Everything between us, p.13
Everything Between Us, page 13
Her eyes narrow. “She’ll be able to see right through you, Daniel Alexander Van Vliet.” She pats my cheek, but her look tells me she knows more about my life than she lets on, knows me better than I ever really understood.
“Why would I ever want that?” I tease.
“Because she’ll like what she sees,” my mom says softly. She looks back down at the pictures, of me and my brother through a decade of Halloweens, a lifetime of Christmases, skinny, pimpled boys with big Adam’s apples who grew ridiculously fast and ate her out of house and home. Somewhere in there, I started to hide, to put on an act. Somewhere in there, I split myself down the middle, the part of me I wanted to keep to myself and the part of me I was willing to share. I got so good at it that people never noticed they got only half of me—except my mom, apparently.
And Stella. She’s inside my walls, and I keep ducking and hiding, but she finds me every time. When she took me in her arms this morning, I almost fell apart. I couldn’t let her see it, and I got out of there as quickly as I could. She sees right through me, but does she like what she sees? I’m not sure she feels much one way or the other, and her indifference hurts more than her hatred. I think that’s what I’ve been afraid of all along—the me I keep to myself is not that impressive. I’m just a guy, one who’s kind of quiet, who loves his mom and dad, who doesn’t know if God exists but really hopes he does, who likes to think about stuff but isn’t an expert in anything, who’s honestly not sure if he’s talented or not but likes to explore. Nothing special, nothing amazing. I’ve tricked people into thinking I’m a fool, a crazy person, a god of sex, an extreme one way or the other. They think I’m dangerous, or stupid, or shallow, or too deep to comprehend. No one has ever called me out, because they like the show. Until Stella came along and basically called bullshit on the whole thing. She stared me down, stripped me bare, pulled me apart.
And then she decided she found the show more interesting than the reality, enough to pay a thousand dollars for it.
Mom nudges my shoulder. “Where’d you go?”
I try to smile, but it doesn’t quite work. “Just thinking about what you said. Seems like a lot to expect from someone.”
“That she would see you for who you really are and love you? Daniel, I don’t think you see yourself very clearly.”
“You’re my mom. You have to say stuff like that.”
“Are you suggesting I’d lie, young man?” Her tone reminds me of Sundays, sitting in a pew, where a simple look from her would make Nate and I sit up straight. Not because we were scared, but because we didn’t want to disappoint her.
“No, ma’am,” I say, kissing her temple and wishing we could go on like this, that tomorrow would wait a while before creeping up on us. But I know it won’t, so I’ll sit by my mom until we have to let today go.
I’m staring at the wall in the family waiting room when Caleb walks in. I’ve been here with my dad for hours—my mom’s surgery took a lot longer than they anticipated and they’ve just taken her to recovery. The exhausted-looking surgeon said she bled more than they expected, and my dad listened quietly, asked when he’d be able to see her, and nodded when the doctor told him it might be another few hours. As soon as we were alone again, he told me he needed some air, but that I should stay here. I think he needed to go break down in private, and I wasn’t going to crowd him.
“Hey,” says Caleb, dropping into a chair beside me. “Katie’s finishing up her day in her partial hospitalization program, and I thought I’d come early and check on you.”
“Thanks.” I blink, trying to bring the room into focus. “What time is it?”
“About three. How’s—”
“How’s Katie?” I ask quickly. I need to talk about anything but my mom right now.
“She’s Katie. She’s doing a little better, but she still doesn’t like it when I spend too much time with Romy. At this point, though …” He sighs.
“At this point you don’t like to spend too much time without Romy.”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I feel sane when I’m with her, you know?”
“Not really.” Sane sounds like a word in a foreign language to me right now.
His fingers tap his thighs. He’s got paint smeared along the back of his hand. “Markus said something to me.”
“Markus is an asshole.”
“Sometimes. He said Liza’s daughter …” He runs a hand through his hair. “Never mind.”
