Anyone who's stuck with this, and has kept reading, I thank you so much. You don't need to hear the usual excuses. I'm sorry, hopefully this makes up for the lack of updating.
By the time Friday rolled around, I was—if I were being completely, unflinchingly honest—pretty miserable. Without my knowledge, Chloe had become a big part of my day-to-day routine and the sudden loss of her company was jarring. What made it worse was that I seemed unable to rationalize my emotional state. Before I had known Chloe, I was fine. I didn't want for anything, didn't feel like anything was missing. I wasn't particularly overjoyed, or anything as melodramatic, but I was fine. Now, though, I found myself craving her company and deeming my days as unmentionable because she was no longer a part of them. And I didn't know whether I craved her presence because, as human nature goes, I wanted what I couldn't have, or because I simply missed her, everything about her. It was confusing—if I was fine before, why couldn't I be fine now—and in a nutshell, it sucked. Furthermore, the cherry, was that, for the life of me, I could not stop thinking about the feeling of her in my arms, about—however dangerously indulgent and ridiculously hopeful it was, I wanted her there again. As days progressed, grew increasingly awful as I did pathetic, my resolve would weaken, and by the end of the day, I was prepared to seek her out. I didn't care if she was mad or upset or dismissive. I could deal with all of that, was prepared to deal with all of it, because dealing with it meant talking to her, and that's all I wanted to do. But then I would see Liam in the locker room, or pass him in the halls, and my shaky resolve would immediately reaffirm itself. The connection was clear: when I was with Chloe, Liam went out of his way to make his presence known, to confirm his threat. But now that I had controlled the contact I had with her, he kept his distance, only throwing a few more smug glares my way than usual. Though, while I knew that my instincts had been right—he wanted her to get to me, in the end, for I was a threat to possible scholarships that could be offered to him—that if I wanted her safe, I had to continue to stay away, it didn't make doing so any easier. I simply had to resign myself to the reality that I was either pathetic, crazy or bound to a constant irritated, bleak disposition until Liam backed off, which, as the days passed, I wished fervently for more and more.
Friday night was warmly welcomed, on my part. It was a relief to know that I wouldn't have to walk the halls for two days ridden with inner turmoil. Yeah, I still wouldn't be able to see her, but at least I wouldn't have to see her and know that I couldn't approach her. Apparently, the situation had garnered enough desperation that this distinction was now possible.
I was sitting in the kitchen finishing up my homework when Simon walked through the doorway, about an hour later than usual.
"Hey," I said, as he still had yet to make eye contact.
"Hey," he replied, facing the fridge as he opened it. His voice sounded off, and not just because it was rebounding off the wall of the fridge. It sounded as if he were forcing steadiness into his tone.
"Why are you home so late?" It was an innocent question, it truly was. Simon usually liked to get home around four on Fridays so he could do whatever he did before dinner and be ready to go out right after. Today, however, it was almost five.
"I was just hanging out." He was still facing the fridge.
He grabbed a juice box and left, without another word or glance my way. Piquing my curiosity was his unusually slow ascent of the stairs—I could hear each and every slow step he took, an anomaly for Simon, who was usually a flurry of motion, stomping and running his way up and down the stairs in a jagged blur.
Something was up and I was curious, morbidly curious, and while I wanted to know what it was that had Simon acting beyond strange, I decided to wait this one out; after all, after so many years of knowing, I knew that he wasn't capable of keeping quiet for long, at least when it came to superficial things.
As I was setting the bowl of mashed sweet potatoes back on the table, Simon finally broke his silence, coming out of his nervous, quiet stupor.
"Derek," he said, though it sounded like a question.
My gaze met his dubiously, my guard going up, and he proceeded.
"If I tell you something, will you promise not to freak out?" His words were slow and deliberate, as if he were simultaneously trying to choose them carefully while gauging my reaction. Said reaction was one of increasing panic and dread. Someone asked you not to freak out when they expected you to do just that. There were, at the moment, exactly two things that could freak me out: something having to do with Liam, or something having to do with Chloe. No one—except Chloe and I—knew what had transpired with Liam. That left her as an option, and my mind couldn't even begin to wrap itself around instances involving her and me freaking out. There seemed to be too many. What had happened? Had he done something?
"No." Beside Simon, I saw Tori pause in her movement, glass poised halfway to her mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw dad set down his fork and knife.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tension and unease blatant in his posture, infiltrating his gaze.
"The reason," he began, "that I was home later than usual today was because I was talking to Chloe after school." I remained still, making sure to keep my expression neutral all the while willing myself not to conceive conclusions to his sentence, a lot of them having to do with him asking Chloe out and her saying yes.
