3. Thoughts of him (part 2)
Beverly didn't love him when he stepped over that floorboard.
Squeak.
Not even when he screamed her name, or took her upriver, or spoke of attics with his back to the window, an ocean of sunlight drinking at his shoulders.
Or during their first walk together. She'd felt a whisper of tenderness for him, then. She'd wanted to listen to him forever. To linger in the dark, naming the stars. Her fever quieted. Her heart alight.
But… no. Not yet.
She'd loved to spin and run and leave him on the bottom of the stairs. To wait for him.
It's late!
His face. Oh, his face…
It's late…
But Beverly loved him on the third day.
I will never forgive him…
When she looked up at that monstrous ceiling, under which he would later take her dancing. As she waited for the house to burn. For little Willa to be orphaned. Her poor sister…
Beverly had looked up. She always looked up.
She didn't hate New York City, she was merely distracted away from it. She wandered its skies at night, meandering through meadows of starlight. Thinking of the world she would soon be welcomed into. One much more fascinating than the towers that struggled to graze it.
But she didn't think of stars that day. She thought of Peter Lake.
Remember the river…
No dream bloomed within her. She didn't feel calmer by looking up now. Instead, her throat burned, and her back tensed, and she felt so afraid.
She thought of Peter. The feel of his coat. She'd grabbed his arm and he'd received her touch with one of his own. But he'd gone down to the furnace room, regardless.
She thought of how scared he must have felt, living in the attic of Grand Central Station. Suspended in midair.
For the first time she asked herself if becoming a star was as wonderful as she'd hoped.
Hold onto me now… Trust me now…
Peter had tried to be one and the experience had shaken his dreams. He'd feared to fall ever since then.
Peter…
Peter Lake didn't belong to the world Beverly had longed for till now. That starlit fantasy. Those webs of ethereal light.
It was the very opposite, in fact.
Peter Lake was New York City. He was the smell of the street. Tobacco and gas and mist. He was the foggy sunlight. The ticking of a clock. A squeaky floorboard.
Stars were too far away for her to touch.
Where are you from, Peter Lake?
But Peter Lake was real, unmistakably so. And he was beautiful… He was a beautiful reality.
Peter, where are you from?
He was neither mirage nor dream, when they carried him upstairs. Hands caked in oil and charcoal. Eyes shut, limbs limp.
He was here. Alive, moving, in front of her, in this bed.
His fingers twitching between her own. His voice. His ragged breathing. He was mumbling in his sleep.
"Forgive me…"
He was shaking.
Her worry. Her pity. He'd appeared so frail, all of a sudden. As if he could plummet into puddles of sand with just a whisper from her lips.
"Peter…"
Her voice. His tremors. His eyes, catching the light, as he finally found her. And her relief, her genuine bliss at seeing him again.
"Am I dead?" he'd muttered.
Her laughter. Her gratitude. Her fondness for him. She hadn't let go of his hand.
Every time she looked at him she felt sadder for not looking down sooner. For letting her gaze linger so long on this sky she couldn't touch.
Where are you now?
Peter, with his dark, shapeless hair. Its edges chopped erratically. He would continuously slick it back, tuck it behind his ears, but it rarely stayed there. One or two strands, sleek and black, would always slither back across his forehead. Before his eyes. The silent reminder of a stupid failure.
Peter, warm, ashy, apologetic. Tripping on his own words, yet still capable of forming marvelous sentences. Unblemished, rough to the touch, like coral washed ashore by the sea. Chipped on the corners. Disarrayed.
Beautiful.
Beautiful.
Beverly loved his voice. She loved the things he said.
He was gentler than she ever imagined. He saw so much, everywhere, in everything. A furnace. A safe. Machinery, in general. Webs of steel.
No amount of broken furnaces will ever make me a mechanic…
Beverly had never imagined that something so industrial could ever be seen as beautiful.
She could have listened to him forever. She wanted to know everything he knew. And yet, she would speak, too, and not feel ashamed of a word she said.
If not towns, what do you believe in?
He did more than just listening.
He always held her gaze as she spoke. And he reacted. He remembered her words and echoed them with care.
You're afraid of the ceiling coming down on you?
He never mocked her. He never shook her sentences off as nonsensical. He took everything in, cherished it, savored it. Respected it.
Beverly loved speaking to him. Looking at him, too.
She loved the little paths that broke through his cheeks when he smiled. A dozen of them, some thick, some hair-thin. As if his face concealed a map that only a grin could reveal.
He let her see him when he smiled like that. Only she could see him, and she loved what she saw.
His eyes. Black eyes.
Two pools of darkness, opaque and secretive. Fond and absorbent. Reflecting everything.
A mirror for herself and the world she would soon be leaving. A window to his heart, cloaked by black curtains. He was always afraid. He had so much to say and he never spoke enough.
Everything went into those eyes. Everything sank into the black and became a part of Peter Lake. His heart, his thoughts.
What did he think about when he stared so intently? What allured him so? What drew him in?
You're not a thief.
Beverly sank so often into those eyes. She slithered into his gaze, slipping into the shadowy alleys of his heart. She leaned back against cold, smoky walls. She relaxed.
She liked being inside of him. To wander about the invisible city that lay behind his eyes. She longed to stay there. She felt safe. Breezier, less tired. And wittier. And beautiful. And held. He held her.
His arms were real. His embrace, his lips, his voice. His gentleness, real.
Who would ever abandon you?
And he watched her as if he were waiting to be awoken from a wonderful dream. He seemed to fear that every moment could be his last.
Who would ever abandon you?
One final chance to look at her.
No…
I would never abandon you.
Peter would not die.
I would cling onto you like my life depended on it…
Peter was the cogs and the screws that lay beyond her chest and her ill-struck heart. His smile, his conversation, his unashamed mundanity. Little pieces of her soul, turning, connecting. Moving.
You have a beautiful heart and you have no idea.
And now Beverly freed crickets from her music sheets and waited for him. To be robbed of her anger, piece by piece, each morning.
You still look at me as if you owed me something…
Until all that was left was this wondrous clarity. That she was in love with someone who existed, without the shadow of a doubt.
You owe me nothing…
That he was her friend. That he enjoyed her presence as much as she did his.
You give me so much, every day… You give me happiness.
And Peter Lake could stop moving, but he could never die.
You…
Peter was what would remain of her. Her life. Her memories.
Just you…
He could outlive her for centuries.
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
I managed to finish Chapter 3 in a car while on a road trip, so... here you go XD I'm a little dizzy now so I'll just leave this here.I'll wait until I've reached my destination to see if I finish Chapter 4, next. That, or maybe I finish it when I go back home, after the weekend.
As always, thank you for reading.