“No, tell me what the asshole said.” Maybe I’ll go down to the co-op and pick a fight with him. I desperately need to hit something.
“He said she wanted to pay you to …”
“I never should have told him.” I was a mess when I did, right after she’d dropped that bomb on me, so I mentioned it to exactly the wrong person. Markus likes to spread shit around.
“It’s true, then.”
“Yeah,” I say. Caleb, at least, I can trust. He doesn’t say much anyway, and he’s not into drama.
“I guess Liza doesn’t know about it.”
I laugh. “No, most definitely not. She’s been at some spa since last week.” I didn’t really think about what would happen if she found out, either. I didn’t think about anything except Stella.
“Are you going to do it?” He gives me a sidelong glance. “I thought you guys were at each other’s throats.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Things changed.”
“Ah.” That’s all he says, but like a lot of stuff with Caleb, even that little word speaks volumes. “So you’re going to do it.”
“I did do it.” My heart thumps as the memories crash like waves against the walls of my skull. “Not for money though.”
“She got to you.”
I groan and rub my hands over my face. “That’s one way of putting it.” It’s been all I can do not to call the mansion, praying she’ll pick up. I want to hear her voice. I want her to make me laugh. I want her to poke holes in something I say because that means she’s really listening. I want her to push back, to meet me halfway. One thing has kept me from pulling out my phone: “I don’t think I got to her, though.”
Caleb leans forward and sets his elbows on his knees. He looks over his shoulder at me. “She’s got a lot going on. She might not know how to deal with it. She might be scared.”
My throat tightens. “I’m sure she is. That’s kind of the problem.”
“She gave you her virginity. That means something, however she tried to make it happen. Most girls don’t do that kind of stuff coldly. Especially not the first time.”
I stare at him, wondering if he could possibly be right. But Stella was raised that way, to use money to get what she wants. And she let me go pretty easily. It didn’t seem to bother her at all, that it was over, that I was leaving. If I hadn’t told her I wanted to stay that night, she would have walked me to the door ten minutes after I’d pulled out of her body. “She might be the exception to the rule.”
God knows, she’s the exception to so many others.
He rolls his eyes. “Right.”
“What am I supposed to do then?”
“What do you want from her?”
“No fucking idea.”
He chuckles, hanging his head. “She twists you up,” he says quietly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Except … he’s pretty much nailed it.
“Nothing, I guess. It’s just how I think about what Romy does to me.” He stands up. “I’m headed to the vending machine. Mountain Dew?”
My thoughts spinning, I manage to nod. Caleb stares down at me for a few seconds. “You should talk to her and quit dancing around it. Maybe you could figure it out together.”
“But then she could hurt me,” I mumble.
“You’re doing a pretty good job of that all by yourself, bro.” He pats my shoulder and strides down the hall.
Chapter Fourteen: Stella
The snow is piled in grayish walls on either side of our driveway, around the trunks of the trees that line the narrow lane. From the window in the entryway, I see the sun glint off the roof of Daniel’s car as he maneuvers slowly along the road. My stomach is tight. He hasn’t left my thoughts since he walked out on Sunday morning, and I’ve been like a gerbil on a wheel ever since. I’ve spent hours online, researching lung cancer and surgery, and everything I’ve read is scary. Every time the phone has rung, I’ve sprinted for it, thinking it might be him, that maybe he’d need something from me and call.
He hasn’t, though. Which … makes sense. I mean, I’m just this crazy art student of his, the recluse girl who can’t live in his world. Why would I expect him to turn to me? He has a whole life outside of this mansion. He’s only shared a few hours with me. At times I’ve convinced myself that it meant something to him, but really, how could it? We’ve known each other for a few weeks, and seen each other an hour a day, and half that time, I was a raging bitch who was trying to drive him away.
And the other half, I was a love struck girl offering him money for the chance to get a little more of him than he wanted to offer. I looked it up in the dictionary—it turns out that’s the definition of pathetic.
