. A place where phrases from the not so distant past like "dead weight" and "don't expect me to come running" were being hurled at her. A place where recent accusations of having a "soul-killing substance" coursing through her veins were compounded by a harshly shouted "You ruin EVERYTHING!". All of it echoing in a hateful and demeaning tone which assaulted her consciousness until the noise culminated in a cacophony of bitterness and doubt. It was so loud that it made her want to scream.
But then, a soft and forgiving tenor broke her from the intrusive discord.
"Didn't you say that you hadn't skated in a while and that you were out of practice?" Stiles asked. His words weren't extraordinary, but they seemed like an oasis of kindness in the middle of a brutal desert.
She came to an abrupt snowplow stop beside him. Lydia remembers being so grateful to hear his voice that she could have leapt into his arms to hug him...and never let go.
She let herself imagine it for a fraction of a second. Then, blinking into the brightness, she replied, "Yeah... I haven't...and I am."
"Could've fooled me," he remarked.
"I could say the same to you."
He blushed, mouth twitching to minimize a grin. "Well...seeing as how we are both better at this than we thought... How about a race? One lap," he challenged.
There was no trace of annoyance or resentment in his eyes, only mischievous enthusiasm. She was struck by how willing he was to give her another chance, and she didn't want to let it pass her by.
"What are the stakes?" she asked.
"French fries, obviously. Loser has to buy for the rest of the semester."
She laughed silently. His wager flooded her with warmth because it elicited memories of the past week. The past week in which Stiles had been catching her up on the schoolwork she missed when she was in the hospital. The past week in which the two of them had been meeting in the library during their mutual free period, or in the cafeteria at lunch...where they inadvertently made a habit of sharing their French fries, something she hoped would continue for a long time to come.
"You're on, Stilinski. Try not to fall too far behind," she teased, raising one shoulder and smiling at him.
He laughed – a vibrant, beautiful laugh – before lunging ahead without warning. She stared at him in ephemeral shock, then took off after him.
In mere seconds, they were side by side. Together, they dashed forward, playfully speeding up and slowing down as they circled the perimeter of the rink. Whenever Lydia looked at Stiles, he was smiling at her. There wasn't any part of her that could deny how good it was to see him happy.
She remembers getting so caught up in watching him that she didn't realize they had already completed a lap. She didn't even know who had won, but it didn't matter. They were just skating – free and easy, no aim other than to have fun. She couldn't recall the last time she had as much fun...especially not with a boy.
Lydia's heart raced. She wondered if it was because her endorphins were kicking in or if it was because of Stiles, but she had a strong suspicion it was him. She couldn't quite explain the effect he had on her. The way he treated her made her feel...special and normal at the same time.
She was buzzing and tingling with emotion. She felt as though she might burst if she didn't express herself somehow. So she did. She relaxed, stopped thinking so much, and let instinct guide her movements. She remembers extending her arms and traveling in fluid, figure-eight patterns. She remembers the strength of her legs beneath her and the gust of cold air on her skin, which was suddenly invigorating rather than uncomfortable. Her hair whipped around as she pivoted and picked up momentum, then she tucked in her arms, closed her eyes...and she spun...and she spun...and she spun.
Gradually, she drifted out of revolution, kicking one leg out behind her to round into a pirouette. When she opened her eyes, her surroundings were a blur of color, but she quickly found a focal point to steady herself. Taking a breath, she glanced at the ceiling, relieved that she hadn't made herself dizzy. Then her eyes fixed on Stiles...and everything else faded into the background.
She remembers the way he was staring at her; brows arched, eyes wide, mouth agape. No one had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her just then. It made her want to get closer to him. She felt a smile spread across her mouth as she headed in his direction. Her heart fluttered, it may have even skipped a beat or two, and she hoped it wouldn't be the last time Stiles looked at her like that.
As she decelerated, an unusual wave of shyness traveled through her. She shrugged her shoulder but the feeling lingered...until her hand reached for his, drawn by some kind of deeply rooted gravitational force.
"Well... Come on," she said, pulling him with her as she began another lap around the rink.
He welcomed the contact; his palm and fingers completely enveloped hers in a way that offset any concern she might have had about being too forward with him.
She remembers passing Allison and Scott. Scott, who happened to be making an awkward first attempt at skating. In less than one minute, he was splayed across the ice like a wobbly newborn foal – clumsy but cute.
"I think he's getting the hang of it," Stiles jested.
"Um...definitely."
"He'll be skating like you in no time," he added while reducing his velocity. "I um... I didn't know you could skate like that," he commented. "That was amazing. Did you take lessons?"
