BEFORE

You look into her eyes

And it's more than your heart will allow

In August and everything after

You get a little less than you expected somehow

"August And Everything After"

Counting Crows

August 31, 1948

Worcester, Massachusetts

Chuck hated August.

He had spent most of the day alone, wondering exactly when the change in his attitude had happened. When he was younger, November had been the month he dreaded. At Stanford, he'd read a poem of T. S. Eliot's, his famous The Waste Land. It opened, "April is the cruellest month." He had thought November was, at least for him. But now he was certain it was August. When his desired impressions of the seasons clashed with his experience, it had always been November encroaching, advancing like an army, stealing the beauty of the world away from him. Damp, drizzly November in his soul. November had always been a miserable state of mind…the world ruined, rendered bleak and lonely and devoid of beauty.

Maybe November was still just as ugly as he had always perceived it to be, but now it was August, August that poisoned everything after.

August was balmy in New England. Hazy, hot and humid on most days. Deep summer in all full, green glory. But summer was short-lived in New England. Autumn started stealing in while August was still sunning itself. Late August nights already could chill. A late August thunderstorm could make the temperature plummet, sometimes for a whole day.

Fall is in the air, Gertrude would say when that happened. Every day of summer, to Chuck, felt that way. As if there was no separation between August and November anymore, as if September and October had deserted, abandoned their posts. The older he became, the faster time seemed to pass, warmth rushing to cold.

Tonight was still summer-like, though, as he sat alone on Sarah's back porch. He could smell the summer in the air—campfire wood, flowers, and witch hazel. A bouquet of provocative scents. He had to tell himself this, however, that the night was beautiful, to convince himself. His emotions would not respond to the beauty.

Somewhere inside, he had lost everything in between and now it was November again. Maybe it would always be November.

He had to leave for California in two days.

This was now the third time doing this. Leaving. He should be used to it, he told himself. It shouldn't hurt as much. But it did. Each time he left, he left another piece of himself behind. His insides were patchwork, present parts of himself stretched to cover absent parts.

This entire summer had been..different. Sarah and he were getting older. It was perfectly logical to admit that as they got older, how they were with each other would change. Leaving her the first time had been torturous agony for him, and dismally lonely for her.

He had used school as a constant distraction from his loneliness. Sarah had eventually found her own way to cope. He didn't blame her; that kind of misery was unsustainable for long periods of time. He was glad she had found new friends, not just Carina, but a group of them, male and female.

Her father had thrown a party for her, for her 16th birthday, and invited them all. Chuck was there for the party.

There were probably 25 high schoolers here. Sarah had breathlessly introduced him to almost all of them when he'd arrived. Chuck knew Carina. But Sarah had formally introduced him to Bryce Larkin, who surprisingly was now Carina's boyfriend. Chuck remembered Sarah telling him Bryce had asked her to a dance. The shadows in her eyes seemed to betray her nonchalant attitude.

Sarah was jealous.

He hated that her jealousy bothered him so much…that she wanted something that Carina had. His stomach had twisted into a knot when he saw it. He hoped his own eyes weren't shadowed by his jealousy.

There were other boys there, her classmates and friends. Jason, Tommy, Will…he forgot the others.

There were more girls present. He had met Amy and Zondra, two girls as different as night and day, one bubbly and the other brooding. Vivian Winterbottom, Jack's housekeeper's granddaughter, who was in Sarah's class, was also introduced.

Vivian had been flustered during that introduction, giggling and blushing. When Jack had called him away, Chuck had overheard Sarah explaining to Vivian who he was.

My father's old business partner's son. He's learning to take over for his father.

Factually correct. But completely omitting any emotional explanation of who he was, of their tie to each other. Not that that was easy, though. Chuck was 20 years old. It was awkward to call him friend, even though that was the term in his head. More than that, but he had never found words to express it correctly.

He worked with her father. Nothing more.

The thought left him gutted.

Jack had rambled, introducing him to friends that he had invited, some parents of the guests, some of his associates. Chuck met Vivian's father, Hartley, who had told him he had been friends with Chuck's parents. The adult conversation was all business—orders and staffing and expansion. Horribly dull, shop-talk conversations.

It made Chuck feel like he was a million years old. But he was now more like them than he was like Sarah. He felt like a gulf had opened between them.

Each summer he returned from California, he worked with Jack at Burton Carmichael, learning the ropes and applying all that he'd learned at college the year before. It was a valuable experience, a desperately needed distraction from not being with Sarah the way they had always been. He still saw her, but it wasn't the same. Strangely, he felt closer to her reading her letters than he did being here, seeing her occasionally in person.

She expressed herself completely, more openly when she wrote to him, almost more than when she had talked to him when they were younger. No one to critique what she told him or how she said it. In person, she played the role that was expected of her, keeping the appropriate distance between them.

Sarah's friends had been too much, Jack and his cronies had been too much…and now Chuck was outside, alone on the porch, wishing he could just talk to Sarah for a few minutes. He had her birthday present in his pocket, but wanted to give it to her when they were alone. Finding that time was impossible. He had been there a long time and no chance had come.

