The Knight Of The Rose (19 page)

“Cool.” Mike nodded; Sam looked up.

“Really? You think that’s cool?”

Mike looked at Dad; Dad sighed and separated himself from the conver sation by pouring

gravy.

“Yeah. That’s a great business to get into—especially now with all the developments in

graphics and, not to mention, you can actually make more money in the gaming industr y than the

film industry.”

“Dad doesn’t agree.” Sam’s eyes dropped their hopeful glimmer. “He s ays I need to be

serious. That designing games isn’t gonna get me a stable income.”

Mike just laughed. “It won’t—if you don’t have a good education. How many companies do

you think will hire a kid who can’t even commit to homework.”

Sam looked puzzled. “What difference will that make?”

“Because it’s not just about what you learn at s chool. It’s also about proving you have t he

ability to put your head down and do the work, especi ally if you care nothing for it. If you can’t do

that, Sam, you don’t have the right to a job you love doing, and I can tell you—” Mike scoffed,

“even in a job you love, there’ll be moments you hate.”

Sam became smaller in his chair.

“Point is, mate, you work hard through the crap so you can enjoy the other eighty percent

that’s good. Not to mention, if you want to design games, you
will
need English—and math.” Mike

winked at me. “Creativity, passion, and some mad computer skills won’t be enough if you want a

stable income. You need that piece of paper they call a degree. That’s all there is to it. So, in that

way, your dad’s right. But—” he held a finger up while he shovelled a spoonf ul of potato in and

swallowed, “if you just do all the hard work while you have nothing else to worry about except being

a kid, when you grow up and you want the job stability you care nothing for now, you won’t have to

fight for it—it’ll be yours.”

Sam’s eyes changed, narrowed with thought, then he stood up and dumped his napkin on his

beef and gravy.

“Sam, where are you going?” Vicki asked.

“I just realised I di dn’t do my essay,” he call ed from the stai rway before we all heard his

bedroom door close.

Dad grinned and patted Mike on the shoulder.

Then, the conversation went on without me, while I pushed t he food around on my plate. I

just wanted to go upstairs and wait for David to come.

Despite enjoying watching movies with Mike, I f ound myself checking the l ength of t he

shadows outside his window for most of the day—just waiting for night to fall—the second night of

my last two weeks with David.

“You okay, baby?” Mike asked quietly, leaning closer.

“Mm-hm.” I nodded, forcing a smile. “I’m just tired.”

“Maybe you should get an early night.” Mike pushed my fringe off my face.

Vicki held back a smile, watching us, then quickly looked at Dad.

“You do look a little tired,” Mike added after a lengthy silence.

I do? But I’m not even tired—it was just a lame reason to excuse myself early. “Well, I feel

tired.” And now I’m wondering if “you look tired” is guy-speak for “you look hideously haggard, go

see a beautician.”

“Well, why don’t you h ead up now and take a shower.” He nodded toward the archway.

“Doesn’t look like you’re getting any closer to consuming your dinner by transforming it into plate.”

I looked down at my canvas of mash and gravy. “Can’t yet. Gotta do the dishes first.”

“Ara—” Mike’s brows lifted, sarcasm hovering in his tone, “
I’ll
do the dishes for you. Just go

get some rest.”

I shook my head. “No way. You’re a guest. Guests don’t do dishes, right, Dad?”

Dad looked at Mike, then shrugged. “I don’t see why not—if he’s offering.”

“Dad! You never side with me!”

“I’m sorry, Ara, but Mike’s not really a
guest
, is he?”

“Then what is he?”

“He’s practically family.”

My mouth hung open, allowing only a breathy scoff to display my disapproval.

“Besides, Ar, you always made me do the dish

es at your old house,” Mike added wit h a

cheeky grin.

“That’s different.” I bit my teeth together.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. ‘Cause it…it just is.”

“Ara?” Mike scratched his eyelid and sighed. “Go to bed.”

“Make me.” I folded my arms; he merely glared at me with o ne brow arched and a look of

intent behind his half smile. “A rgh, fine!” I stood up, slapping my napkin on the placemat. “You’re

all traitors.”

