9: Together Again
9~Together Again
“Lynne?”
I turned on my side, thinking it was only a dream…it was too early in the
morning for anyone to be in my apartment, anyway…
“Lynne?” came the voice again.
My eyes closed, I saw a leprechaun running in front of me, teasing me with
his pot of gold, my name echoing everywhere around me. It was a really
stupid, pathetic dream, but I was too tired to wake up.
There was a cool hand on my cheek, lightly brushing my bangs from my face.
But to me, it was only the wind in my hair.
“Lynne.” I felt my small hand taken in a much larger one.
“Stupid leprechauns!” I said suddenly, opening my eyes wide and scanning the
living room (I had fallen asleep on the couch). “That’s better; now you’ll
shut up.”
“Lynne.”
“Even when I’m awake! WHAT IS THIS?!?”
“You’re awake, Lynne; and what a heavy sleeper you are!” I felt a hand on my
shoulder.
I turned and met Paul’s laughing eyes. “Paul! Damn, you scared me!”
“And you quite amused me,” he replied, snickering.
I felt myself turn bright red and I mumbled, “Please excuse me” as I took
myself off to the bathroom to freshen up.
Paul---was I still dreaming? Why was he here? So early in the morning, too?
I craned my neck around the corner of the bathroom to see the calendar on
the wall in my room. Saturday, the 29th of September. The end of the month.
And Paul had come for me.
Despite having humiliated myself, I felt light and happy. Paul was here!
I was going home!
I dressed really casually; a white tank-top and a pair of jeans, my hair
pulled quickly in a half-ponytail-bun, light make-up and then gathered the
things I’d need. I felt guilty for making Paul wait, but I heard some music
coming from the living room, which told me he was occupied. When I was
finished dressing and packing, I brought my things out to the living room
and set them by the door. Paul hadn’t noticed my entrance; his head leaned
on his hand as he studied a crumpled piece of paper. He used the pencil I
kept on top of the piano and wrote something and then took a sip of the tea
he had apparently made for himself. Another cup, still steaming, was on my
coffee table (the only one in the house; I never had people eat over---we
always went out) next to a plate of pancakes and scrambled eggs. I was
pleased, to say the least, and I sat down and ate quietly, as not to disturb
him.
He was still oblivious to my presence, but that didn’t bother me at all. He
began playing the piano again, this time with both chords and melody. He
sang softly; I could barely hear him, but his voice was so sweet. I could
barely make out:
“Young like the sun awak’ning in the sky, sweet like the stars that shine
above my eye” which he kept singing over and over. He stopped frequently and
scribbled things on the paper and played again, only to be singing those two
verses. He stopped again, frustrated, crossing his legs, his palm under his
chin, fingers drumming against his mouth, eyebrows knit and forehead
wrinkled.
“I like what you’ve got so far,” I said softly, not wishing to startle him
and I came to stand behind him, my small hand on his shoulder. “About anyone
or anything in particular?”
Paul turned and met my eyes, taking his hand from under his chin and patting
mine. “Yes, but I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it yet. When I am, I’ll
tell you.”
I nodded, understanding that. “Do you have anymore lyrics to it yet? Can you
tell me that?”
He smiled. “I’ve got a few rough ideas---but I don’t want you seeing the
other verses until it’s done. You’ll like it better then.”
“I will? Hmmm….”
Paul’s expression changed for a brief moment and then was all laughing
cheerfulness again.
“Ready to go?”
“Yeah---but I’d like to thank you first. Not only for breakfast, but for
coming all the way out here to get me. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, luv,” he smiled at me. “It’s my pleasure.”
There was an awkward moment of silence. Paul broke it by folding his lyric
sheet and putting it into his coat pocket and closing the cover of my piano.
He grabbed my bags and went out to his car and I locked the door, humming
what I now only knew as “the star song.” I would soon know it by another
title.
********
We had been driving for an hour or so, talking and trying to keep ourselves
occupied. I was used to having the radio on whenever in a car, so it played
softly in the background. Paul was a bit thoughtful today and seemed to have
a lot on his mind. There was a bit of a lull in our conversation, so I
turned and looked out the window, surveying the beautiful countryside
flashing past my window. I leaned my head on my hand, my thoughts growing
louder and clamoring for my attention. The same old worries---or were they?
I thought about that, glad to not have to think about the other
thought that had been gradually getting bigger of late.
My worries when I was younger consisted of money (how was I going to pay
for those acting classes? Choir tours? New clothes? Yet another Beatles
CD?), my father when he was out on cruise, sometimes school (math always
worried me), growing up, boys, the way people were, my stories, when was I
going to find time to do this or that; those kind of things.