So now what? He didn’t take the money. Is that because he realized how sad it was and decided to give me a freebie? I had to laugh when I saw his note. I could almost see him shaking his head. Like he saw right through me and tossed the money back in my face. Not to be mean, because he’s not a mean guy. No, it’s because he’s playing a game that’s far too sophisticated for me to join, and he knows it.
I rub the goosebumps from my arms as his car disappears behind a snowdrift, headed for the side entrance. Willa calls from the kitchen. “Your art teacher’s here, Stella! Do you want me to bring your care package out?”
“No,” I call, my voice breaking. In my stupid daydreams, it had been the perfect thing. Four different kinds of brownies, and I individually wrapped each one, because I figured Daniel and his dad would be at the hospital a lot, and might need a snack. I just wanted to do something for him. But now that he’s here, and I’m imagining giving it to him, it feels so childish. “I’ll give it to him later,” I add, probably too softly for her to hear. I head for the enclosed porch, because that’s where he expects to find me. I sink onto my chaise and promise myself that none of this is a big deal, that I may not be able to keep up with him, but I don’t have to chase him like a fangirl, either.
But when he walks in, carrying his toolbox and looking more gorgeous than I remembered, my dignity slides away, shed like a snakeskin. What’s underneath is too powerful to be contained. I rise, wanting to run to him and throw my arms around his broad shoulders. As beautiful as he is, I can see the circles under his eyes, the lines of worry around his mouth. “How’s your mom?”
He sets his toolbox on the floor. “She’s recovering. They took the breathing tube out last night.”
My hands flutter around the hem of my shirt. “Did they … did they get it all? The cancer, I mean …”
“I think so.” He rubs his eyes, like what he really needs is a nap, not an inquisition. “She’s going to have chemo, but they’re going to wait until she’s recovered.” His expression crumples and he turns away. “The surgery really took it out of her.”
He starts to open his box and retrieve his charcoal pencils, but I reach out and lay my palm on his back. He freezes up, his muscles tense.
“I’m so sorry, Daniel. You didn’t have to come here today.”
He bows his head, his blond hair curling against the back of his neck. “I wanted to, though.”
“Why?” I whisper.
He turns to face me. “The answer is really complicated, Stella.” He closes his eyes. I wonder if he’s had an hour of real sleep since he left here on Sunday.
Adoration for him fills me up. I’m falling in love with you, I want to say, because those are the only words big and profound enough to explain it. But since I can’t say it, since the last thing he needs is to deal with my stupid feelings, I take his hand and lead him over to the chaise, and he doesn’t resist. I sit down and pull him with me.
“You look too exhausted to do anything right now,” I say to him, and I guide his head to my shoulder. I keep expecting him to rear back, but I think I’m right—he really is too wrecked for anything but this. Talking is too much, sketching is too much, thinking is too much. Probably coming here was too much, but apparently he felt the need, so here we are.
“I’m sorry,” he says as he sinks onto me, his breath skating over my collarbones, giving me chills.
I thread my fingers through his shaggy hair and lay my other hand on the side of his face. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” I want to be his haven. I want it more than anything else.
The sensation of Daniel’s powerful body relaxing against mine is the most amazing thing. I feel like the best person in the world, to be able to offer him this, even if my sole role is “pillow.”
His eyes are still closed, but his fingers are stroking at my ribs, a simple, reflexive kind of movement. “What have you been up to?” he asks quietly.
I’ve been missing you, I think at him. Reliving how it felt when you were inside me. Remembering how you looked when you came in my arms. Touching myself and pretending you’re the one doing it to me. Wishing I could fast forward to the moments I’m with you. “Reading, mostly. Baking a lot.”
“Yeah? Like what? That apple cake you made in the skillet was amazing,” he murmurs sleepily.
I slide my finger down his nose, tenderness and desire making it impossible not to touch him. “I’ve made two cakes, three dozen iced cupcakes, one failed soufflé, a crème brulee, and four batches of scones. I tried to make yeast doughnuts but splashed hot oil on my arm.”
