Page 70 of Still Yours
“No what?” Stone presses. “I was a kid who couldn’t think beyond a one-way ticket to the city, I can admit that, but I deserve more than ano.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’d packed my bags. I was ready to go with you.”
Stone’s silence is palpable. A thrum of tension seems to emit from us and into the atmosphere, sobering the lunch rush of the cafe. Conversation resumes, and attention is less on our table, but it’s muted and concerned.
“I can’t do this here,” I manage to get out.
Stone pushes to his feet, helping me to mine by tucking his hand behind my arm. He leads me past the tables and the encouraging, “stay strong, hun,” from Luanne Smith and “what does heseein some old people nurse?” from the fan girls.
I resist tucking my head into his chest because his wide shoulders and strong build are the perfect protection from the storm of judgment coming from either side.
I’m stronger than this. I’ve endured so much worse than public opinion, yet I allow him to place his big hand on the small of my back and shadow me all the way out of the Merc.
He points at his car. I climb into the passenger seat, out of the nip of cold as wintry clouds encroach over the sun. Stone shuts my door and slides into the front seat, turning on the heat but remaining in park.
Stone’s jaw juts out from grinding his teeth. He looks straight ahead. “You were going to come with me?”
At that moment, he sounds like the boy he was. Unsure, suspicious, never accepting of genuine care. He was so used to being cast aside, so committed to being kicked. I’m sure my standing him up confirmed his perception of himself: that he wasn’t wanted. He was no good.
And I contributed to the emotionless robot he is today.
I nod, also staring through the windshield. Thanksgiving decorations are up, although the more enthusiastic shop owners have decided on Christmas lights and evergreen wreaths to decorate the street. Across from us, Beak’s Hardware Store has flashing holiday lights, and a blow-up snowman battles for space against Feather’s Flowers, who steadfastly commits to a turkey in a Pilgrim hat, straw, and at least twenty different shades of pumpkins.
It’s a years-long war of enthusiasm the owners are known for, and I risk a glance at Stone, wondering how ours has remained so passionate for so long, too. Shouldn’t time have healed our wounds? Why do we have to rehash the pain to where I bleed?
“I had my bag ready,” I say. “I can’t believe I thought my hair dryer more important than a flashlight or any other form of utility that we’d probably need, considering we had nothing but the clothing on our backs.”
Stone responds with a gruff laugh. It’s hollow. “We were young.”
“Old enough to understand our lives would be forever rewritten.” Sighing, I lean back, moving my focus to the side window where the Merc’s mahogany golden glow cascades out the window. Comforting. Always warm.
“My mom caught me trying to sneak out.”
“Oh.” Stone draws out the word.
“With one leg out of my window. Complete cliché. I thought she’d found out about me, us, and the baby—the pregnancy. Her face sure looked like she did. I’ve never seen her so solemn, so straight-backed.”
“Yes, that would be a dead giveaway,” Stone agrees. “Lynn was always the life of the party. Remembering everyone’s names, chatting to everyone at all social events. She’s so good at it, sogenuine. I admired it every time I saw her. I modeled my red-carpet behavior after her.”
“You did?” A lightness lifts my heart, a feeling that hasn’t occurred inside me in so long.
“Absolutely. Your mom’s loved by everyone, and I could only hope to emulate it for the cameras.”
“You did,” I whisper. “When she saw you on TV as one of the most influential of the year, she was proud of you for making it. She pointed out one interview in particular and how eloquent and charismatic you sounded. Nothing like the boy she’d shoo out the window with a hot curling iron.”
Stone laughs. “I like to think I’ve grown out of escaping through windows.”
I decide to absorb this moment of lightness, of feeling good, and use it to give me the courage to tell him the worst part. “She was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer. She didn’t make it.”
Stone’s shock turns the air into a suffocating blanket around us. A quiet “What?”follows.
The parallels of our lives, first our fathers, now our mothers, swirl in his eyes. I never mention her death because it’s too difficult to relive. She’s the reason I went into palliative care. She’s also the reason I want to do everything I can to soothe others’ suffering—because I’ve seen the worst. I lived it through my mother’s eyes.
“Noa. Lavender, I’m so sorry.”
It means something coming from him. Stone’s genuine sentiment brings tears to my eyes. “That night she came into my room, when I was going to sneak out to meet you, she told me she had cancer.”
Stone takes my hands into his lap and squeezes. I’m boneless. My heart is pumping blood into nothing but a sack of skin. Its beats amplify.
