For InSilva. And just because maybe it always is doesn't mean I don't still mean it.
Please note - as you may be able to tell from the title, this chapter lasts six months. And at the moment 'Life Lessons' (the sports day thing) takes place during this chapter. Later, there may be others. I'll let you know.
Oh, and thanks to InSilva for the French. But all mistakes are my fault, for dropping the subject as soon as I could, a hundred years ago, when I was in school.
Timeline again.
1. 'In the beginning' Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 13 and 14) Rusty is seven, Danny is nine.
2. 'Neverending Conversation' Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 15 and 16) Rusty is seven, Danny is nine.
3. 'Something more than it should be' (Chapter 10) Rusty is ten, Danny is twelve
4. 'Four Day Interlude' (Chapter 5) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
5. 'Remember the first time' (Chapter 4) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
6. 'Sunshine, smiles and sweet, sweet words' (Chapter 17) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen.
7. 'View from the outside' (Chapter 12) Rusty is eleven, Danny is fourteen
8. 'Walk before you can crawl' (Chapter 2) Rusty is twelve, Danny is fifteen
9. 'Other Nightmares Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 8 and 9) Rusty is twelve, Danny is fifteen
10. 'The more things change' (Chapter 1) Rusty is thirteen, Danny is fifteen
11. 'Six months of roses' (Chapter 18) Rusty is thirteen/fourteen, Danny is sixteen
12. 'Life Lessons' (Chapter 7) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is sixteen - falls within time of 'Six months of roses'
13. 'The lies we live' (Chapter 3) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is sixteen
14. 'This is our decision (to live fast and die young)' (Chapter 6) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen
15. 'Such a perfect day' (Chapter 11) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen.
The thing was, he really never did lie to her, not even at the very end, when he stood in front of her, awkward and uncomfortable, with the fear of the night before still clinging to him, and the endless determination still newly singing in his veins, and the blood still staining his shirt. She'd asked and he didn't answer and she asked again and he told the truth and walked away.
Later, Rusty told him he'd made the wrong choice. Danny couldn't see what else he could have done. Not without losing something more important. Not without losing himself.
They shared two classes together; they'd been in the same school for six years; he knew they'd talked, from time to time; and yet somehow Danny really never noticed her until one rainy Tuesday morning in French class, shortly after he handed in the perfect homework that Rusty had done for him and shortly before he managed to spectacularly fail a pop quiz. Which wasn't altogether his fault. Because listening to a monologue on the joys of bowling was every bit as dull in French as it was in English and somehow he just wasn't able to keep his mind on it long enough to actually hear the answers to the questions.
So he'd been staring aimlessly into space, considering pointlessly again whether it might be easier to just go in through the skylight – pointless, because Rusty was already three days into the scheme to get the alarm code, and after all they really hadn't been able to find out anything about the layout of the attic - and he realised he was staring at Patricia. At her left hand as it twisted repeatedly through her short brown hair, at the dimples in her cheek that were so obvious when she smiled, and at the smirk in her eyes, half-hidden as she whispered animatedly to Gina next to her. And he realised she was beautiful, and he wondered how he'd never seen that before. He only fully realised that he was staring when Mr Dalcourt asked her a question and he realised with a start that she'd been paying about as much attention as he had.
She looked up with a frown. "Je ne sais pas, Monsieur Dalcourt."
Mr Dalcourt scowled lightly. "Pourquoi?" he demanded.
"Je regrette mais je ne faisais pas attention," she replied, and Danny loved that she didn't sound nervous. And he loved her accent. It made him think of Yvette, and that made him just a little nostalgic.
Mr Dalcourt scowled a little harder, but Danny could see just a hint of confusion, and an even smaller hint of amusement in his eyes. "Pourquoi?" he asked again.
Patricia shrugged. "Le bowling est ennuyeux."
Danny would swear that he actually heard Mr Dalcourt choke back a laugh. "La prochaine fois, sois attentive."
