The Beginning of Always (15 page)

That suffocating need, the lack of air, I had to get rid of it before I died here in Michigan.

We reached the grassy hill. It wasn’t really a hill, more like a bump with grass growing on it. But it was Florence’s favorite spot, and we climbed up to the top and stood together in silence. The endless green fields stretched before us before colliding with the blue horizon. Birds chirped. The sun was warm and comfortable.

Michigan isn’t all that bad
, my rationale reminded me.
You don’t even remember New Orleans, you hardly remember your mom. Just stay here.

No. I couldn’t. Something in me demanded the answer to a question that had nothing to do with Michigan or St. Haven.

Quiet panic gripped me.

“Hey.” A light touch grazed down my forearm. I jerked back. Florence was looking at me questioningly, her fingertips softly stroking my skin.

“Hey.” I shook my head. “You feeling better?”

She sighed. “Yeah, sorry.” She pulled her gentle fingers away and wrapped her lean arms around her chest. She sniffed slightly. “I’m trying to be better about it. Not blame her so much, you know. She can’t help that she’s like that, and I can’t keep on getting mad at her for being who she is. Dad keeps telling me to be more patient. It’s not good for anyone for me to be like this.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say. Florence’s relationship with her mother was a point of contention amongst her family. The males in the house tried hard to keep the peace, but Florence refused to coddle her mother. It should be the other way around, she had argued to me before. “I’ve been taking care of my mother since I was a kid. That’s wrong.”

Florence wanted someone to take care of her. To mend her, that part of her that was deeply and irrevocably bruised. But she never let anyone see it and few even knew of its existence.

Guilt flared and I quickly tamped it down.

She’ll be fine, it’s not a big deal if I leave
, I told myself.

We’re not liars.

“Florence. Um … I just wanted to say …” I licked my lips nervously and shifted my weight, my fingers tightening to crunch the sweat-dampened paper bag I still held in one hand.

“Hm?” She tilted her head. For some crazy reason, Florence always seemed to be happy to see me. She looked at me like no one had ever looked at me before—with joy. Wonderment. Excitement. That weight that had fallen over her even minutes before was strangely lifted.

My eyes combed over her, drinking her in. I had just seen her yesterday, but today I wanted to know her with fresh eyes. Florence had grown so beautiful. She was always pretty, but in the past couple months she had hit puberty hard and it was doing her body favors. She’d grown a few inches, height that mostly went to her long legs, and her boobs had appeared overnight. While thin, her hips had rounded ever so slightly. Not enough to be noticeable, but I had noticed anyway.

As did other kids in town.

Boys were starting to lurk about, like that bastard Kevin. Once she started ninth grade next month, it’d be a shit fest down at the high school.

Kevin deserved a foot in his face when he made that comment about Florence. My fist curled at his voice in my head.

“Alistair?” Florence’s voice shook me out of my violent plans for Kevin. She took a step towards me and gently grasped the sleeve of my t-shirt. “What’s up?”

Florence’s essence wafted, that subtle floral scent of apple blossoms. It enveloped me, invaded my senses, until she flowed over every part of me, at every depth.

She did that to me, always. Confused me. Clawed at me.

I needed to get out of here before she sucked me back into St. Haven.

Let’s get this over with.
“I wanted to give you something.” I pushed the paper bag at her, placing some sanity-inducing distance between us.

Florence’s eyebrows rose, and she took a step back while accepting the bag. The paper crinkled in her fingers as she tugged the opening down. Then, her back straightened immediately and her fingers shot out. The fingertips twitched just beyond the edge of the glass.

“Fairies!” she cried with way too much enthusiasm.

Last night, I had spent hours squatting in the forest, searching for these stupid fireflies. For some reason, the bugs weren’t as common this summer, and I had been too busy with Bill in the past couple weeks to meet up with Florence to go hunting. She had told me she’d only found a couple, and they’d all died before she got them home.

“I put a leaf and some sugar water on the bottom of the jar …” I trailed off lamely.

But Florence, that naive idiot, she regarded me as if I had just given her a Fabergé egg or a million dollars or something.