As I reached the stairs, Mike’s l augh echoed out in response to some comment of Dad’s—

probably about my mood swings.

Stuff it. As if I care. They can have their little laugh—maybe they’ll annoy me just enough to

make me accept the offer to run away from all of them forever.

That’ll show ‘em.

My room greeted me with the cri sp scent of fresh linen under a dilut ed waft of coconut

bodywash and strawberry shampoo. I slammed my door behind me and closed my eyes until they

adjusted to the night.

“David? You in here?” My gaze subconsciously flicked to the window; closed.

Maybe it’s too early. I mean, he is coming all the way back from New York. Maybe he was

driving, or maybe his shoes wore out on the long run and he had to stop to change them, or maybe…

or maybe….he’s not coming.

A gooey filling of dread burned a giant hole in my heart with its acid.

What if he’s not coming back? What if last night really was the last one we’ll ever spend

together.

With rather quick steps, I walked to the window and threw open the curtains.

No. No way. He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. He promised he wouldn’t.

I covered my mouth with my hand and closed my eyes tight.

He promised. But I br oke his heart. I dreamed of a wedding with another man. That would

have destroyed him inside.

“Oh, David.” I touc hed my fingertips to the glass. “Please come back to me. Please let me

talk with you about this.”

While I held my breath for every person who walked by our house, and looked up t o every

branch that rustled in the wind, the voices downstairs faded t o quiet murmurs as the taps stopped

running, the dishes stopped clin king and Dad’s footsteps thudded up the stairs and down the hall ,

stopping when his door shut.

I backed away from the window slowly and blinked a few times. My eyes had adjusted to the

dim streetlight outside, and looki ng back into the dar kness of my room, I s uddenly couldn’t see a

thing. The mess on my floor became dangerous obstacles as I stumbled into my wardrobe, changed

into my pyjamas and stumbled back out to my room again.

I stood motionless, scanning the shadows with my eyes. No David. He’s not here. He’s…

A flood of weakness made my arms go numb. I closed my eyes tight, letting my knees hit the

bulky pile of clothes beneath my feet.

He’s not coming. I knew it. I knew it would be t oo good to be true—to have a whol e night

with him—alone. No one else in the entire world aware of our existence. Just David and I, and t he

night…and nothing else.

My stomach trembled with suppressed sobs—or maybe the deep urge to thr ow up. But the

welling tears around my lashes sp illed out anyway as heartbreak became the weak feeling in my

bones. I lopped a hand across my gut, holding myself up with the other.

He’s gone. He’s really gone.

No. He’ll come. He has to. He promised. He’s just late, that’s all. But he’ll come.

I wiped my tears, straightened up, then pushe d up off the ground and tripped over my own

feet to get to my desk. In one sweep, I sent my or derly homework into a spread of disarr ay

over my washing-rug, then climbed over the wood top and tucked myself into a ball against the cold

glass of the window.

Soft dark-blue light filtered in from the world outside and lit the edges of my dresser and bed,

casting soft shadows of pale blue across my floor.

The streetlight below seemed to sing loneline ss down onto the vacant si dewalk, and clouds

hijacked the stars from the sky. There was nothing out ther e that resembled life toni ght, and

strangely, though my heart was beating, there was nothing here that much resembled it either.

With a long, dejected sigh, I lowered my head onto my knees and closed my eyes.

David’s not coming. If he were, he would’ve been here by now. I guess he thinks I don’t

deserve a chance to explain, and maybe I don’t. Maybe, in David’s mind, loving another man makes

things pretty final.

I looked up at t he cloud of heat from my body causing a frosty circle on my window and,

using my fingertip, traced a heart on the glass, then wiped my hand through it—washing it away.

He’s right. David. He’s r ight to have left me when he saw what he saw. I mean, what did I

expect? That he’d just stick around to watch me fall for my best friend? I’m so dumb.

I dropped my head into my knees again.