His reasons for wanting to give her the present in private were hers, for continuing to climb through his window at night, risking scandal every time she did. He should have given her the gift then, but it would have been too difficult in his bedroom to make clear what it meant, why he was giving it to her. He wanted to give it to her in private, but not in his bedroom. He waited and waited, and now he felt foolish, feeling he had inflated his own importance to her, feeling that he no longer mattered to her as he once had mattered. He made himself face being nothing to her.

He was her father's business partner. Nothing more. Nothing.

He breathed in August and breathed out November.

He could still hear the din from the party as he sat, morose, on the porch. He had been thinking about crickets and fireflies, his need to get outside and breathe the fresh air. With the party noise behind him, he still felt stifled, as if he were inside, not outside. Restless, he walked off the porch and onto the path that wound through the garden in Sarah's backyard.

He strolled, head-down, a distance away from the house, better able to breathe as the noise died down. He heard rustling, an animal–perhaps a skunk or an opossum.

"Chuck."

He spun at the sound of his name…in Sarah's voice.

"What are you doing?" she asked, standing there lit by the stars and the moon.

He took a step towards her but then noticed a strong scent of alcohol. He stopped. "Sarah, have you been drinking?" he asked, studying her. She was less composed than normal, unsteady on her feet.

She stepped forward, wobbling a little, closer to him, giggling as she placed her hand against his chest. "Mmm hmm," she affirmed, even as she shook her head to negate the confession. Her confusion seemed like a private joke, and she continued giggling. "I'm not like my father. All these people and everything…I was so…nervous."

He had never seen her drink, let alone seen her drunk. "Since when did you start drinking?" he asked, feeling lost, hurt because he didn't know this change in her, and he had always believed that he knew her best.

"Everyone…drinks, Chuck. You don't drink at college?" she challenged, wobbling some more and leaning against him more heavily. He could feel her figure against him, a new sensation.

"No, I don't," he countered. Somehow, it made him feel younger, childish, to say that to her. He felt awkward when his friends at school questioned his choices, but not childish. "What are you doing out here?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Looking for you," she said quickly, as if the words had a deeper significance. The silliness in her, the giggles, turned sullen, and she asked, looking around suspiciously, "You haven't seen Carina, have you?"

Truthfully, he hadn't seen anyone. He was the wallflower, an odd, old man out at this party, even if he felt childish, and he now just wanted to go home. "No," he said.

He couldn't read the expression on her face, so many things passed in rapid succession. But lastly she looked relieved, and then…nervous. Her eyes flashed angrily as she grumbled under her breath, "She's probably fucking Bryce in a closet."

He paled, shocked at her words. He had never heard her speak that way, vulgar and explicit. It alienated him from her farther, widening the gulf. It was like she was a different person. That thought raged through him, maddened him. He didn't know what to say, hating that she made him feel such a stranger, so anxious, when she had always been such a calming presence. She had been his calm.

"Sarah, I came here…because you invited me. But…you should be with your friends. I don't belong here," he admitted sadly.

"No, Chuck, that's not true," she insisted, desperately reaching behind him and pulling him close as she leaned more of her weight against him. "I wanted to talk to you, to be with you…all night long."

He could feel her firm body, her arms fit snugly around his torso. Even in the dark, the turquoise of her spaghetti-strap sundress perfectly complimented her eyes, turning them into two blue flames. The dress was tight, translucent, and barely covered her. One strap was loose, slipping down her arm as she leaned. The blue flames in her eyes seemed to heat the air between them, to heat the garden.

"You said…you have my present," she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes, retreating into coyness.

She was drunk, but not two-sheets-to-the-wind, as Gertrude would say. She was in possession of her faculties, but less inhibited than usual. His first instinct was to wait for another opportunity to give her the present, but the summer was gone. He was leaving in two days for California, and he wasn't sure when he would see her alone again. Reluctantly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small purple velvet pouch.

"This is for you," he said, unable to keep from smiling as he watched her eyes light up.

She took the pouch from him eagerly, leaning against him for balance as she opened it. She gasped when she slid the silver charm bracelet from the pouch and onto her palm, holding it out in the moonlight. "It's beautiful," she exclaimed.

He took it from her hand and opened the clasp. "It was my mother's. My father gave it to her when Ellie was born." Her eyes cleared for a moment, wide and unblinking as she watched him fasten it around her right wrist. "It's good luck," he whispered when he was finished.

Sarah stared at it for the longest time.

"Oh, Chuck, this is…I shouldn't have this. This is something you should give…your girlfriend. Someone special," she finally protested.

Her words made his eyes sting and he blinked hard to keep back tears. "I know," he said. A thousand other words were there, but he couldn't say find them, much less say them. She was his someone special, she would always be his someone special. Maybe he should have saved it in hopes of someone else, but he couldn't imagine finding someone who meant more to him than her. He wanted her to have it, even if their…friendship…had no future, wanted her to have it for the sake of the memories it represented. All they had been to each other.

When she looked up at him again, her eyes were filled with tears, her tears full of moonlight.