She coasted, friction slowing her down enough to match his tempo. "Yeah, for a few years."
"Why did you stop?"
"A lot of reasons I guess..." She heard herself being less than honest with Stiles, and when she couldn't come up with a legitimate justification for it, she decided to revise her statement. "Actually, that's not true. There was only one reason."
"What was it?"
"My parents started pushing me to compete. They said there was no point otherwise. For months, I tried to do what they wanted...but it took all the fun out of skating. So, I quit."
"Oh, I'm sorry. You obviously love it though. You must have missed it all these years."
"Yeah, but I don't think I realized how much...until tonight."
"What's your favorite thing about it?"
"The freedom," she replied with tranquil sincerity. "It may sound strange but, when I'm skating, I don't have to think so carefully about my next move. I just...skate...and the less I analyze it, the better I am at it."
"That doesn't sound strange."
"It doesn't?"
"No, not at all."
She brushed aside some strands of hair that were tickling her cheek and gave in to her own curiosity. "Is there anything that makes you feel like that?"
"Sure. Baseball."
"You play?"
"Not on a team...not since little league, but Scott and I practice hitting at Connor's Field all the time."
"What's it like?"
"It's like...getting to shut the rest of the world out. I mean... I can try to anticipate what kind of pitch Scott will throw...decide whether I'm going to swing at it or not. I read him pretty well, so I can usually guess but, there are so many things that can affect how the ball crosses the plate...like how hard he throws it, whether his follow through is complete, even the weather...and once he releases the ball, there's no time to think anymore. All I can do is react...just relax and go on instinct. It kind of forces me to slow down. You know?"
Lydia smiled. "Yeah, that's exactly it."
Stiles just...gets it. Gets her. She remembers thinking that she should be surprised, but she wasn't. Every time they were together, it became more apparent that his mind worked differently than most people's. Even in class, she had noticed he was always finding correlations that others overlooked. He was so perceptive, so aware, so...smart, and he made her want to know him more.
"Hey, Lydia?"
"Hmm..."
"If you wanted too...maybe we could do this again sometime."
"So, you're going to keep paying Boyd to borrow his key...just so we can skate here after hours?"
He shook his head incredulously. "Nah... I can't afford to do that...but I did make a copy of the key," he grinned.
She laughed. "In that case... I might take you up on your offer."
She remembers holding his hand as they continued forward. She remembers thinking that skating with him was a lot like dancing with him – comfortable, natural, and connecting. With Stiles, she didn't feel like dead weight. She didn't feel like someone who ruins everything. With Stiles she felt light, and full of life, and visible...more than visible – seen. It was an unparalleled feeling. New, yet longed for.
She wanted it to last and last...but it didn't.
She remembers the hum of Stiles's phone buzzing in his pocket.
"Crap... Sorry."
"You need to get that?"
"Yeah...it's probably my dad."
"It's alright," she said, trying not to show her disappointment.
"I'll just be a minute. Okay?"
"Sure." Her hand felt bare when she let go of his, but she held back a few strides to give him some privacy.
She remembers a strange sensation coming over her, a kind of fog clouding her mind and momentarily obscuring her vision. It subsided, but then things became even more peculiar. She remembers a trail of tiny purple petals. She was compelled to follow them to their source, a flower which seemed to be embedded in the ice. When she crouched beside the withering bloom, she noticed a murky spot below the frozen surface. Despite the fact that something inside warned her not to look closer, her hands moved to swipe away the shavings of ice that covered it.
That was when she saw it. The face of the thing – the monster that attacked her. The one with vicious red eyes and razor-sharp fangs. The one that had been appearing in gruesome, recurring nightmares, where it would stalk her with relentless cruelty, knock her down, and drag her prone body over the cold damp earth as she clawed at the ground, tearing handfuls of grass with bloodied fingers. A monster so haunting that sometimes she even saw it with her waking eyes.
She began to pound on the ice, striking out in abhorrence as the monster taunted her from within the safety of its shallow grave. She felt wildly out of control. Even the pain in her sore wrist wasn't enough to snap her from the trance she was in. She remembers the sound of her own scream; a guttural, uncontrollable shriek that practically choked her with the raw force it exerted on her larynx. Then, everything blurred to blinding white until...
She remembers being cloaked in warmth. Arms she recognized were protectively wrapped around her as she trembled with fear. Arms that belonged to Stiles.
"I've got you, Lydia. I've got you."
She stilled.
"You're safe with me. I promise."