"She, uh, approached me actually because she had some questions—rather wanted to know—"
"Spit it out, Simon," I commanded, tired of his stumbled dance around the recounting of events.
He heaved a deep sigh, and if he didn't say something soon, I was convinced I'd internally combust.
"Chloe came up to me after school wanting to know about—about the accident." At this, he looked me dead in the eye. "And I told her what happened. Everything."
At the back of my mind, I registered Tori setting down her glass carefully, for once being mindful of the precariousness of the situation. I saw dad straighten and fix his gaze on me, looking concerned and apprehensive. But at the forefront was the thought 'She knew. She knew," repeating itself like a mantra in my mind. I was tempted, desperately tempted, to ask him to repeat himself, to make sure I had heard him correctly. But to do so would be inane—I knew what he had said; my mind was simply having trouble reacting to it, still preoccupied with working through the haze created by the fact that Chloeknew.
Forcing myself out of my haze—pushing myself through it like it was a tangle of branches that separated a lost, crazed person from their freedom—I asked, voice low and calm, "What do you think gave you that right?"
"She just came up to me and asked straight up—she caught me off guard. But I also thought she deser—"
That was it. What I must have been experiencing was calm before the storm.
Pushing out of my chair, I stood up without a thought, fists clenching at my side. "Is that how it is, Simon?" I demanded. "A pretty girl comes up to you asking for answers and you lose your backbone and all sense of loyalty?" I was shouting by the end, but I couldn't muster the rationality to collect myself.
His eyes flashed with anger of his own, and just as he was opening his mouth to protest, to perhaps defend himself because, apparently, he had the audacity to do so, I cut him off, not yet finished. "Last time I checked, my business was exactly that: mybusiness. I would have told her myself. What's worse is that my own brother did it behindmyback. I know we're not blood, but I mistakenly thought what we had was thicker than sperm. I guess not." While I had begun by shouting, my voice had finally leveled out, though the accusation and embitterment were laced in my tone. I didn't even feel sorry for the low blow I just dealt him—hopefully, I could keep that off for now.
"Derek," dad warned, preparing to jump in. Simon beat him to the punch.
"Your business, Derek? Your business? Jesus, you are my business. Which is exactly why I told her. How dare you accuse me of disloyalty. I made the decision to tell her because I care about you! You can stand there and confidently say that you would have told her," he took a moment to scoff, "but let's get real, Derek: you had no intention of doing so. Probably would have tried to hide it and control the situation for as long as you could have. If you want to play high and mighty, then so will I. How can you, even for a second, think that keeping that a secret from Chloe is fair? It's deceitful and manipulative and you know it," he spat out, breath labored.
He was right, and I was mad at him for it, so mad. But I fought on anyway.
"Deceitful and manipulative? I have no reason to deceive ormanipulate her. I tutorher, for God's sake. Which brings me back to my original point. What is it that gave you the self-entitlement to tell her? What is she to you?"
"The better question, the one we all already know the answer too, is what is she to you?"
"What the fuck kind of question is that? What are you talking about?"
Tori snorted out a deprecating laugh just as dad pushed his chair back, legs pushing solidly into the hardwood. "Derek," he warned sharply.
"Oh my God," Simon exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the hair. "Are you really that deep in denial, Derek? Really, truly? Or are you just not prepared to admit it to us yet? Because I think it's pretty clear, and that you should stop pretending, that Chloe is just some girl you tutor." I opened my mouth to interject, but he forged on, "Quite obviously, you care about her. God, Derek, you spend time with her. You noticed her. You enjoy her company. You think about her, and don't even try to deny it," he warned. "And it's not one sided. She cares about you, too. That's why she asked, that's why it hasn't changed her opinion of you, and that's why I told her. She cares, D. Don't deem it as something else; that'll be a big, big mistake." He seemed so triumphant, so wise, and I wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong.
"When it comes down to it, Simon, you told her something I hadn't wanted her to know, and don't pretend to be ignorant of that. Nothing matters besides that; it's the basic principle of the matter." He and I could probably go back and forth all night about this, but I didn't want that. I didn't want to be in this house, didn't want to drag this out by continuing to talk about all of it. I just wanted out.
I persisted, if not to shut him down, then to convince myself of what I was about to say. "She doesn't care. If she cared, she would have respected the limits of out friendship and my privacy. There is no Chloe and I, Simon, never will be. Stop rooting for it and stop using it as an excuse or a reason. It'll just get you into more trouble." My voice held an inescapable note of finality, though also, a hint of condescension. He was glaring at me, eyes narrowed in frustration and anger and exasperation. He wanted to say something more—he never knew when to shut up. But I wouldn't give him the chance. Yeah, he was angry, but it'd be short lived. Mine would be, too. I lived with him, and he was hard to stay mad at. I would just need more time.