“Oh, Alistair. Thank you. Thank you.” Her voice grew throaty and breathy, and for a second, I forgot where I was. I was so entranced with her. Just her. Everything about her. Her fluid motions as she brought the jar to her eye level. The way she smiled, giving me a slight peek at her pink tongue in between her perfect lips.

“He’s cute,” Florence said, tracing the glass jar with an index finger.

“It’s a beetle. Beetles aren’t cute,” I answered gruffly. But for her it was more than an insect.

Fireflies meant more to her; they were the only piece of magic in this town. They were literally the only bright spot in the dead of night, deep in the wild forests.

Fireflies meant more to her.

“Well, Alistair, fairies are adorable and so he’s adorable,” Florence said. She spun the glass jar slowly on her fingertips and carefully scrutinized the firefly resting on the leaf.

What I saw was a black bug, one of many.

What Florence saw was fantasy and innocence, something in short supply.

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Whatever,” I muttered.

Florence lowered the jar. She was so happy, so free and so light. All thoughts of what waited behind in the house evaporated from her face. She was the girl at the blue mailbox, the porcelain doll with an apple blossom stem clutched in her grasp.

I would remember this. I would remember this, always.

“Can I come by and see you tomorrow?” Florence pushed her hair out of her face. “I won’t bother you,” she continued in a rush, shaking her head. “I’ll bring a book and just read while you work.”

I jutted my thumb awkwardly in a general direction over my shoulder. “Um. I think I actually have to help Bill with something, so I’ll be further east. We’re driving and leaving early, so it’ll be hard for you to walk it.” My throat burned at my lie. I had always hated lying, but doing it to Florence just seemed especially harsh on my body.

Florence nodded understandingly and hugged the jar against her chest. “Will I see you tomorrow night?” she asked.

She always wanted to hang out. I didn’t understand it then, and I still don’t. Everyone loved Florence. She could spend her days with better people, cooler friends, nicer folk. I was none of the above.

“Whatever, you can come over for dinner.” I wouldn’t be there. Premature remorse wrenched in my gut.

Florence smiled and rocked herself back and forth on her heels. “You guys getting along okay?”

I shrugged. Bill and Sandra were … they were alright. I’d stopped trying to be a dick to them, but along the way, that empty feeling remained the same. They were these really nice strangers that had taken me in. They were exactly that, strangers. I knew my mom wasn’t better than them—she was far far worse. But that question, that ache, it’d never go away unless I did something.

Florence tilted her head and she nodded slowly. “I’m glad.” She crouched down and gingerly placed the jar on the grass. I had a straight visual shot down her shirt into her cleavage. I immediately stamped down the jolt of pleasure that hit my groin.

As she stood up, a breeze burst over us and my shirt whipped in the wind. Florence’s hair streamed over her shoulders towards me and the edges just barely caressed my skin. She didn’t try to control it. She straightened up and hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her shorts, tilting her chin a bit to the side and crinkling her nose. We stood on top of that hill, quiet, just allowing the moment to pass over. Her lips were still curved in a mysterious, vague smile.

I looked at her. Truly looked at her.

And for what I saw, for what I felt, I couldn’t help myself.

Before I lost my nerve, I reached over and quickly pulled Florence into a hug. She caught her breath in a short hitch of surprise and I wound my arms around her, crushing her towards my body.

She seized up for a second, but then relaxed, leaning her cheek against the inside of my shoulder. Slowly, she circled her arms low around my waist and we stood there, entwined together. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. Her slight figure was soft against me, her hair silky and smooth pressed against my face and I inhaled deeply. That smell, the smell of Florence, everything beautiful and calming about her, infused my soul, and for a moment, I knew peace.

I didn’t need to run after someone who didn’t want me, who had abandoned me. I could just stay here, in these bumpy grassy hills, with Florence, for the rest of time. I would be happy, I could be happy with her.

She felt so perfect, fitting into every one of my odd angles. This moment was so perfect. I traced my fingers across her shoulders, up her neck, and dug them into her hair, needing that glossy, smooth softness. The fragrance of crushed apple blossoms floated.

My arms tightened. My heart burned, beating fast and hard, wanting to just leap out of my chest to Florence, to its rightful home.

I was drowning and she was my lifesaver amidst a storm.

“Alistair?”