He had said those words to her before. She believed him, and she hadn't regretted it. She believed him now too. Reaching out, she touched his hand, which was gently gripping her upper arm. As soon as she made contact, the numbness thawed from her chilled fingertips.
"Oh..." she heard him sigh. A wisp of his breath grazed her cheek before he slid on his knees to get in front of her. He braced both of his palms on her shoulders to keep her upright. "Lydia? Lydia, talk to me...please."
She stared at his concerned face. All she could articulate was his name – "Stiles," she croaked.
By then, she could hear Allison and Scott approaching, their skates hurriedly scraping across the rink.
"Lydia! Oh my God, Lydia!" Allison's alarmed timbre called. She skidded to Lydia's side and huddled next to her. "What happened?"
"Allison, give her a second," Scott intervened.
"Scott, she's my best—"
It got quiet, and then Lydia felt Allison's hand on her spine. She didn't know why Allison had abruptly stopped talking, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from Stiles long enough to find out.
He had moved one hand to her cheek. "You think you can stand up?"
She nodded listlessly; half fatigued from shrieking, half captivated by the tenderness of Stiles's touch.
After that, she remembers her friends – surrounding her with support.
Stiles and Allison helped her to her feet. Then, Stiles secured his arm around her waist, and Allison took her hand. They led her to the bleachers to sit down. She remembers trying to untie her skates, but her hands were so uncooperative that she only succeeded in twisting the laces into knots...like the one in her stomach.
Stiles knelt in front of her and covered her hands with his. "Here, let me..." he said sweetly, before making quick work of untangling the mess she had made.
Scott was standing behind Stiles. She remembers the compassion in his eyes as he handed her a bottle of water. She accepted it and took a sip, cool liquid soothing her aching throat.
Allison sought to console her. She sat next to her and smoothed her hair back into place as Lydia's head came to rest on her shoulder. Less than a week earlier, Lydia had done the same for Allison, when her heartbroken best friend told her that her parents had forbidden her from seeing Scott – the boy she loved. Lydia wiped her tears and promised to help her find ways to be with Scott. Once Stiles got involved, their newly forged alliance devised a plan to go ice skating. Allison had been so excited; the opportunity for the four of them to spend quality time together outside of school was really important to her. She chatted with Lydia about it for most of the day, and ever since they arrived at the rink, Allison had hardly stopped smiling.
But Lydia had just had some kind of bizarre hallucination in the middle of what was supposed to be a carefree evening. She remembers thinking that maybe the scathing voice that blamed her for ruining everything had been right.
When Allison said she would drive her home, Lydia's head immediately sprung from her friend's shoulder.
"Oh no, you won't," she refused, still hoarse from screaming.
"Lydia, we came here together. We are leaving together too."
"No," she rigidly repeated. Directing her eyes at Stiles and Scott, Lydia asked, "Could you give us a minute?"
"Uh...yeah..." the boys answered simultaneously.
When they were alone, Lydia argued her case. "Allison, don't you want to spend more time with Scott?"
"Of course I do. But not if that means—"
"And aren't you the one who...for over a week straight...has been pining for him and brooding about how unfair your parents are being?"
"I wouldn't say I was pining and brooding," Allison contended.
"I would," Lydia smirked, nudging her friend with her knee until she smiled back. "My point is... This is your chance – the only thing we've been able to arrange without getting caught or having to pull the plug at the last minute. You and Scott were having fun, and I'm not going to be the one to ruin that on top of everything else."
"What do you mean everything else? You didn't—"
"Nothing. I didn't mean anything by it," she insisted, struggling to swallow the lump of grief in her throat. "Just...go be with Scott, you deserve to be with someone who makes you as happy as he does. I'm fine and..." She turned her attention to Stiles, who was sitting several rows behind with Scott, both of them changing into their sneakers. She got the impression that they were disputing something. Stiles was clearly frustrated, but his expression softened when she called out, "Stiles, could you take me home?"
He seemed surprised but quickly said, "Yeah, no problem."
Her mouth reformed into a smile. Beside the fact that she didn't want to be the reason Allison and Scott had to bring their date to a premature end, knowing she could stay with Stiles a bit longer was a relief. What she had seen that night terrified her. Lydia didn't know what was happening to her. All she knew for certain was that the last time she felt so lost, Stiles had been there, and he made her feel safe.
"See..." she asserted, "It's settled."
"Are you sure?" Allison checked.
"Yes...on one condition."
"What?"
Hands regaining their stability, she removed her skates and slipped into her high-heeled shoes. "You'll call me the second you get home and spill all the details."
Allison lit up into a radiant dimpled smile and threw her arms around Lydia, "You are the absolute best."