She smiled and nodded, and if Danny had been inclined to use the words lightly he might have considered that he loved her then, just a little.
Then, of course, Mr Dalcourt turned on him and there was rather less amusement to be had.
Merde.
For the next week he found himself watching her whenever he had a chance. And he didn't say anything – for once – but it came as no real surprise when he got to the canteen one lunchtime and discovered that Rusty was sitting two tables away from where Patricia was laughing with Gina and Lucy and Unity, and had saved him the seat with the perfect view.
Sitting down, Danny smiled at him.
Rusty grinned back. "I feel like I'm facilitating your stalking habit."
Danny watched as Rusty stole a handful of his fries and coated them in salt. "I feel like I'm facilitating your grease habit."
"If you don't know to get extra by now there's no hope for you," Rusty pointed out.
He nodded, because he did know and he hadn't even wanted fries today and his gaze slid over Rusty's shoulder and he watched as she lined up three water glasses and gestured intently at them with a fork, obviously in the midst of making some deep and obscure point. Then Lucy said something and she laughed and dropped the fork with a clatter and he realised that Rusty was looking at him in amusement.
"You could always ask her out," Rusty suggested.
Danny frowned. "Suppose she says no?" he asked.
Rusty sighed. "How many girls have you asked out?"
"A few," Danny answered, unwillingly.
Rusty stared at him.
"A lot," he admitted.
Nodding, satisfied, Rusty continued. "And how many have said no?"
"She's different," Danny said quietly, after a long moment. She was. He didn't know how and he didn't know why, but she was.
Rusty studied him carefully and then grinned. "Oh, boy."
"Glad you're entertained." Danny scowled but he didn't mean it.
"Of course," Rusty answered lightly. He paused. "There's this dance coming up. You could ask her to that."
"It's Sadie Hawkins," Danny pointed out.
"Oh." Rusty considered. "Maybe she'll ask you."
Danny's eyes widened. "What would I say?"
"Yes?" Rusty suggested.
Danny ignored him. "What do I say if someone else asks me first?"
"No?" Rusty suggested, straight-faced.
Danny scowled at him again. This time he meant it a little. "Such a stupid idea. Who invented it?"
"Al Capp," Rusty replied promptly.
Blinking, Danny turned to stare at him.
Rusty shrugged. "More or less," he added.
Danny shook his head and the conversation turned – half coded and half unspoken – to the problem of locating the wall safe.
If she'd asked, he'd have had to tell her it wasn't about her. Not even a little bit, not really. But she didn't.
Civics first thing on a Friday was never going to be counted among Danny's favourite ways to spend his time, but it was worse today. Because he was exhausted and he was angry and he was miserable. Rusty had come over the night before. Three o'clock in the morning and Rusty hadn't been able to stand up straight let alone even think about climbing the tree. Danny had needed to sneak downstairs and let him in the front door. Fortunately his mom hadn't caught them, because that would have been bad. And Rusty had leaned heavily on him climbing up the stairs, and when he'd eased the horrible mint-green jumper off, he'd seen the varying shades of purple on Rusty's ribs and over his kidneys, and there had been anger, and ice-packs, and misery and painkillers and hopelessness, and there had been a sleepy, mumbled explanation about an accidentally slammed door and a broken chair leg, and there had been an apology that Danny would never understand, and later, when he was absolutely certain that Rusty was asleep, there had been tears.
It had been worse before. It would be worse again. And two weeks ago Danny had told the truth at yet another teacher, and it had taken so much smooth talking to avoid being sent to the school councillor.
This was what life was, and today Rusty had insisted that they both go into school, because they had missed enough that he was afraid they'd get noticed, and after all, there was nothing on his face so it didn't matter.
Today Danny was exhausted, and he was sitting at the back of the room, his head resting on his arm, only vaguely listening to his classmates argue about the healthcare system. Timothy Edgecourt was tearing into Patricia, and normally that would have stirred up all his more chivalrous instincts. Normally. Not today.
