I hang over my music binder, tuck the rose into the rings and scribble. I keep scribbling at the Geneva airport while we wait for our flight, scribble all the way to Paris.My heart’s yours
And yours is mine.
You are what I crave—
I won’t live until I’m kissing you.
With your love,
I can change my fate.
I circle the date,
When my new dreams will spring to life.
You’ ll drop from the stars.
Happy evermore
Like old stories say.
You can believe.
We land at Charles de Gaulle with plenty of time to make it to our flight, but the place is so confusing. We get off their stupid bus at the wrong place, stand forever in a big passport-control line that isn’t going to our gate. Terri’s almost crying by the time all eighty of us are running down the concourse to our gate. This French woman behind the desk screams at Terri because we were supposed to be here early. And then the plane is delayed for some mechanical thing, but everyone acts like it’s because of us. We miss our connection in New York and get rerouted to Detroit through Chicago. We get stuck at O’Hare all day. When we arrive in Detroit, I have no idea what time it is—what day it is. I just know it’s dark out. Humid.
I see Mom.
Her hazel eyes water. Her graying brown hair sticks to the sides of her face.
Crap. I can’t do this now.
I fall into her arms, and she starts to sob.
“Stop it, Mom.” I pat her back, fight to keep myself from dissolving like she is. “My life is great.” I’ve got a huge lump in my throat that makes me croak the words. I sniff and give her a little shake by the shoulders. “I mean it.”
“Oh, honey, you need to face this.”
No. No. No. I’ve figured out how to escape it. Derek.
I got him online in Chicago. We’ve worked out a plan. Every morning, 8:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. Swiss time, is mine. That’s two in the morning for me. I glance at my watch. I don’t have a clue when I last reset it. “What time is it, Mom?”
“Half past midnight.”
“Great—we’re going to make it.”
“Make what?”
All the way home she gets the gushy Derek dish—as much as I dare tell her. None of the private stuff, or my suspicions about his drug habit. She’d go ballistic. “You’re going to love him. I can’t wait for you to meet.”
She smiles at me and nods along as she focuses on the road. “I saw Scott at the Save-A-Lot. He mentioned he’s got something for you.”
Scott? The prom. How badly I wanted to kiss him that night. It all rushes back in HD-quality vision. But, I’ve got Derek now. I’m safe. Scott and I can be friends again.
I’m too tired to carry my suitcase up to my room.
“Just leave it, Beth. Get some rest.”
I kiss Mom good night. “I’m okay.” I look at her, and she gets what I’m talking about. “Let’s not make it a big deal.”
She shakes her head.
I haul my tired butt up the stairs. My alarm clock reads 1:50 a.m. Ten minutes. I fall into the shower and throw on a fresh nightshirt. Clean feels delicious. I can’t remember when I showered last.
I sign on. Derek’s there, waiting. Early. That’s delicious, too.
Derek: where are you?
Beth: home
Derek: you should go to bed
Beth: I need to talk to my new boyfriend
I send it before I realize what I wrote. Boyfriend? I wanted him to say it first. Thirty plus hours of travel will do that to you.
Derek: about time you owned me
Beth: you’ve never said it to me
Derek: uh-huh . . . three times.
Like I would have missed that. I yawn and shake it off while I type.
Beth: you are delusional
Derek: girlfriend . . . girlfriend . . . girlfriend
Beth: now I can sleep
I stretch and yawn, get ready to sign off. I’m not sure what to write. I don’t know how he’ll respond if I go on the gush side. I feel overheated, romantic, and so into him even though he’s so far away right now.
Derek: you’re not going to grill me again over my plans for today?
Beth: I don’t want to have nightmares
Derek: my poor little Beth . . . relax . . . we decided to take it easy
Beth: good
Derek: we rented mountain bikes and took them on the train up a mountain . . . a small one . . . we’re in a wired café having that fried potato stuff with eggs and cheese and ham all over it . . . it’s pouring out
I take a perverse delight in Derek’s ruined day. Good. He won’t be able to risk breaking that neck I left my imprint on. I’m hungry for it again. These two weeks are going to be way too long. I’m major possessive.
Beth: rain? YES . . . we can chat longer
Derek: the guys are done . . . I gotta go
Beth: INSERT BLOODCURDLING SCREAM HERE
Derek: get some rest . . . girlfriend
Beth: what about your cold? don’t make it worse
He’s gone. Definitely no gush. I fall on my bed, imagine him riding a mountain bike full tilt down a mud-slick mountain path. He starts to cough and wipes out. I fall asleep. The vision is worse in my dreams. I’m there riding, too. I wipe out into him—cause the crash. He’s lying in the rocks—bloody, muddy. I crawl over to him, and we get it on in the mud. I wake up way too soon.
chapter 17
FRIENDSHIP
The doorbell rings.
I roll over, crack an eye at my alarm clock. It’s almost 2:00 p.m. I’ve given in to jet lag. It’s summer. Who cares? It’s been overcast and humid nonstop since I got back to Port. I wish it would just rain already and get it out of its system. I want it to be nice out by the time Derek gets home. I want to get him to the beach, get him some sun, make out in the sand. We’ve never kissed lying down. Or in the water. These past couple weeks I’ve imagined every possible place we could make out. I’ve compiled quite a list.
Derek was stuck in the Amsterdam airport last night. We chatted until almost 4:00 a.m. my time. Then he got on a plane. I didn’t have the guts to tell him about the list. I’ll show it to him when he gets here.
The doorbell rings again.
Crap. How many hours is that? Could it be him?
I fly out of bed. Sloppy oversize T-shirt. No makeup. Wild hair. Total wreck. Race down the stairs. Throw open the door, and there’s a guy walking away.
“Hey. Stop. I’m here.”
He turns around.
“Scott?” I can feel the flush that’s running up my face.
“So you are home.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought maybe you’d call.” He takes a step toward me and stops. “I told your mom—”
“I’ve been out of it. Total jet lag.” And I’ve been avoiding you. Still.
He nods slowly. “Did I wake you?”
I realize I’m not dressed for visitors. “Sorry. I must look awful.”
He eyes my bare legs. “I don’t mind.” He gets his naughty grin on. “Honest.” He walks up the cement path that leads across our scorched lawn to our white-painted porch—still looking at my legs. “It’s nice to see the real you.” A car zooms by behind him.
“Don’t be morbid.” I slap at a mosquito on my thigh.
He comes up the porch steps and hands me an envelope. “I brought these—if you still want them.” He’s wearing a short tank top and cutoffs. He must be doing the weightlifting thing with his legs, too. Nice. His neck is even thicker now. And I can see real abs beginning to form on his stomach. And those shoulder muscles are even more defined.