I had time now, less than I had as a child, but time still the same. I had
money, I wasn’t worried much about school anymore, my dad had retired from
the military, but people were still the same and I was still growing. I
wasn’t even out of my teens yet---and there were no men I had a particular
eye on---except----
I shook my head furiously. This was a worry that seemed would never go
away.
“You all right, luv?” Paul asked, having seen that shake.
“What?---Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. My mind’s troubling me,” I couldn’t help
adding, out of my trait of being strictly truthful.
“What’s wrong, Lynne? D’you want to talk about it?” He seemed genuinely
concerned.
I shook my head again, but not as angrily as before. “Maybe some other
time. Maybe never. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to talk about it.”
Meeting his questioning gaze, I said, “Forget it; it’s ridiculous
anyway---forget I said anything.” And then I looked straight ahead, my jaw
set. I didn’t like hiding my feelings; if I was upset, the world would know,
but I wasn’t asking for sympathy. I was just tired of hiding it. I was
honest with Paul, but now I felt a bit guilty for telling him I wasn’t
completely myself and then refusing to discuss it.
I forced myself to turn and look at him, with a half-smile, and tried to
talk of something else. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he
didn’t, and responded to what I was saying.
Another moment of silence. We had not yet gotten to the point where
silences between us were a good thing, but I pessimistically thought that we
never would reach that point. We wouldn’t make it, and it would be my fault.
I shrugged inwardly---I was going to make our friendship last as long as
possible until---here, an inward shake of my head and the thought let go.
The radio had also gone silent as well, but it was just a break in-between
songs. Suddenly, voices filled the car with a haunting harmony: REO
Speedwagon singing “Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore”:
“I can’t fight this feeling any longer.
And yet I’m still afraid to let it flow.
What started out as friendship
Has grown stronger.
I only wish I had the strength to let it show.
I tell myself that I can’t hold out forever.
I said there is no reason for my fear.
’Cause I feel so secure when we’re together…”
Written in the stars, I was thinking. Maybe there was hope after all…
“Haven’t heard this song in a while,” Paul said quietly, with a far-away look on his face. “They don’t play them very often anymore.”
“Yeah, strange, isn’t it,” I remarked, pretending not to have heard.
“Strange---I quite agree. Though I think our reasons differ…” It was an obvious invitation to speak up, but when I did, I said the opposite:
“I’m sorry to say this, but no. I can’t.”
An indescribable sadness tugged at my heart. Why was I sad? I had no reason---I squashed a replying voice in my mind---no reason, not one. I had no boyfriend, I was interested in no one---
I could feel tears pooling in my eyes. I pretended I was yawning to hide it, but Paul wasn’t stupid. He eased his foot off the gas and slowed down, while taking me in his arms with one arm as the other held the wheel.
I was crying by then, and no amount of yawning could hide it. I wiped my tears, but they kept coming.
“Sssh, it’s okay, love,” he whispered softly. “It’s okay.”
I put my arms around him and leaned my head against his chest, listening to the musical rhythm of his heart. He kept one arm tight around me and rested his cheek on my head.
I felt so loved in that pose and never wanted to break out of it, but I knew that I had to. I stopped crying and sat up a little, resting my cheek against his shoulder.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” he said, hugging me with his one arm. “It’s okay to cry---remember?”
I smiled through my tears. “Yeah, that’s right. But sometimes I forget.”
His arm tightened for a moment around me and then gently let go. I sat up, wiping my eyes and trying to calm myself.
He had seen me cry. That, for me, was a cementing factor in a friendship. When you were crying, you had laid yourself bare. And now Paul had seen me without the usual cheery smile on my face. He didn’t laugh, he didn’t say something sarcastic and he didn’t let me be because he felt uncomfortable.
He comforted me. I smiled again, more cheerfully this time.
“Ah! My lady smiles!” Paul said, reflecting it. “Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“We’re almost there. You want me to take you anywhere or anything?”
“No, that’s okay. Just take me home.”
We drove on for about ten minutes more and I was home, my little lamb coming up to the gate and nuzzling my hand.
“Hello, my fluffy one!” I said, kneeling and taking the little lamb in my arms. “Miss me?” I patted her head and then let her go.
Paul came up behind me with my things and a smile on his face. “Well, if she didn’t, I did!”
I grinned and made a face at him and relieved him of a suitcase and went inside.
Elizabeth wasn’t there and so I opened every window and every door until it was as bright inside as it was out.
Paul put my things next to the door and took off his shoes, smiling at me as he did so.