"Happy Birthday, Sarah," he whispered, reverently, closing his eyes and leaning down to gently, chastely kiss her cheek. It felt to him like a kiss goodbye.

It was only a split second, only for one breath that his lips were on her cheek, and then she turned her head, pressing both of her lips against his, hungrily. His eyes flew open in shock, as he stood, unresponsive. Both of her hands were on his cheeks. He felt her flick her tongue against his lips, then pry his mouth open to touch her tongue to his.

Like a rubber band stretched to its limit, he snapped. He kissed her back. He was awkward, inexperienced…but he let her lead. All of his latent, suppressed attraction to her, all of his smoldering emotions burst into flame as he kissed her…passionately, pouring all of himself into the kiss. She tasted like wine…and just…Sarah. His arms were around her waist, her body pressed against his body, both straps of her dress down, the top of it falling. He was pulling her upward to match his height, and she was hanging on him, a fistful of his shirt in each hand to anchor her.

The kiss went on and on, time lost, November and August both unreal. He forgot the age difference between, forgot his imminent departure…forgot every trace of anything else in the universe except her– her soft and sensual mouth, her silken skin beneath his hands on her back as her dress slipped yet farther downward. He felt her hitch her leg up on one side of him, pressing herself against the front of him and against his unmistakable reaction to her and all of this.

Gasping for air, she pulled back ever so slightly. She murmured against his lips, "Make love to me, Chuck. Right here. Right now."

She had lit him on fire…and then plunged him into ice cold water. He thought of what she'd said about Carina and Bryce.

Stop! Stop!

He wasn't sure if it was his own voice shouting in his head, or Casey's. Regardless, it was what he needed to do. Stop.

He said the word aloud.

Oh God, what have I done?

He grabbed her shoulders, pushing her away from his body, feeling like he was pushing his own heart from his chest as he did so. The front of her dress fell, and he quickly looked away while she fumbled with one hand to adjust it. He gripped the hand that remained on his body and used it to separate them. He tried to be gentle, but she would not let go; he had to add a harshness to the movement to get her attention. "Sarah…stop," he said again, once he caught his breath.

She regarded him in disbelief, the hand barely concealing her breasts trembling violently. He had to look away again, the pain of doing so profound. He had no idea what to say, how to tell her what he needed to tell her without hurting her. But he had already hurt her.

I should have stopped her before it started, he thought bitterly. She was drunk; this was his fault. What the hell is wrong with me?

Even in the dark, he saw the red flush on her face, down her neck and across her chest. The embarrassment crushed her. She took two steps back from him, stumbling in her heels. "I'm sorry…" she stammered. "...I thought…I hoped…I'm…so stupid…" She turned and rushed from him, stumbling.

He heard her sobbing as she ran back to the house.

He wanted to call out to her, and should have called out to her. The last thing he wanted was to leave things that way…on her birthday, no less. He ached knowing the pain he had caused her.

He wanted the earth to open and swallow him, take him out of this time and place, entomb him in some forgetful dark. His thoughts tornadoed, a swirling miasma of words and pictures and thoughts. Each one innocuous if still, isolated, but each a sharp, deadly weapon inside the moving chaos.

He had done the right thing, stopping her advances, stopping himself from yielding to her advances. She would have regretted it when she was sober, been ashamed to have thrown herself at him, propositioned him that way. She wasn't herself, wasn't the Sarah he knew. He had done what he had always sworn to do; he had protected her. Even if it meant protecting her from herself. From him.

Nonetheless, he had been completely sober. When had that become possible? That he would need to protect her from him?

He felt sick, exhausted, desolate as he left her house without a word to anyone else.

He spent two days and two nights in a miserable daze, unable to sleep, barely able to eat. His mind replayed the moment over and over. It was bliss and agony in the same thought. He could taste her, feel her against him…and then the regret would wash over him, nearly drowning him. He thought maybe he should have tried to see her before he left, talked to her, but he didn't know where to begin. Part of him hoped that she might seek him, but she didn't.

He boarded the train to California, the memory of her running from him outside her house following him the entire trip.

A/N: Thank you, Zettel. Personal notes this time. At least for me, every story, as it forms in the imagination, as the plot sorts itself out, has a starting point. A scene, a picture, a conversation around which the entire story takes shape. This chapter was that for me, after listening to the song that accompanies the chapter. Those of you who have read other things I wrote should be familiar with the Counting Crows. I have a story named for the album that bears the name of this song--but it is not on that album. Its lyrics, however, are scribbled in the background on the cover of the album. Adam Duritz, lead singer and songwriter, created a nine minute demo of the song, but according to him, it had lyric holes and didn't fit with the record. His birthday is in August, and the album is about "everything that happened after that," so he used it as the title. The song was first a myth, a supposed lost track...until it was played one night in 2003 while the band was on tour. It became a popular "bootleg." Duritz lost the demo and had to petition fans for an MP3 recording. It became a real song in 2018, thanks to Amazon Music. It's American-Pie-esque (Don McLean, not the movie lol) but it's worth a listen. Thoughts? Drop me a line.