"I know," she agreed facetiously; a stark contrast from the fiercely earnest way she hugged her friend.
In the parking lot, Stiles walked Lydia to the Jeep and opened the passenger's side door for her – the same as he did on the night of the dance. Once they were inside, he adjusted the heat and pointed all of the vents in her direction – the same as he had done on the night of the dance. She remembers thinking how nice it was that those gestures weren't just for show or special occasion. They were a reflection of how his mind worked; he was thoughtful, and considerate, and kind.
Twenty minutes later, they were parked in the driveway alongside her house. Neither of them had said much on the ride over, but Lydia could tell that Stiles was on edge. His thumb had been tapping on the steering wheel nearly the whole time, and whenever she looked at him, he was gnawing at his bottom lip. She didn't blame him. The truth was – what happened on the ice worried her too. It felt like a setback, a regression, and it burdened her with the worst kind of anxiety. Something she could only describe as...dread.
An uncomfortable twinge nipped at her wrist. Without thinking, she began to massage it over the sleeve of her black jacket. Through the frost-trimmed windshield, she stared at her house – big...and dark...and empty. Her mother had gone out of town for the day and taken Prada with her. She wouldn't be home until the next morning.
"I could walk you in," Stiles offered.
Apparently, she was an open book to him. Reflexively, her body tensed, and she wrapped her arms around her midsection. She turned towards him with narrowed eyes and her mouth in a pout. She was almost ready to insist that she was fine, no doubt completely capable of walking the short distance from his truck to the door – alone. But his eyes were so soft, his tone so gentle, and his countenance so far from arrogant or condescending. Stiles made her realize that she didn't have to feel so exposed. Not with him. He was her friend after all, and he wanted to help her. Maybe it wasn't so wrong to let him.
She pursed her lips and cautiously replied, "If it's okay...I'd like to sit here for a while."
"Yeah, absolutely. As long as you want."
They were silent for a brief spell, but then, they talked...about a lot of things. They talked until Lydia felt more like herself. Not like the clichéd popular girl who concealed her unhappiness with makeup and an artificial smile, or like the meticulously contrived prima donna in a blood-stained party dress who almost died on the lacrosse field. Not like the traumatized victim who lost two whole days of her life to a fugue state, or like the town whack job who had just been wailing like a lunatic in the middle of a skating rink. Just Lydia Martin – a girl who loved math and science as much as she loved drawing, and ice skating. A girl who could never tire of reading and who spent Sunday mornings at the bookstore in Trenton, not just because it had the best selection of vintage hardcovers she had ever seen, but because no one in town would know her. A girl who thought more deeply and felt more intensely than she knew how to express. A girl who wanted to see the world, leave a mark on it, make it better somehow. Lydia wanted to do so much with her life. She was only fifteen, and she was just trying to figure out how to make her dreams come true.
She doesn't remember how much time passed as they paddled different topics back and forth, but she does remember Stiles quietly asking, "Lydia, are you alright?"
"Um...yeah, I guess," she answered out of habit, unsure of what he was referring to specifically.
"You sure?" he questioned, pointing at her arm.
She lowered her eyes and saw that her sleeve had bunched up. The silvery glow of the half-moon was dim, but it may as well have been a spotlight on the ugly red welt that marred her left wrist. She cringed internally, resisting the urge to cover it.
Before she had the chance to reconstruct her defenses, Stiles spoke again. "I'm sorry...it's just...I noticed you've been favoring it all day," he explained, "and it looks painful."
He lifted his hand, let it hover over the bruise without touching it. She remembers the transfer of heat from his skin to hers, working like a salve to lessen the ache.
"It was painful," she admitted, hesitantly making eye contact, "but not so much anymore."
He nodded, lip twitching as he poked at it with his tongue. She remembers thinking that there was anger hidden beneath that twitch, and beneath the pink shade that tinted his cheeks too. She was pretty sure that he had figured out whose handprint was branded on her wrist, but he didn't toss any accusations around. His next statement was purely about lending Lydia his support.
"Okay. I just want you to know that...if you want to talk about anything – what you saw tonight...or what happened to your wrist... I'll listen."
She wasn't ready to do that. Inhaling sharply, she whispered, "I can't." But as soon as she witnessed the disappointment overshadowing the golden hue of his eyes, she amended, "Not yet."
"Whenever you're ready then, I'm here," he enlightened her.
His sensitive words were enough to minimize most of the shame and discomfort that was weighing down her chest and making her lungs resist full breaths.