She was frowning, and it was obvious that she knew she was losing. " - a universal, free healthcare system – "
" – is un-American," Timothy interrupted rudely and not for the first time. "People would grow to expect the government to pay for every little thing, costs would spiral and the service would get worse; honestly do you really trust the government to handle something that complex?"
"But more and more people can't afford insurance," she pointed out, and there was a catch of desperation in her voice.
"That's not the government's fault; that's their own fault. In this country everyone has the same opportunities, and if people are too stupid or too lazy to grasp them – and half the time, remember, we're talking about alcoholics and drug addicts and criminals and welfare scroungers, and maybe they deserve – "
" – to die?" someone interrupted quietly. Danny was surprised to realise it was him. He sat up straight. Everyone was looking at him. He wasn't exactly known for his participation in class debates. "And their kids? Do they deserve to die because their parents are . . . " He trailed off. 'Bastards' he finished in his head.
Timothy rolled his eyes. "Honestly there's no need to be melodramatic here, Danny. Bringing up helpless little children." Not helpless. Never helpless. "And no-one is talking about anyone dying. There are free clinics and charity hospitals you know." His voice grew mocking. "For the poor little kiddies."
Danny nodded and wondered if Timothy had ever spent six hours sitting on the cold floor of one of those clinics, because the place was full of the maimed and the drunk and the only available seats were covered in vomit and everyone was too busy to clean it up. He wondered if Timothy had ever spent Thanksgiving fighting to keep his best friend conscious, terrified that he was going to die. He wondered if Timothy had any idea how the real world felt. "They do a good job," he allowed, because they had and they did, and later he'd gone and he'd left a huge bunch of flowers and half a ton of candy for the staff, because he'd been so damned thankful. "But it isn't enough."
"Oh?" Timothy raised an eyebrow. "So you think that it's right that hardworking citizens should have to pay extra taxes to support the underclass?"
"I think everyone should have the same opportunities," Danny answered. "And you're sixteen; you don't pay taxes." Timothy opened his mouth. Danny allowed himself a smile. "And according to the IRS, neither does your dad."
From that moment on it got personal and it got nasty and in the end Mr Fuller had to break the habit of a lifetime and actually get involved in his own subject.
Patricia stole glances at him for the rest of the lesson. She thought he'd done it for her. He hadn't. But when she approached him after class and asked him to the dance, he hadn't been able to bring himself to say no.
The dance was awful in nearly every way; but she was as near to perfect as made no odds.
The band was busy redefining terrible and they danced and laughed and took bets on whether the guitarist or the drummer would reach the end of the song first. The drummer won. Every time. Danny couldn't help but wonder if the guy had somewhere better to be.
The only thing to drink was lemonade so sweet it made Danny's teeth itch and Patricia giggled, and when they were sure no-one was looking, she produced half a bottle of dessert wine, and it tasted even worse than the lemonade, but they drank it and laughed at the faces they pulled.
They danced close to an extraordinarily bad version of 'Two out of three ain't bad' and Danny looked down at her, and her eyes were closed and her smile was beatific, and he wished that the moment would never end, and then Miss Acre stormed up to them and shrieked that boys and girls must be at least six inches apart at all times. And he watched Patricia blush and squeezed her hand, and then he turned to Miss Acre and he smiled and he talked and after a while she told them that they were only young once and to enjoy it. The band was still playing. So they did.
When the dance was over it was raining and they stood outside in a little nook until it eased off, and he lit her cigarette for her and draped his coat around her shoulders and he felt like Humphrey Bogart but she looked like Rita Hayworth.
He walked her home, and on her doorstep he kissed her goodnight. It was quick and chaste and gentle and he hadn't kissed a girl like that since he was fourteen. And he wouldn't change it for the world.
The next day they were a couple.