“I’m going to cook,” I announced. “Would the knight like to stay to dinner?”
“Of course,” he replied. “But are you sure? We can always go out.”
“Is that what you want?” I asked as I headed into the kitchen, Paul following me.
“Only if you do,” he answered sweetly. “But I don’t mind it just being me and you.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed but I was blushing.
“Just me an’ you, then,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Why would I?” Paul said with a cheeky wink. “Can I help?”
“Sure! There’s an apron in the pantry, next to kitchen door.”
I opened the refrigerator and looked at what we had: bread, butter, milk…that was it.
“Paul, what’s in the pantry that you wouldn’t mind eating?” I called out. “There’s nothing in the fridge; Elizabeth must’ve been partying while I was gone.”
“There’s some cake mix---a lot of dessert mixes---some flour---oh, dear---and canned food.”
My stomach growled. “Could you please grab me two cans of vegetable soup and get me some chocolate brownie mix?”
He emerged from the pantry, items in hand, the apron not on him but hanging from his belt loops for later use. I also saw what had made him say, “oh dear”---the flour bag must have opened because a bit of it had spilled on his clothes and he had a smudge under one eye where he’d tried to rub it off. I couldn’t help giggling.
“What?” Paul asked, putting the things on the counter.
I turned to the sink and ripped off a paper towel above it and wet it slightly.
“Come here,” I said.
Obediently, he came closer and I said, “Bend over a little, you’re too tall.” He bent slightly and I wiped the flour from his face and as I used the dry side of the towel to wipe off the water, I was conscious of his eyes on me and the smile playing about his lips.
“There,” I said, moving away. “It’s off now.”
“Thank you,” he said softly, in a strange tone of voice.
My mind was unexpectedly quiet at that and I started opening the cans and Paul put the pots on the stove and opened the brownie mix. He obviously knew what he was doing so I didn’t say anything and just went on opening the cans.
Ever since I was a small child, I’d always had trouble opening cans. My mom had gotten the safe, “new-fangled” can openers and I couldn’t even use those. I stuck to the old, though dangerous, ones and I still used them today.
The handle was a little slippery; the water from the paper towel and the lotion on my hands didn’t help either. I washed my hands, dried them, wiped the handle, and tried again. I managed to open one can, but when I tried to open the other, the handle slipped from my grasp and the metal blade/cutter hit my other hand, which was holding the can, and cut it.
“Damnit!” I almost yelled and my impulse was, like a child, to stick it in my mouth, but the cut was too large for that. I held it to me for a second, frozen with the sharp pain and then immediately went to the sink to wash it, blood dripping from my hand.
My hair tumbled down into my face and I couldn’t see and my wet uninjured hand tried to put it back, but it kept falling. I let my hands stay under the faucet for another second and then reached up with both, tucked my hair into the back of my shirt, feeling the blood dripping on me the whole time, and then put my hands back under the water, watching the dark crimson thin itself out with the water.
Paul came into the room with bandages and peroxide in his hands. He’d left but I hadn’t seen him.
“Dry your hands, Lynne,” he said and started pouring peroxide on a paper towel. My left injured hand dry, but still bleeding, he took by the fingertips in his and started dabbing the paper towel at my hand. I was electrified by his touch, but that was replaced by wanting to scream as the cut bubbled. I involuntarily tightened my hand.
“It’s okay, Lynne; open your hand,” he said and I forced it open. It was covered in blood. Paul took my hand and rinsed it under the water, dried it carefully, and then applied the peroxide again, forcing my hand to stay open. He bandaged it and then looked at me, a little upward glance from his lowered head.
“Thank you,” I said and tried to pull my hand away, but he held it tighter than I’d thought. My brain started screaming about romance and I was disgusted with it but then he took my hand completely for the briefest moment and then let go.
Disgust completely melted away. I felt my face grow hot and my impulse was to run to him and hold him in my arms and kiss him and tell him….I pretended to go back to the stove and pour the soup into the pot, but he stopped me and pulled me to him.
“What happened to your shoulder, Lynne?” he said, looking at the blood on my clothes.
I wanted to laugh. My mind had gone on another little side trip with me in his arms, but here he was looking at my bloodied clothes.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I had to put back my hair and I got blood on me. But really, thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, pulling away from me abruptly.
I didn’t know exactly what to make of that so I returned to the pot once again. This time, I managed to finish the soup with no interruptions.
Chapter Ten
Copyright 2000, 2001, etc.: Lissa Michelle Supler/Strawberry Sunshine. May not be reproduced in any form, by any means, without the permission of the author. Permission may be obtained by e-mail.
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