She remembers the way he held out his hand for her; palm facing upwards, empty but offering everything she needed...acceptance, patience, understanding...and so much more – a real connection, true friendship.
Her gaze flicked from his hand to his eyes as she debated whether to risk letting him closer. Motionless, Stiles waited, making it clear that he didn't intend to pressure her. Lydia relaxed, stopped fretting about what to do next, and followed her instinct.
She remembers what it felt like when she placed her palm on top of his. She remembers what it felt like when her fingers filled the space between his. A perfect fit. She had to glance away; upsurge of emotion threatening to make her cry. Eyes rapidly blinking and shoulders shaking, she withheld tears. Stiles didn't say a word, but she could almost hear him reassuring her that things would get better. When she gathered enough courage, she looked at him with a genuine smile on her face. He smiled too, and it reached his eyes. Eyes that were gazing back at her like he wanted to give her the moon and the stars, that he in fact would...if she let him. She wanted to tell him that she didn't need any of that. She wanted to tell him that she would be grateful just to have him in her life.
She wanted to tell him so much, but she settled on a simple, "Thank you, Stiles."
"You're welcome, Lydia," he replied.
For a long time afterwards, they sat in the Jeep. They didn't speak. They just held hands, and it felt good.
She remembers thinking that everything between them – the way he danced with her, the way he responded to her after her fugue state, the hours they spent together while he helped her catch up and even get ahead in her classes, and every moment between them that night...even the difficult ones – all of it had been perfect. Perfect because Stiles never pretended. He was never anything other than who he was. And who he was...well...that person was pretty incredible. He was someone whose inherent goodness shone as brightly as the light in his eyes, whose voice, even a distant whisper, could get through to her...no matter how lost she was, and whose mind seemed to have a direct link to his heart...maybe even hers too.
What made it even better was that Stiles was real – living, breathing proof that people are capable of being this good...at least he could.
Further evidence that he was not just a boy. He was a Stiles.
Present Day
Lydia is standing in the middle of the skating rink, blanketed in warmth. Her arms are looped tightly around Stiles, tucked inside that hallowed space between his tee shirt and his hoodie. He has snugly pulled the sides of it around her, and he is keeping them both steady on the ice, his body a pillar of strength and comfort. With every breath, she can feel his chest expand in sync with hers, the pendant he gifted her firmly pressed between their harmoniously beating hearts.
She lifts her head from his shoulder and kisses his cheek...once...twice...three times for good measure.
"Hi, angel," he greets her.
"Hi, my love," she whispers affectionately.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," she smiles. "I really am."
His eyes flare with the light of shared happiness. "Good," he sighs, sliding his hands to her waist. "So... Tell me everything."
"I will. I promise. But first, you should know – you were right."
"It's been known to happen," Stiles grins. "What about?"
"In between all that was going on...there was just us...and it was perfect." She rises to the tips of her skates to give him a kiss. Smoothing her hands over his chest, she continues, "It's always been like that... Hasn't it? World crashing down around us, but we get through it – together." She takes his hand in hers, brings it between them before entwining their fingers. "Somehow, we always fit together."
"We must be made up of the same particles," he deduces, running his thumb over their orange and blue heart. "Two halves of one whole."
"Yes, we definitely are."
They kiss, and it's filled with passion. It's all pressure and deliberate slow motion. Lydia can feel how completely invested Stiles is, and she makes sure he knows that she is too. His arms bring her closer, her hands attentively explore the angles of his face, and their legs shift in tandem to maintain their balance. When they part, it's not completely; noses still touching, abbreviated breaths caressing each other's lips.
He pushes her hair behind her shoulders before resetting his palms at the curve of her low back. "How about we stay a while longer? Make some new memories..."
She thinks about twirling around the rink with him, their bodies effortlessly communicating with one another as they create patterns on the ice that are all their own, the rest of the world fading into the background.
"I love the way your mind works," she compliments him.
And she doesn't stop there. She tells Stiles all of the things she wanted to say on the night in her memory...and a few things more. With every stride they take together, she watches him smile.
Lydia is eighteen. She still loves math and science, drawing and skating as much as she ever did, but she loves Stiles more. She now openly enjoys reading, even has a partner to share it with. Expressing her innermost thoughts and emotions can still be a struggle, but not with one special person. Not anymore.
Since the night in her memory, she has lost and gained much, had many unexpected life experiences – some more painful than she thought she could bear, others more blissful and fulfilling than she ever imagined.
The future is a lot clearer than it was two and a half years ago. She may not have everything figured out, but one thing is for certain – in every version of a life where her dreams have come true, she is with Stiles.