Turning around, I strode out the doorway and up to my room, quickly changing out of my clothes into shorts and a shirt, fighting against the overwhelming thoughts that threatened to exacerbate my feelings of panic and exasperation and inexplicable fear as I focused solely on running myself into exhaustion.
Sprinting down the stairs, I halted to a stop as dad came into view, blocking my way to freedom.
"Derek, where are you going?"
"Running."
"Don't you think we should talk?" I didn't know if he meant him and I, him, Simon and I, or Simon and I. Neither option was particularly welcomed on my part.
"I think there's been enough talking for the night," I countered as I angled myself between him and the door.
He regarded me for a long moment, sighing and relenting with an "after" as he stepped out of my way.
My run, after many twists and turns and hills in the nearby forest, lead me to the school football field. Dashing up the stairs to the top of the bleachers, I finally collapsed, giving into my protesting muscles as I stretched out on the bench.
I had been right—pushing myself t physical limits hadn't left much time for thinking. But the thoughts came back with no mercy as I slowly regained my breath.
Simon had told her, and, yes, I was upset. Clearly. But it was done. Agonizing over and holding onto it weren't going to get me anywhere, weren't going to change anything. What I wanted to change, what I wanted to change so badly that I thought—for a fleeting, blissful moment I thought—that I could change with sheer, solid will, was Chloe being aware of the truth. Because while I would get over Simon's—if I were being rational—honest mistake, I could never recover from Chloe knowing, we—Chloe and I—would never, couldnever, be the same. As much as she 'cared,' more likely as much as she thought she cared, as much as she claimed her opinion of me remained the same, that knowing didn't change anything, I knew it wasn't true, knew it couldn't be true. And what was she supposed to say anyway? It wasn't as if she'd tell Simon, my brother, otherwise. 'Actually, Simon, I can't even imagine caring about him—can no longer fathom it, actually.'
And whatever she thought of me, whatever our relationship was—friends, I reminded myself for what seemed like the hundredth time—was forever changed. I was merciless, careless, unforgivably violent and deserving of the guilt. How could she not think so? It didn't matter how good she was—she wasn't above natural human tendencies.
Where did this leave us then? I wouldn't be able to look her in the, wouldn't be able to bear the judgment and fear, made worse by the fact that I had never seen the former in her expression, ever,and the latter had never been because of me. Up until now, I had never been a source of fear to her. And that felt indescribably good, made me sometimes think that, for her, I could be good, didn't have to be menacing. But none of it mattered now. Because she wouldbe scared, and I'd have to see it in her otherwise gentle, forgiving, expressive eyes, and I wouldn't be able to act the same, wouldn't and couldn't pretend that I didn't see the fear.
It finally, with that thought, sunk in that, as I had said earlier to Simon, there really never would be a Chloe and I, despite what I thought and allowed myself to fleetingly hope for in those moments very late at night or very early in the morning, when my mind was heavy but I couldn't stop thinking and because I was tired, the thoughts I usually kept at bay finally pushed their way to the surface.
And suddenly, I was mad at her. Mad because, if she hadn't gone snooping, hadn't been so goddamned curious, had respected my privacy, things could have been salvaged; we could have picked up where we had left off once Liam was taken care of or dissuaded. Somewhere deep in my mind, I knew that her curiosity was understandable, justifiable. But it didn't matter. Because being mad, latching on to the unexpected, hot anger that leapt at me, was so much better, so much more comprehensible than the alternative: some peculiarity in the beat of my heart, the inexplicable, but strong sense of anxiety in the face of the fact that I had, in lack of better terms, lost her, and the bizarre fear of what she was possibly thinking.
It was that anger that got me up and propelled me forward in spite of my aching muscles and tired body, that soothed me and cleared my mind, as odd as it sounds, for I knew how to handle anger, knew where it came from and how to work with it. The other feeling, the one I didn't have a name for, but, if I were forced to give a name to, seemed suspiciously like hurt, was too confusing, too foreign, and my lack of understanding seemed like another way in which I had lost control.
No one interrupted my trek up the stairs, a wise move on their part. Tori was out, but Simon was still home, a rarity on a Friday night. I supposed dad had talked to him and I was next, but not tonight. No—they knew not to bother me tonight. Shutting the door to my room, I collapsed on the bed, thankfully falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, compliments of the past few hours of both mental and physical exertion.