That week there were quick smiles in the corridors and stolen glances in class. A couple of times they ate lunch together and they talked about music and life and books and nothing, and actually separating when the bell rang for class was difficult.
At the weekend he took her to see 'Norma Rae' and she loved it, as he'd known she would. They sat in the ice-cream parlour afterwards, and he watched her swinging her legs and eating a banana split and he was so, so happy.
Out of nowhere she looked at him seriously. "You know, I hear a lot of rumours about you."
He hesitated. "Some of them are probably true," he admitted.
"They say you cheat at tests." She watched him. There was no disapproval in her eyes, but he still wondered.
"We don't," he explained. "But we help other people to cheat."
She nodded, and there was a thoughtful pause. "And they say that you get people out of detentions, and that you steal back things that have been stolen or confiscated, and that you get things that people need, like props for the drama society and equipment for the science club."
Huh. Put like that they almost sounded benevolent. "We have done all those things before," he said carefully. "But it's not exactly like it sounds. Most of the time people were paying us." And the times that they weren't, they were owed a favour, and that was good too.
She nodded again. "You know, to hear people talk, it sounds as if you can do anything."
"That's Rusty," he said, immediately and fondly. "He likes to add to the rumours."
She smiled unexpectedly. "I like that."
He blinked. "The rumours . . . ?"
She shook her head. "I like the way you smile when you say his name."
And before he could even think about coming to terms with that, she leaned forwards and kissed him, and it was slow and it was tender and it was lingering and somewhere in the middle there were fireworks.
The next day his mom was away and he invited her over to his house, and he introduced her to Rusty and he watched while they argued happily about the literary merits of Stephen King, and he thought no, this was happiness.
On their third date he took her to Mabel's. And he was nervous in a way that he couldn't explain. Of course she looked up the moment they walked in, and she smiled welcomingly. "Danny! Come in and sit down, sugar. And who is this charming young lady?"
He swallowed. "Mabel, this is Patricia Holmes. My girlfriend. Patricia, this is Mabel." He was aware of Patricia eying him curiously. He hadn't exactly explained anything before he'd taken her here. He hadn't exactly known how.
Mabel's smile grew wider. "So happy to meet you. Both of you, sit down." She ushered them over to a table. "Now, what can I get for you?"
"Coffee and a piece of pie, please Mabel. Pat?"
She smiled. "The same for me, thank you."
"Coming right up." She bustled off cheerfully.
Almost reluctantly Danny turned round to Patricia's questioning look. "We've been coming here . . . a long time. Since I was nine. Mabel's good to us. Good for us."
Patricia nodded slowly. "Your life's not a bed of roses, is it?" she asked quietly.
Danny shook his head tightly. She reached across the table and took his hand and she didn't ask anymore questions.
Mabel came back with the pie and the coffee and waved off Danny's attempts to actually pay with an air of good-natured irritation. "Oh! While I remember," She produced a five dollar bill. "Give this to your brother, will you? He was in here this morning. Fixed up the faucet in my bathroom. Did a real good job, too."
Danny nodded. "I'll see he gets it," he promised.
When Mabel had left them alone again, Patricia frowned. "Brother?" she asked in an undertone.
"Rusty." Danny explained, and he bit his lip and glanced away. "She knows we aren't . . . but she still says it, and it's not as if we mind. Suppose it's stupid."
There was a silence, and when he looked back round she was smiling at him and there was reassurance and compassion. "It's not stupid."
"Sometimes I wish . . . " Danny trailed off, because there were some things that he was never going to articulate.
She nodded and changed the subject. "How does Rusty know about plumbing, anyway?"
Danny shrugged and grinned. "Sometimes I think Rusty might just know about everything."
She laughed and they talked inconsequentialities for the rest of the day.
Danny lay on the bed, working on Rusty's literature homework while Rusty lay on the floor and worked on the hand-drawn plans of what they really had to stop calling the 'Sinatra house'.
"I'm going to have been going out with Patricia for a month next week," he said casually.