I don’t know why I possibly thought he’d st ill come—like everything is all right between us,

when the truth is….it’s not. In fa ct, I’m pretty sure that by not coming tonight ...he’s telling me it’s

over. A loud chime set my heart ablaze with a start; I looked up from my knees, instantly regretting

having moved my head when my neck cracked fr om the stiffness. I rubbed the top of my spine and

looked around my room, then down into the street below, counting the chimes I heard in my head.

One, tw—There were only two. There should’ve been more than that. I came to bed at seven.

It can’t be two in the morning.

Feeling the heavy tilt of my lids and the tingle of pins in my toes, realisation s unk right into

my heart. My lip quivered.

It
is
two in the morning. David didn’ t come. He ju st left me here—to fal l asleep in the

windowsill—by myself, cold and alone.

I buried my head in my arms and let the warmth of tears roll onto the tops of my thighs and

trickle down onto the window ledge under me.

What did I do to him? I must have destroyed him to make him leave like this. I’m a horrible,

horrible person.

My self-pitying sobs stopped with an abrupt jolt when my door handle twisted. I rubbed my

face into my knees to dry off the tears, and as the door pushed open, watched a line of yellow light

spill in from the hallway as the deep, husky breath of my friend touched my ears in a long sigh.

“Baby girl, what’re you doing asleep here?” he whispered to no one in particular.

His wide, broad arms fixed a hold under my knees and around my back, then he swept me off

the windowsill, over the desk and into his body with less than little effort. I stayed floppy in his arms,

making my breath long and deep as if I were asleep.

He laid me on my pillow—much softer and warmer than the cold glass—and tucked my feet

into my quilt, then brushed my hair firmly back from my face, pressed a quick kiss to my brow and

walked away, closing the door behind him.

“Thanks, Mike,” I whispered quietly, all owing a smile to appear f or one second befor e it

melted away in the darkness.

“It’s alive!” Mike waved his hand dramatically as I zombie-walked into the kitchen and sat at

the bench. “Hungry?” He held up a spatula.

“Not for plastic kitchen implements, if that’s what you’re offering.”

“Oh, a comedian today, huh?” He turned back

to the s tove, wearing a grin. “S o, are you

hungry or not?”

“A little.” I grabbed an apple and took a bite while I watched Mi ke at the stove, poking t he

frypan with an egg-flip. “Where is everybody?”

“Oh, um, Sam’s at school, Vicki’s gone to the movies with her fr iend, and your dad’ s at

work.” Mike turned back and winked at me. “It’s just us.”

“Okay, so, is that why you think it’s acceptable to wear a pink apron?”

Mike laughed, rolling his head back a little. “I thought you might like that.” He turned around

and untied Vicki’s apron. “Thought it might cheer you up a little.”

“What makes you think I need cheering up?” I turned my wrist over in question—the apple

still in hand.

“Ara, I know you better than you know yourself. Yo u need cheer. So—” he grabbed the fry

pan and tipped the contents onto two plates in front of me, “—I made your favourite. Pancakes!”

Hm. That might just work.

“Is there maple syrup?” I asked in a low, questioning tone.

Mike grinned and slowly, from behind the bench, lifted a glass bottle of brown l iquid.

“Would I forget the syrup?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” I snickered and took the bottle from him.

He walked around the bench and slid onto the stool next to me, then dumped some cutlery

beside my plate. My attempt at moodiness slipped away completely when the first bite of his light ,

fluffy pancakes touched my tongue. Like sugar-coated puffs of heaven, the golden exterior of the

pan-fried breakfast melted with the syrup at the perfect ratio of sweet and savoury—sending trickles

of warm delight down my spine.

With my fork in front of my lips, I studied him—the chef, the wonder-cook, the man who

knows no failure. How is he so good at every damn thing he does? Is i t just my imagination, or is

everyone I know, but me, perfect? I threw my fork onto my plate. It’s infuriating.

“Something wrong, baby?” Mike asked, mid-shovel.

Yeah, you’re making it really hard for me not to love you.
“I uh—I just remember ed I have

rehearsals today.”

“Rehearsals?”

“Mm. For a benefit concert were doing to raise money for this kid who died.”