Saturday, no one talked to me and I talked to no one. I left for practice and glided back into the house a few hours later. I actively stewed, however. The anger that had come to me the night before was refreshed after a night of sleep, and I was prepared for it this time, welcomed it, in fact. And the more time that passed, the more irritated I grew for I found more and more ways for which I was angry with Chloe. First, I couldn't stop thinking about her; then, she was my friend; then, I was suddenly her protector, worrying about her, thinking about her even more than I already did; andthen, somewhere along the way, she made me trust her—the list went on.
Sunday morning, a small amount of practicality returned, and I made my way to Simon's room, knocking on the door—a custom after a fight. He opened it, gazing at me inscrutably for a moment, before stepping aside—all was forgiven. He knew I was sorry for blowing up, and I could tell he was sorry for going about things the way he did—I had seen that in the looks he had been throwing me all weekend. But neither of us was going to make the other apologize aloud. We were brothers; we got it, and that's what counted.
Taking a seat at his desk, I said, "Tell me what you told her, and don't think about leaving anything out."
Monday morning, as I was eating breakfast, dad finally decided to broach the topic, having assumed he had given me enough time. Taking a seat beside me, he said, "I think we need to talk about all of this. How you feel, why you feel that way, what you're going to do."
"We've talked about it. You heard all I had to say to Simon. I said what I meant and meant what I said. There's nothing more to say." I only dared a glance at him while saying this, not wanting to be completely rude but hoping to dissuade him with my decisiveness.
He sighed—he had been dealing with this for a long time—squeezing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger before deciding on a new approach.
"If you don't want to talk about it, fine. But I need you to listen to what I'm about to say Derek, and really listen to me: however you choose to proceed, do so with caution. I want you to truly think about your actions and weigh the consequences, both for other people and yourself, before you make a decision. Ok?"
I didn't respond, choosing instead to fight off the wavering to my resolve his words brought on—I had made up my mind last night, and he couldn't change it.
"Ok," he repeated, voice firmer.
"Yeah, ok," I mumbled, staring straight ahead, into my bowl.
He put a heavy hand on my shoulder as he got up, keeping it there for a moment before he walked away. I left the house soon after, having taken a few minutes to reaffirm my plan in my mind, convincing myself once again that it had to be done and that it was time for me to reclaim control.
"Derek, what brings you here this morning," Williams asked, smiling.
"It's about Chloe," I replied, getting straight to the point.
"Honestly, Derek, I don't know what you do, but she's come such a long way in such a short time—you should be really proud of your work. I am."
He'd make things a lot easier if he weren't so damn nice. And if he weren't making me feel so guilty.
Rubbing the back of my neck for good measure, I said, "Thanks, and her progress is what makes what I have to say really suck."
His eyes clouded over, his expression falling, and I continued. "Coach had to rearrange the practice schedule because our times were cutting into the new times the lacrosse team needs. Chloe and I tried to work it out, but our schedules aren't compatible anymore." I did my best to sound regretful—he sure looked it.
"Oh, well—is there really nothing that can be done?"
I shook my head decidedly.
Sighing, he said, "Okay… okay. I guess that's life. I mean, at least now we all know Chloe has the ability. I appreciate you guys trying to work it out on your own, and I appreciate all the help you've offered so far. If you wouldn't mind, when you get a chance, to explain your approach, I would appreciate that, too, and hopefully, we can get something from that."
"Not a problem."
He offered me a parting smile—so ignorant, so friendly—before I left the classroom, head held as I high as I could muster after such a deceit. He'd never find out, though. Chloe wouldn't protest; she owed me that much.
A couple of weeks later, having pointedly ignored Chloe the whole time, I was essentially in a constant state of irritability. I was, simply put, walking around constantly pissed off—still mad at Chloe for ruining things, mad at myself for overreacting—which I admitted I had, to myself—mad at whoever or whatever decided to propel her in my direction and serve Liam as a side, and then once again mad at myself for missing her. The anger helped keep the regret and guilt away, too.
Sitting in the library at lunch, reading up on astronomy—math and physics seemed to be my only comforts nowadays—the silence around me was interrupted by the solid sound of the door shutting. Surprised—who came in here and who would interrupt me—I glanced up, only to find the source of my weeks of anger standing in front of me, glaring as callously as a five foot tall, blue eyed blonde can. I attempted to remain aloof, not wanting her to know how big of an effect she had on me, but I was too angry. She was ready for a fight, was looking for one—it was clear in her stance. And after an interminable two weeks, I was more than prepared to give it to her. I was ready to throw whatever she threw my way right back at her. I was ready for an argument and I was ready to win.
Again, anyone who has continued to read, thank you. The story-and I- really appreciate it :)