Rusty didn't look up. "Uh huh."
"Think she's expecting me to get her something?"
"No," Rusty answered immediately, and he frowned and rubbed an errant line out.
Danny considered that for a moment. "Think I should get her something?" he asked.
And then Rusty did look up, and he looked at Danny as if he thought he was crazy. "Yeah."
"Oh." Danny thought for a long, long moment. "What?"
Rusty blinked. "I don't know," he said, hesitantly.
Danny sighed. This was longer than either of them had ever been out with a girl. And he wasn't exactly sure what was supposed to happen next.
He asked some of the guys in school the next day, while they were stretched out on the bleachers, relaxing in lieu of gym class. The answers came thick and fast and none of them were particularly helpful
"Chocolates!"
"Flowers!"
"A teddy bear, or something. Girls love 'em!"
"Come off it, Danny, we all know what you want to give her!"
The last was from Norris Carroll and accompanied by a snigger and a gesture, and Rusty lazily leaned up and muttered something near his ear and Norris stomped off sharply
Danny looked across at Rusty and shrugged. They'd need to keep thinking.
They asked Mabel that night, while she was hunting up some arnica cream for Rusty's cheek. She just looked at them and sighed. "I can't tell you that, honey. Every girl is different. What does she like?"
Danny shrugged helplessly. "Lots of things. But I want it to be something special, you know? Something personal."
She reached out and ruffled his hair, the way she did to Rusty sometimes. "You're a good boy. You'll figure it out."
And that was nice. But not helpful.
A couple of days later, when they delivered the complete, signed, Frank Sinatra LP collection, exactly as planned and exactly as ordered, Danny could see the grin long before it appeared on Rusty's face, and he mentally begged him not to ask.
It didn't work of course. "Hey, Leo?" And the grin was all in Danny's head, on the outside Rusty looked deadly earnest. "What sort of present should Danny buy his girlfriend?"
Leo held his hands up nervously. "Is this gonna lead to a talk about the birds and the bees? Cos if so, I'm calling Bobby."
"No!" Danny said immediate and horrified. "It's not important."
"It's a little important," Rusty argued, and he still wasn't smiling.
But Leo looked as if he was thinking. "Flowers? Chocolates? Lingerie . . . no, I guess not. Jewellery? Lotsa girls put out for jewellery . . . and don't tell Bobby I said that either."
Rusty lit a cigarette. "Last I heard it was only the drinking he'd banned."
Leo looked at him pointedly. "Last I heard he wasn't too keen on that, either."
Rusty shrugged and inhaled and said nothing. Danny grabbed the money off the table. "Thanks, Leo."
"Don't mention it," He looked down at the records. "Hey! Does she like Sinatra?"
They got outside. Danny was thinking. Rusty smiled. "We should have made him call Bobby."
Danny glared at him. "Think it's a little late for the birds and the bees, don't you?"
"It would have been funny," Rusty answered with a smirk. "And it would have given Bobby good practice for dealing with Linus."
"I am not willing to sacrifice that much dignity for your entertainment," Danny told him. "Get used to it."
Rusty smiled. "You're thinking about music?"
Danny nodded. "Meatloaf. We – "
" – danced to – ".
" – uh huh."
"Perfect."
"You think?"
Rusty considered some more and nodded.
It was. He got her the record, and he got her 31 roses; one for each day they'd been together, and she'd hugged him like she never wanted to let go.
She said that he needed to meet her family and he supposed that since – in every way that mattered – she'd already met his, that made sense. Didn't mean he wasn't terrified. He wore a suit and a tie and he spent longer fixing his hair than he ever had before and he still didn't feel like he was smart enough.
Patricia laughed at him as he begged for just a second to check his reflection in the glass of her front door. "They'll love you, Danny. You can make anyone like you, remember?"
"Doesn't work on families," he muttered darkly and immediately regretted it when her smile vanished. "Sorry, Pat, I'm just a little on edge."
