PLACING MY HAND in his, he helps me up. When our skin touches, I don't want to let go. So I wait to see what he does. Disappointment sets in when he releases me as my feet become steadier. I glance up to him and smile. Smiling. It feels good. It's easier with him, too. In fact, for a few seconds, forgetting the reason for the intense stabbing in my chest isn't so hard.
Not wanting to cry in front of him, I look down. I'm not a cry baby. Maybe that should be past tense. I wasn't a cry baby. I rarely used to do it because I hate it, and had always thought it was a sign of weakness. I'm a girl, but I'm strong. Now, I'm not sure what I am, but if it's indicative of a flaw, then I'm not nearly as tough as I once thought.
I squint my eyes closed as he lifts my chin. "Hey," he whispers.
I purse my lips and shake my head.
"You don't have to talk." He holds his grip despite my shaking. "And if you need to cry, then cry."
That's the permission the dam holding back my river of tears needed. I try to cover my face with my hands, but before I do, he wraps me into his arms. He squeezes me so tight. My body heaves, and the loud gasps that are coming from my mouth are hushed by his shirt. When I inhale, I memorize his scent: the smell of sweat, outdoors, and something sporty. Comfort. He's soothing me. Or maybe it's something else. Maybe he's saving me.
Is he even real because he seems too good to be true? He seems like an angel sent to keep me from drowning in the sorrow that has become the reality of my life. Or maybe he's just a figment of my imagination. "Where did you come from?" I manage to ask through the sobs.
"Me? Um. The creek?"
My throat hurts so badly from crying. "So you're real?"
He laughs. "Last time I checked."
He pushes me back and our eyes lock. "No. Like where did you come from before the creek?"
His eyebrows scrunch together. "My house?"
Okay, if he's trying to be cute, it's working. "Nice. Where's your house?"
"Top of the hill, the other side of the street." He points to our left.
"Ah." I take a deep, quivering breath. "When did you move here?"
"A few months ago."
"So that's why I've never seen you around?"
"Might be." He smiles.
"How old are you?"
"What is this? Fifty questions?" He winks. "Thought you didn't wanna talk."
Hmm. He has a point, but I'm curious. I want to know more about him. Then again, maybe it's that I don't want him to leave me. Maybe it's that I want to know where I can find him after today. I need to know he's not going to leave. Because right now, he's the only person that I feel like I can just be myself. "I didn't."
"But now you do?"
"Would appear so." I shrug. "So. How old?"
"Oh." He nods. "Seventeen. You?"
"Fifteen," I mutter as I start to walk back to the creek.
He takes a skip to catch up. "So where did you come from? I've never seen you around."
Talking about random things seems to come easy with him, but I don't think can talk about where I came from. I swallow. This visit was supposed to be temporary. In an instant it has changed to what seems like a more permanent visit. Even if my mom pulls through and we go back to where I came from, it will be without my dad. It will never be the same. Opening my mouth, I try to speak, but my throat closes. Instead I shake my head. "Can't."
"Can't what?"
"Can't talk about it."
He nods. "Okay."
We walk the rest of the way back to the creek in silence. It's awkward. I hate silence. When we get back to the pile of rocks, he points. "Was that the best you could do earlier?"
While I love a challenge, this is a lost cause. This is beyond a challenge. "Yup."
He smiles, and there is a glimmer of amusement in his sparkling eyes. He reaches down and picks up a stone. "Turn sideways."
Complying without hesitation, I shuffle my feet. "Like this?" I look back over my shoulder and catch him looking at my backside. "Ahem. Up here. Like this?"
He shakes his head, but doesn't stop smiling. "Sorry." He reaches in and puts his hands on my hips. Everything in my body swirls in conflicting directions. He pulls me to where my back is touching his front. "Like this," he breathes into my ear.
His words make me freeze. My skin is wet from sweat, and his warm breath sends shivers down my spine. This feels so good: these emotions as opposed to the grief, the sorrow. Mentally, I make a commitment to enjoy this normalcy. This is what I should be doing. I'm a teenage girl, out of school for the summer. I should be flirting with guys, especially hot ones – not mourning the death of my dad.
"Mhmm. Now what?" I already know what comes next. Or I think I do. Maybe Papa hasn't been able to teach me how to do this because he's never held me like this. Maybe I've never had so much riding on a lesson of skipping stones.
He reaches down my side and lifts my right arm and holds it, palm up, and places the stone in it. His voice is deep, soft, and has unspoken undertones. "There's a certain way you have to hold it."
When I turn my head, our faces are so close that our noses touch. The bricks that have taken occupancy in my chest for the last several days are back, but it's not a feeling of suffocation. It's the constriction that must be keeping my heart from pulsating out of my body. It's a burning, on fire with desire. No. The words 'fire' and 'burn' aren't welcome in my mind right now. My breathing hitches. Partially because of him and partially because of them, my parents. A tear escapes my eyes.
"I don't know what's going on with you, but I know that I just met you and already I wish I could make it all better." I swallow and nod. He uses the pad of his thumb on the hand that isn't holding my arm to swipe it away. "There." He manipulates my fingers around the stone. "Just like that," he says.
It makes me smile. I don't think he understands what a lost cause I am. It's going to take more than positioning my fingers to help me do this.
He moves a little. "Now. As you sling your arm, give your wrist a little flick."
I glance at him, humored. "You think teaching me to skip a stone is that simple?"
"I'll help guide your arm."
"Ah, you make it sound so easy."
He chuckles, "It is easy."
"Matter of opinion." I whisper.
He pulls my arm back like a slingshot and as we're gaining momentum to release the stone, I hear, "Alex!" being proclaimed through the entire neighborhood. It causes my already racing heart to speed out of control. Completely losing concentration, I virtually spin myself around as the stone is released, plummeting me into his arms, our lips just mere millimeters away from each other.
We stare into each other's eyes. Speechless seems to be my middle name for one reason or another today. I blink. "I..."
"You can't skip a stone to save your life, can you?" He smirks.
Breathing for what seems like the first time, I start to laugh. "No. No, I can't."
He brushes a piece of hair out of my eye. "You will. I'll teach you."
"I am not sure I'm teachable. Been trying for years with Papa."
"Come back to me. I'll teach you. If it's the last thing I do..." His entire face lights up. "I'll teach you everything I know."
Something about his voice makes me think that there's more to that statement, and I must admit that I'm curious. "Everything you know, huh?"
"Everything." He caresses my cheek, just below my eyes. "Come back to me. I'll teach you how to deal with those beautiful tears of yours. I'll teach you how to breathe again. I'll teach you everything." He looks down to his pile of rocks. "I'll share those with you. And I'll teach you how to skip stones. It's a promise, and I don't break promises."
"Alex! Alex!" I hear Memaw again.
"I better go. It could be really important. I wish I could stay."
He backs away and puts his arm out, as if excusing me. Barely able to take my eyes off him, I muster the ability to break the pull that is attracting me to him. It's like he's the south pole and I'm the north pole on those big red fridge magnets I used to play with when I was little.
"I'll see ya 'round?"
He nods. "I hope so."
My name is called and I start to run once more. Once I'm able to get out of his immediate proximity, the urgency in the screaming gets more and more pronounced. Guilt consumes me once again. How could I just run off like that and not even tell them where I was going? How could I not come or answer as soon as I was called? As if they haven't been through enough already?
Then I glance back over my shoulder to see if he is still there, reassuring myself that he's real. It's also one last look at him to imprint it upon my brain in an effort to tide me over until I get to see him again.