Note: Hello all, I'm back. I do think this chapter was harder to write for some reason…but it'll get easier once I push through this one. Celia's will be more important, you could say. I'm so glad I decided to do alternating POVs; their perspective on things will be vastly different from now on. Blah, why am I still rambling in the note section? Go ahead and read!

Chapter Eleven:

Marlin

Butterflies. That's what they call this feeling, isn't it? When your insides twist and turn in anticipation, and you can't for the life of you complain because you're so incredibly happy you can't speak. You're almost afraid to, because with one word the dream could come crashing down, and that's a chance you're not willing to take. Without the dream, there's nothing but reality, and what a harsh, cold awakening reality can be.

"Marlin, you forgot the apples," Vesta chides me, pointing to a basket. Normally I'd protest or roll my eyes, but today I just shrug as I toss the red fruit in with the sandwiches and milk bottles. It's not worth arguing about. Not today.

Light pours in from the windowpane, and I squint at it, thanking God that today was a sunny day. I can hear the pitter-patter of Celia's feet upstairs as she gets Cassandra ready, and a shiver of anticipation runs up and down my spine.

Four years. For four years, Celia has never been the one to initiate anything between us. Not even something as simple, as stupid and meaningless, as a picnic. A small nagging voice in my head keeps whispering that maybe I'm being an idiot, getting my hopes too high. It could be a big deal, or just a misunderstanding. Who knows? Hey, if I could have read Celia's mind…things might've worked out differently by now.

That could've been my child upstairs.

"You're kinda on edge today, boy." My sister stretches her arms, her eyes locked on me suspiciously. "There more to this picnic than I know?"

"Nah. It's just…a stupid lunch on a stupid blanket with stupid people."

"So that's why you're smiling stupidly, huh?"

She grins triumphantly, and I try my hardest to force a frown. Why'd she always have to be so damn observant, anyway? "Last time I checked, smiling is a pretty normal thing, Vesta," I retort.

"For you?" She snorts. "Marlin, if that's the case, you ain't a normal guy."

"Shut up."

Fingering the corner of the tablecloth, I stare at its checkered pattern until the line dividing the red from the white becomes blurry and indistinguishable: red and white, good and bad, right and wrong…

"Hey…Marlin." I glance up at that, brow furrowing. Her voice has been lowered, no longer superior and strong, but soft as a spring breeze—like she's passing on some sort of terrible secret.

Or a warning.

"I know…things haven't been that easy for you since Celia got married. Heck, it wouldn't be easy for anyone to go through what you have. But just don't—don't expect too much, alright?" My sister approaches me and I stiffen at the touch of her hand on my shoulder. I can't break the stare of those eyes—though God knows I want to. I know what shines there all too well, and I've never wanted pity. "She's just a little girl. Just a baby herself. Things have been hard for her, too, Marlin. If she ever did want to see you in that way…I reckon it'll take a lot of time on her part. Don't push her too far, alright?"

"Don't push her?" I repeat, shoving Vesta away. Who the hell does she think she is? I glare at her—those unruly red curls, that worried frown—and think, who is she to pity me? To tell me her opinion on my life, when last time I checked, she hasn't been living in it lately? "I can push her any damn way I like after what she did to me. But I'm not going to, alright? I'm not some lovestruck idiot, Vesta," I snap. "I think I know that I'm never going to get any closer to her than I am right now: living in this house, breathing her air, and going on a picnic with her and her baby—Jack's baby. Just let me have what I've got, alright? God, just let me have that much!"

The words have tumbled out without thinking, and now I find myself dying to pull them back into my mouth. But like fire, they spread, burning both my sister and I with fiery unbridled emotion. Her expression hardens, and she steps away, almost as if she's afraid to come any nearer. "Can you hear yourself, Marlin?" she whispers. "Can't you see you're just setting yourself up for this all over again? God, Marlin, let it go. You're hurting yourself more than anyone."

"Then at least give me that right."

People always talk about those awkward silences, the kind where no matter what anyone says, it always comes out wrong. As Vesta gazes at me, speechless, I think this is something like that—a silence only broken by Celia's laughter upstairs. We stare at each other, two stubborn fools, until she comes down the stairs with that baby in her arms and breathlessly asks when we're leaving.

"Well, Marlin," Vesta says finally, "she's waiting for you, ain't she?"

I pretend not to notice the clouded look in those eyes, and instead concentrate on the sunny skies ahead, ignoring the premonition of a storm about to brew.

"Where have you been?"

She'd been out late, later than she'd ever been. Dirt caked her dress and apron, and a curtain of brown hair hid her face from view. Standing in the doorway, she seemed more like a ghost than a girl, shaking as if she might break at any moment.

"I…I need to go to bed," Celia whispered. Her voice cracked midsentence, and she turned away, shuddering. "I need to go."

My eyes narrowed; Jack had been with her, hadn't he? "I swear to God, if that bastard laid one hand on her—!" But no, no, there were no marks, not that I could see. Yet Celia could have been an empty husk, staring at me with those soulless eyes. Something had changed. Something had been broken.