She nodded and forgave him. "Come and meet everyone," she instructed.
There were so many of them. Patricia had two brothers and a sister, and a grandfather who lived with them, and a grandmother and two aunts and an uncle who had just come over to take a look at Danny, and he was so glad that he didn't make a habit of forgetting names. And they were all so loud and there was laughter and teasing, and even round the dinner table her brothers were pushing and shoving each other, and her sister was insisting on showing everyone the clay pot she'd made in school, and everyone was friendly and everyone was nice, even when they were busy interrogating Danny, and he just didn't know what to make of it.
"So, Danny. You play football at all?" Patricia's father asked, and Danny had seen the hopeful look in his eye and had prepared himself to lie before he had caught sight of Patricia, shaking her head ever so slightly across the table.
He cleared his throat. "No, Mr Holmes. I'm afraid I've never really been into it."
He looked disappointed and the subject was changed, but Danny hadn't lied.
Later, Mr Holmes was talking to the uncle, who Danny had been a little disconcerted to realise was a cop, and they were discussing the recent outbreak of liquor store robberies, and the uncle had said something offhanded about rounding up the usual suspects and before he could stop himself Danny muttered "Realizing the importance of the case, my men are rounding up twice the usual number of suspects."
Patricia's dad had smiled approvingly. "Bogart fan, huh?"
"Yes," he shrugged. "Sorry."
"I didn't think kids today liked the old movies. Have you seen the 'The Maltese Falcon'?"
Danny grinned; it had been on TV the other week. They'd stayed up till an ungodly hour waiting to hear the man say 'The stuff dreams are made of.'
The rest of the night passed in a haze of old film references and trivia. It was fun and Patricia was smiling at him all the while.
A few days later, he watched as Rusty picked the lock on the door of the bakery, and he found himself asking hesitantly, "Do you ever think we're missing out on something?"
Rusty turned round and looked at him seriously. "Wishing gets you nothing, Danny."
Summer came and lasted forever. There were endless dates, and picnics and trips to the cinema, or to get ice cream, or to Mabel's, and sometimes it was just him and Patricia, and sometimes Rusty was there too, and sometimes Rusty brought whichever girl had managed to temporarily attract his attention, and it was always sunny and it was always good.
And sometimes they lay on the grass and he and Rusty would scheme and plot, and Patricia would listen and roll her eyes and laugh, and it was all a game that she didn't mind.
They didn't have to lie about that. But sometimes Patricia asked about the bruises Rusty wore as a matter of course, and Danny bit his lip and said nothing and let Rusty spin whatever story he felt like. And Patricia would smile and nod and accept but sometimes Danny caught her looking, and he wondered what he'd do if she asked.
Thankfully he never found out.
There were nights too, and he and Patricia spent them alone, and before there'd been other girls and there'd been other nights but it had never been so good and he couldn't imagine why it couldn't last forever.
Eventually his mom got to hear that there was a girl in his life, and tight-lipped and insistent she extended what she'd describe as an invitation and Danny would describe as an ultimatum.
Patricia had been nervous. He'd told her about his dad, and she'd listened and understood, but they'd never really discussed his mom, and he'd have been happy to let it stay that way forever.
He'd tried to explain before, but she hadn't really understood and he'd winced at the expression on her face when his mom sneered at the CND pin on her coat, and the denim skirt with the roses on the hem that Danny thought she looked so beautiful in.
Dinner had been awkward and near-silent and Danny gave serious consideration to the idea that maybe his mom was just against him being loved on general principle.
Later he wrapped her in his arms and he promised her the world if only she'd stop crying, because it honestly couldn't matter less and she kissed him wildly and he realised she hadn't been crying because his mom had hurt her.
He came in after a late date to find Rusty sleeping face down on top of his bed.
"Wake up, Goldilocks," he said, reluctant to reach out and touch until he knew just where Rusty was hurt.
