“That sounds like a good plan,” I say tightly, because it is. Sam should be with his brother more, and should accept him, disease and all. Though I understand him missing the old Seth, this brother needs him now.
He grips the back of his neck. “The people he works for at the diner are allowing him to come back. The girl he dates on and off”—he shakes his head—“who I knew nothing about, really cares about him and is trying to help. Seeing him with her made me aware that he has a chance at a good life. I suspect it will always contain drama, and maybe even periodic hospital stays, but I want him to have a family of his own.”
Feeling cold enough to shatter into a million shards of ice, I force myself to say, “He should have as normal a life as possible.”
He sighs. “And then there’s you. The girl I’ve always wanted.” His tightened lips signal a deep sadness, but there’s a sliver of hope in his eyes. “As things stand, Seth will always be an issue. He could show up at any time, acting like a crazy, jealous idiot and throwing a temper tantrum. I can’t see how being with me is fair to you with my commitment to him. I can’t even take you home to meet my parents. You deserve much more time and devotion than I can give at this point in my life; between my commitment to him and the band signing with the label, I’ll be gone more than I’m here.”
My chest hurts as I take in his twisted, torn expression. I hold the tears in somehow, but slowly, ever so slowly, as I start to understand what he’s saying, what that touch of hope in his gaze means, my desiccated heart starts coming back to life. I set my beer down and a laugh escapes me. “That’s it?”
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
I lean over the counter toward him. “I can deal with not meeting your parents. And I can deal with Seth’s tantrums and your commitment to him. I can deal with your absence so you can be with your brother.” I now push myself up onto the counter and crawl across it, my barely covered butt in the air. Inches from his lips, I insist, “I’m not sure I can deal being without you.”
He doesn’t kiss me. Instead, his gaze searches mine. “Are you sure? Think about it, Peyton. If we do this, I’m not going to let you go. I know we’re young, but I’m certain that you’re the girl I want to marry someday. My brother is never going to be easy. He’ll be a constant thorn in our sides. But he’ll always be my brother, so when you get me, you get him and all his shit too.”
Well, if that isn’t a fuckload to contemplate, I’m not sure what is. Marriage to Sam and a lifetime with his crazy brother to boot? And wait—my palms suddenly feeling sweaty—did I just imagine it, or was he actually just talking about a wedding? Wow. Yikes. Wow.
I take a deep breath, but before I can speak, Sam says, “I never want you to regret being with me.”
Peering down at him, I try to stay rational even though I feel like swooning after his words. “Here’s the thing. Your brother is a huge pain in the butt, but it’s not his fault,” I say, knowing it’s the truth. “Maybe he’ll cause a rift or two in your family, maybe sometimes he’ll get crazy and screw things up with us. Yet being without you will feel so much worse than any of that.” I lean forward and bury my hands in his curls. “I’m not expecting everything to be rainbows and butterflies, Sam.” I lower my head, my lips centimeters from his, as he sits there staring at me, still as a photo. “I’m expecting to be with you whenever possible, and that’s all I need. You once said ‘sometimes you have to take the good with the bad. If the good is that freakin’ good.’ ” I grab his jaw and our gazes lock onto each other’s. “Being with you is just that good,” I say, before pressing my lips to his.
He’s frozen for several too-long heart-thumping moments until he pulls me onto his lap, tugging my legs around his waist, and wraps his arms around me. He holds me tight as his mouth claims me. The press of his lips, the strong embrace of his arms, and the touch of his fingers on my back all express a mixture of joy and relief.
My own heart sings.
Soul mates. I’ve come to believe in them again.
As our lips separate, he stares down at me, his pretty blue eyes lit with happiness. He runs a thumb across my cheek, whispering, “ ‘Lovesong.’ The Cure.”
Wrapping my hand around the one caressing my face, I whisper back, “ ‘Never Tear Us Apart.’ INXS.”
Author’s Note
I’m quite sure that schizophrenia comes in various forms and degrees. I wrote the disease as I know it, and sincerely hope I did not offend by doing so.
My maternal grandmother has schizophrenia.
I have many wonderful memories of my grandmother. From the time I was very young to this day, she has showered me with compliments—most of which I probably don’t deserve. She has tried to make every occasion special, from Christmas dinner to a simple barbecue. She has always gone the extra mile. I’ve never seen anything to match her Easter egg hunts. I could go on and on, but she simply is a great grandmother.
I have some peculiar memories too. My grandmother telling me the FBI was taping her. Or that aliens had landed in her backyard. Or the time we went to Sea World, and she wanted me to change my shirt. “Purple is the color bad people wear.” I took this all in stride. My mother had told me about my grandmother’s diagnosis.
My mother has had a hard time dealing with my grandmother’s disease. Not only because it was and is her mother saying and thinking these bizarre things but also because my grandmother’s paranoia sometimes became all-consuming. My grandfather didn’t always make sure she stayed on her medication. He tended to believe her—maybe out of desperate hope—every time she said she was better. Off her meds, she would alienate fellow workers, neighbors, and friends with her threats and accusations. Unfortunately, my grandfather tried to hide her disease from others, thinking she’d be embarrassed if others knew. I don’t believe having a disease should be embarrassing. The people closest to my grandparents might have been more forgiving—my grandmother could be cruel in her paranoia—had they known the truth about her diagnosis.
Drama was inevitably part of my grandmother’s life. Sometimes her worst episodes ended in strapped-down trips to the psych ward after erratic behavior that included things like turning most of the furniture in her home upside down or becoming violent with my grandfather, whom she usually adored. Her life was a roller-coaster ride and included some heartbreaking times, but with the support of her husband and children, she made it through each fall off the deep end.
Even though my grandmother has had a challenging life, she has also had a full life, including a loving husband, four children, and now, almost a dozen grandchildren. She worked as secretary, then later in life ran her own antique shop. She’s been to Europe twice. She lived in Florida for several years before returning to Michigan because of my grandfather’s failing health.
She’s now in a nursing home. Her medication is regulated, and she hasn’t gone off the deep end in quite some time, but there is an occasional nurse or patient who she accuses of prying into her business or taking something of hers.
Shrug. I accepted long ago that here will always be some drama with my grandmother.
She drives my mother crazy sometimes, and I truly understand my mother’s frustration, but I love my grandmother, aliens, accusations, and all.