"Are—are you alright, Celia?" I asked, and no sooner had I spoken she turned her head up to gaze at me. The hair obscuring her face from view fell back, revealing her pale, tear-streaked face for the first time, red and blotchy.

I wanted to crush her in my arms, seeing her so fragile, so vulnerable. I wanted to kill whoever caused those tears, slap him until he hurt twice as much as poor Celia did. My perfect angel could do no wrong, not in my eyes. It had all been that bastard's fault, that Jack's, and I hissed, "What did he do to you? What the hell did that son of a bitch do to you, Celia?"

She held her eyes on my own for a single, torturous moment, and suddenly I realized she wasn't searching me for comfort, but pitying me, another tear slipping down her cheek. "Oh, Marlin," her voice rasped, and she shook her head, sobbing. "He didn't do anything. He didn't do anything, and it's all my fault."

I wanted to hold her in my arms, but I stood frozen, watching the emotion rack her body. He had to have done something; the girl I knew wasn't this frightened child, this crushed soul. "Whatever it is, it's not your fault, Celia," I insisted, so sure of myself and of my heart. "Listen…don't protect him, Celia. If he's hurt you—"

"He hasn't hurt me, Marlin," Celia murmured. "I'm…I'm the one who's hurt you." She wrapped her arms around herself, and her voice became so small I could barely hear her. "I can't marry you, Marlin. I—I'm sorry."

And with those words, my world came crashing down, drowned in the piteous tears of the one girl I've ever loved and lost.

"What's your favorite season?"

Celia is sitting on the blanket, her silky brown hair blowing behind her in the clutches of the wind as she cuddles Cassandra close. It's a simple question, but it's caught me off-guard, and I reply, "Do I need to have a favorite season?"

"Well. No." She shrugs. "But most people have one, don't they? Mine is Spring." Her eyes trail the grove of trees nearby, overrun with sakura blossoms. They dance in the breeze, bright pink petals against the cold blue of the sky. It's beautiful, in a weird way. Harsh color softened by nature's splendor. "So I was just wondering what yours was."

"Why Spring?" I ask her instead, sidestepping the question.

She turns to me slightly, cheeks flushed. "Hm? Oh, I guess because it's the season of life. Everything's growing, everything's beautiful and new." Another shrug. "It sounds awfully silly when you say it like that, though, doesn't it?"

"Nah, I don't think so." Spring suits her: young, lovely, innocent. Deceiving. "For me, I guess…I guess I like autumn."

Celia cocks her head at me. "Autumn?"

"Well, yeah," I say. "We get a good harvest in fall, and the weather's nice."

Somehow, my answer has disappointed her; she turns to Cassie and pulls her into her arms, waking her slightly. "Those are good reasons. I guess I was just—um, are there any sandwiches left?"

It takes me a moment to register what she's said (sandwiches?) before I dig into the basket and pull out a slightly smushed, but edible, ham-and-cheese sandwich. She beams at me and takes a bite after muttering "thanks" while I wait, arms crossed.

"Well?"

"Um, well what?"

"What were you going to say?" I insist. "About fall."

Celia smiles a bit in embarrassment. "Oh, that. Um, I don't know, I just thought you would say something about how wonderful everything is in autumn. The colorful leaves, the delicious food, the smell of the breezes—it's a great season."

"So why isn't it your favorite?"

Cassie's woken up and she's started whining; it's too cold, and she wants the warmth of her crib and the blankets there. Celia soothes her with calm, quiet words, and then turns to me, her expression distant. "Because everything starts to die in Fall…and Spring is a rebirth." A smile. "With Spring, you can leave Winter behind."

She picks up an apple and offers it to me, and without thinking I take it, though all I want to do is prod her further. How many Springs does it really take to forget one Winter? How long must a life lead before a death can fade behind it?

How often can someone fall in love with the same girl, knowing each and every time she'll never be yours?

"My turn to ask you something," I decide, taking a bite. The apple is sweet—sickeningly so. "Why is it that, for the past hour, you've been pelting me with questions for no reason at all? My pet peeve, favorite food, hometown, and now my favorite season? What is this, an interrogation?"

I don't know why, but Celia's blushing now, and she stalls for time as she rocks Cassie in her arms. Brushing back a strand of hair from her face, she stammers, "W-well, I mean, I've just known you for so long…but I don't know anything about you. Not really. And I just want to learn."

She shoves her sandwich into her mouth, avoiding my sight as I stare at her, open-mouthed.

Me. Why the hell is Celia, the girl who was content to let me slip out of her life like a shoe that no longer fit, suddenly caring about me? Why is she paying any attention to me at all, after mourning for only one season—hell, not even. Everything's too perfect. Too easy.

But just don't—don't expect too much, alright?

Things that are too good to be true usually are. And you'd think by now, Celia and I both would have learned that.

I guess, sometimes, it's easier to believe in lies than to learn there's nothing to believe in at all.