"I didn't get any porridge," Rusty mumbled into the pillow and he moved his arm out from under him and his hand was a solid mass of swollen purple and Danny couldn't help but gasp. The hand was immediately snatched away, hidden under the pillow, and Danny couldn't imagine how that was supposed to help.
"Rus' . . . " he began, knowing that the sentence would include 'hospital' and 'now'.
Rusty sat up and smoothed his hair down with his good hand and Danny saw the slight swelling around his eye. "I can still move all my fingers properly. Nothing's broken."
Danny looked sceptical and then immediately wished he hadn't, when Rusty raised his hand and wiggled each of his fingers in turn, gritting his teeth all the while.
"You – "
" – took my painkillers like a good boy, and I had it wrapped in a wet towel for an hour or so." Rusty shrugged, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "And there's nothing else worth mentioning. It's done. How was your date?"
Danny sat down next to him and gently started to check out the mangled hand. "Amazing," he said sincerely.
"That's what you always say," Rusty pointed out, a smile in his voice, as he let Danny run his fingers carefully over swollen knuckles.
"That's what it always is," Danny shrugged.
"Right," Rusty yawned and Danny decided that there probably wasn't anything broken. Still looked a mess though. And Danny could only imagine how much it hurt and he wished that - even just once - it could be him instead.
"Rus'?" he began, after a moment.
"Uh huh?"
"How do you know when you love someone?"
There was a long silence.
"You're asking me?" Rusty asked, finally and lightly.
"Who else have I got?" Danny sighed and shook his head. "Never mind."
There was another long silence.
"I suppose," Rusty began eventually, and when Danny turned to look at him, he was staring at the floor. "I suppose it's when you would be happy to spend every minute of the rest of your life with them. When the very idea of them being unhappy makes you miserable. When you'd give everything you have to keep them safe and happy. When just the idea of them is enough to make you smile and to keep . . . to keep the bad things from hurting so much."
There was a lump in Danny's throat. Silently he reached out and ran a hand through Rusty's hair, and Rusty sighed and leaned in to the touch.
She was never further from his thoughts.
One starry night they drove out of town together. Danny had picked her up at her front door, and she'd stared at the Chevy, deeply impressed, and then she'd made him promise that afterwards he'd put it back exactly where he'd found it with a full tank of gas.
He watched, out of the corner of his eye, as she sang along to the radio and beat out time on the glove box and she was wonderfully alive.
They parked by the edge of the river and made love beneath the stars and afterwards, as they stared upwards, she told him the names of the constellations, and she didn't even laugh too much when the frog brushed against his foot and he scrambled back towards the car.
And she stood up, naked and beautiful and free in the moonlight, and the words were on the tip of his tongue. But somehow he just didn't say them.
On the morning after the phone rang and rang and didn't stop.
And eventually he realised that he was going to have to do something about that.
He opened his eyes and looked at Rusty. Still asleep, curled on top of Danny's arm, his head burrowed against Danny's shoulder as though that could somehow make it all better. Which it couldn't. But it did help. He reached over with his free hand and brushed Rusty's hair out of his face, frowning at the realisation that it was still matted with dried blood. Well. Neither of them had exactly been in a fit state to get cleaned up last night.
Gently – very, very gently – he eased his arm out from under Rusty, and winced when he heard the quiet moan, and cringed when a pair of pain-filled blue eyes stared up at him.
"I need to go and answer the phone," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."
Rusty stared at him for a second longer, then he nodded and closed his eyes.
Carefully Danny opened the door and looked round. Thankfully though, there was no sign of his mom – which made sense, if she was in she'd probably have answered the phone – so he headed downstairs and grabbed the handset.
"Hello?"
Patricia's voice was loud and frantic. "Danny? Oh, thank god. I've been ringing and ringing, but your mom just hung up on me, and then there was no answer. Uncle Davie said you were arrested last night? What happened? Are you all right?"