Florence’s soft voice shook me out of my fantasies. That anger, the anxiety and numbing need, came back. I pulled away slowly and she let go of me hesitantly. I kept my hands on her shoulders and tried hard to memorize her. Her. Florence. My Florence. Her features, her feel, everything that made her beautiful and bright. Even her darkness, those bruises and sad cuts on her soul.

Everything about her, her in all her complexity.

Florence was confused. She blinked at me with a bemused expression on her face. Those eyes, that bright blue, its hypnotic quality never failed to strike me. The summertime sun had created the lightest sprinkle of freckles that faintly dotted the bridge of her nose. Those full lips I had fantasized of kissing.

God, how I’d fantasized.

I resisted the urge to caress her cheek. To kiss her full-on. To rub my nose against those freckles of hers. I couldn’t do that to her.

That wasn’t the goodbye I wanted.

That wasn’t the goodbye I deserved.

“I’ll see you later. Take care of yourself.” My grip tightened on her shoulders, my body’s instinctive refusal to let her go. “And thank you.”

Thank you for being my friend. For being my salvation.

Florence said, “I’m the one who should be saying thank you.”

I nodded numbly. “Sorry.”

I’m sorry you weren’t enough. You couldn’t be enough, at least for now.

Florence’s fingers reached up and lightly rested upon the inside of my forearms. She ran them softly over my skin, her thumb caressing in small circles. “Is everything okay?”

My nerves pricked up. I was making a mistake. My plan had flaws miles long. I began sweating, the dampness growing at the small of my back. I could feel it along the edge of my jeans. I dragged my fingers off her and ran the palm of my hand against the back hem of my shirt.

“Yeah. Yeah. No problem. I’m just going to go to Kevin’s.”

Florence dropped her own hands and made a face. She didn’t like him, which was good. It put my mind at ease that she wouldn’t fall for his advances while I was gone.

“That guy is a jerk.”

I shrugged, but scrubbed my palms harder against my jeans.

“Bye,” I said, ready to turn around and leave forever. But Florence took a step towards me and we were toe to toe, our bodies close together again. If I leaned down even slightly, my lips could graze hers.

My posture seized up.

“Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow when you get back at night.” She beamed at me and crinkled her nose. I would remember those freckles, her beautiful tan, that trusting edge to those eyes reserved only for me. “You think Sandra will make chicken fingers for dinner?”

I just nodded numbly, all emotion already draining. I had to detach myself if I had any hope of following through and leaving.

“Yeah. I’ll remind her,” I said in a voice that I hoped dripped with apathy. I took a step back, and then another. I walked backwards, needing to leave, yet needing to keep her in my vision for as long as possible.

The wind picked up again. Florence’s hair swirled and she reached up to brush the strands off her face. She smiled, so innocent, so unassuming. So perfect.

“Bye,” she said softly in that voice of hers. That lush, sweet voice of hers.

I love you.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

“I got to go, I’ll check you later.” I twisted around, tore her away from myself, and ran all the way back down the hill to the woodpile.

I exhaled a breath, reading the grime and dirt lining my shoes. My row was empty and I had kept my head down all the way from the bus station to the highway. We were probably far enough now. I readjusted my backpack in my lap and lifted my gaze, scoping out my surroundings.

The bus was pretty empty and held no one I recognized. Perfect.

I dropped my backpack onto the floor and unzipped the main compartment. I wadded up my jacket and crammed it in, then removed my journal.

I reclined my head and stared impassively at the ripped gray fabric of the seat in front of me. We were more than a thousand miles from Louisiana, and I had almost twenty-four hours to kill. Hopefully no one would notice I was missing until tomorrow evening, maybe even longer. Florence would be the first to throw up the alarm, and I prayed she’d let it lie.

I pulled out a small piece of paper from my journal, taking care not to bend it. I had swiped the photograph from Nicolas’s dumbass collection. I doubted he’d notice it was gone, what with all that crap he kept in those drawers anyway.

Florence glimmered before me. Her hair was loose and blowing in the wind, and she was leaning over one of those wooden fences I’d spent the past month fixing. She was squinting at the sun and laughing at something I said. Her long legs had tanned over the summer and peeked through denim shorts, her newly developed chest almost spilling from her tank top. She hadn’t gotten used to them yet and still wore shirts that couldn’t contain them.