He opens his eyes and slides the sleeve of my shirt up, sighing when he catches sight of the tiny red dots along my inner forearm. And then … he gently kisses the inside of my wrist and lays my hand back on the side of his face. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t explain, doesn’t apologize. He’s too tired for that, and I’m not going to ask him what it means. Instead, I keep babbling. “I’ve been driving Willa crazy—sending her to the grocery store at least twice a day. But she seems happy enough when she gets to take the results home. She has four kids, and they eat a lot, I guess.”
“You’re like a one-woman bakery.” His chest trembles with amusement, and I decide not to mention the brownies.
“I’m not … I … enjoy it. And cake is like edible happiness.”
He lets out a huff of laughter, and his arm tightens around my waist. “God, Stella, I missed you,” he whispers hoarsely.
“I missed you, too,” I whisper back, stunned. His rough, unshaven face scrapes at my neck as we hold on tight, but I don’t know what this means. I’ve never been this confused, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say. He finds me funny, I know. He likes hanging out with me. But I don’t know if it’s any more than that, and I’m terrified to put myself out there. Because he lives in the world, and I … don’t. Self-hatred crashes over me, unexpected and intense. Why am I like this? Why did I have to meet him now? Why not last summer when I was brave and able to walk in the sun, when I could go anywhere I wanted? Why fucking why fucking oh God I have to get out of here. The tension coils through me, and my heart pounds. The urge to run overwhelms me. I wriggle away from him and stumble back as soon as my toes hit the carpet, my breath sawing from my lungs. It’s going to happen, right here. I’m going to fall apart in front of him no no no …
He sits up and watches me, his red-rimmed eyes full of wariness that wasn’t there a second ago. “Stella—”
I put my hands out. “No. No, no, I’m sorry.” Please not here not now not with him …
He stands up and comes toward me, looking stricken. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. You’ve just been on my mind, and I can’t pretend you haven’t. I don’t know what to do with this feeling, but it’s there and it won’t go away.”
“What?” It’s the only word I can push off my tongue. My heart is choking me. I have to run, have to get out, but he’s saying something I need to hear. This is so unfair. I try to control my breathing, but I can’t. It’s like an avalanche—there’s no way to stop it.
He takes a hesitant step toward me, and I’m torn between running and pulling him into my arms. “Tell me that night was about more than an experience for you,” he blurts. “Tell me it meant more than that. Please.” He covers his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Never mind. God, I’m such a fucking mess.”
“It was everything,” I mouth, unable to get any volume into that terrifying admission. My fingers are tingling. I feel like I’m going to faint. Or throw up. I can’t throw up in front of Daniel. I have to get out of here before it’s too late.
“Knock, knock,” sings a voice from just down the hall.
Daniel’s hands fall away from his face, revealing his wide eyes.
My lips go numb as I spin around to see my mother come around the corner and sashay into the room. I didn’t expect her until after lunch. “Mom.”
She puts her arms out. Her hair is perfect. Her makeup is perfect. Her nails and clothes and skin and shoes are perfect. She pulls me into a hug, but she’s looking over my shoulder. At Daniel.
“Welcome home,” I choke out. And then, knowing I can’t hold it together anymore, I push myself away from her and run. Down the hall, straight to my room, into my bathroom, where I collapse onto the floor near the toilet, certain I’m going to puke my guts out. My vision is tunneled, foggy except for a pinpoint of clarity. My thoughts are as scattered and jagged as my heartbeats. The oily, suffocating wave of terror swallows me up and smashes me against the rocks, crushing me utterly. But I don’t get to black out, because that would be too easy. I don’t know how long it lasts. Probably no longer than a few minutes, but it feels like hours. Slowly, the certainty that I’m dying recedes, allowing humiliation to follow on its heels. Daniel saw me freaking out. But right before, he was asking me something. He looked like he needed something from me desperately. I missed you, he said. Tell me it meant more, he said. It wasn’t a game. He was too wrecked to play. It was real. He was saying he feels something. For me.