Danny blinked. He'd forgotten. Everything that had happened, and he'd forgotten her. He tried to be reassuring. Tried to say 'I'm fine.' But the words wouldn't come. "They let us go," he said instead, stupidly, because if they hadn't, how could they be talking now?
"I know that." And there was impatience and concern and fear in her voice. "But are you all right?"
The lie still wouldn't form. The silence stretched on for far too long. "We need to talk," he said at last.
For a long moment she said nothing, and he wondered if she knew what was coming. "There's no-one at mine right now," she said eventually. "Come on over."
"Okay." He nodded, not even caring that she couldn't see him. "I'll . . . I'll see you soon." And he hung up.
He stood, for a time, with the receiver resting against his forehead, and he wished he'd said something else. Something better.
There was juice in the fridge and he took a glass of it upstairs and pressed it into Rusty's hands along with a couple of painkillers.
"I need to go out for a bit," he said, reluctantly.
Rusty swallowed the pills and nodded and said nothing, and Danny felt the stab of an old fear.
He licked his lips. "Rus' . . . ?"
There was a frown and a sudden flash of realisation and Rusty shook his head quickly and smiled reassuringly. "'s okay," he said and Danny didn't know what he meant, because none of it was even remotely okay. But at least there were words.
"I won't be long," he promised, and he squeezed Rusty's hand tightly.
Rusty's voice stopped him on his way to the door. "Patricia?" They hadn't discussed it, but he wasn't surprised.
He nodded, but he didn't turn round.
"Danny. Think about it." Rusty's voice was pleading. But Danny didn't need to think. He'd decided.
When she let him in he realised she'd been crying and he had to fight back the guilt and he had to fight back the apologies.
They went through to the living room and though she invited him to sit, he stood, awkward and uncomfortable, in the middle of memories of happier times.
They stared at each other, and he knew she knew what this was, and he knew she didn't understand why and he didn't think he could explain.
She kissed him, desperately, passionately, and for a few moments he let her, and he found himself so close to just abandoning himself to everything safe and normal and wonderful.
He stepped back and didn't cry.
"I can't," he told her.
Her face was filled with misery. "Why?" she demanded. "Danny, why?"
"Everything changed last night," He swallowed hard. "Things are bad, Pat, maybe worse than they've ever been, and I can't . . . " He shook his head and there were a thousand things he couldn't say. "I can't be what you deserve."
He could see she didn't understand. She stared at him, and her eyes widened. "Is that blood?"
It was. This was still the shirt he'd been wearing last night. He glanced down at the stains on his sleeve. "It's not mine," he said, with a slight shrug. It never was, after all. "Things are bad," he repeated.
"Let me help you," she pleaded. "Let me in, Danny. Things can't be so bad that I can't help."
He shook his head firmly and replaced compassion with brutality. "Things have changed. We're going to need to work hard. It's not going to be . . you deserve someone who's going to be there for you. And I don't need the distraction." He watched her face crumple and he hated himself. And he'd told the truth, but the other truth, the deeper, truth was that all of this could go so wrong so quickly, and he wasn't going to drag her down with them.
"Danny, please," she whispered.
He looked away and spoke quickly. "The last six months I've been so happy. And I never wanted it to end. But it has, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"I thought . . . I was sure. . ." Her voice was thick with unshed tears. "Don't you love me?"
He didn't – couldn't – answer.
"Danny?" She looked at him pleadingly. "Tell me you love me?"
He closed his eyes and told the truth. "I don't love you enough."
As he walked away he heard her crying.
Later Rusty told him he'd made the wrong choice. Rusty didn't know everything.
Hope that you enjoyed that. And yes. I know there were a lot of things referenced that haven't been dealt with yet. Either I know what I'm doing or I've bet my life savings while holding Ace high, plus Mr Bun the Baker. You decide.
Oh, and approximate French translation would be
"I don't know"
"Why?"
"I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention."
"Why?"
"Bowling is boring."
"Next time, pay attention."