Even the Moon Has Scars Page 14

  So they just fall, and I don’t try to stop them.

  “How do I move on? How do I forget all of the stuff that’s gone down between my mom and I?” I ask. I stack the individual-sized creamers in a neat tower rather than look at Lena while I talk. “How do I forgive my dad for bailing?”

  Lena sets her fork down on the edge of her plate and shakes her head. “I don’t know if you do forget everything, Gabe.”

  She reaches across the table and pushes the tower of coffee cream out of the way so that she can see me.

  “I mean, does anyone walk away from anything with total forgiveness? Do you ever really forget when someone hurts you? I don’t know, I don’t think so. But, I just think, the thing that you do—the only thing you really can do—is you fill those cracks with something else.”

  She pauses, as if she’s weighing her words before saying them. “I think sometimes time helps. Sometimes you have to let someone else help you fill those cracks. You fill them with laughter. With adventure. And hey, maybe even Boston Cream Pie.”

  Then she pushes my plate toward me. “You fill them with love, Gabe.”

  The train station is packed full of people commuting, running in and out of doors, clutching their briefcases close, yelling into their cellphones as they walk, just trying to hurry and get to work, but our actual train is relatively empty. It’s cold inside the train and Lena and I huddle closely, side-by-side in the icy, hard plastic seats. They aren’t comfortable, but it doesn’t matter. I’m so damn glad she didn’t let me get a car to drive us home last night.

  The doors of the train chime and then close and I take in a breath and hold it a little longer than I need to. Because those doors closing are the signal that our night together is officially ending. I glance around at the other passengers, and the few who are scattered around are mostly blue collar workers who just clocked out after working all night and want to get home. They aren’t about to fall off their seats and pee on my shoes and cause Lena and me to miss this train, too. I shouldn’t be disappointed about that, right?

  “What do you think your sister is going to say?” I ask Lena as the train pulls out.

  “Honestly? It’s a toss-up. She left me alone in the first place, so maybe there’s a chance she won’t even tell my parents?” Lena says. “I mean, what are they going to do, lock me up and not let me go anywhere?”

  A sad smile quirks up on her mouth.

  “So what are the actual risks to you being out more? What are they protecting you from exactly?”

  Lena shakes her head. “There isn’t anything that says that I can’t live a normal life. I mean, I catch things easier than a person who hasn’t had heart surgery, and I tend to hang on to sickness a little longer, but as far as actual restrictions in my life there aren’t any. Nothing other than my parents. They’re so scared to let me go—to take a risk.”

  I know what loss feels like, and I know how scary risk can be, but I can’t understand keeping this girl stashed away when she has so much life in her.

  “You should really try to talk to them when they get back.”

  “I have,” she says. “I’ve thought about maybe—I know this sounds crazy, but talking to one of my doctors? Seeing if they can talk to my parents for me. If they can explain how minimal the risks to my health are now, and that I’m really okay. I mean, Mom and Dad will freak—I mean seriously freak out, but what other choice do I have? It’s just scary, I guess, risking that relationship with them—”

  “Sometimes, risking everything is the only option,” I say.

  I want to believe that my dad knew what he was doing when he took off. That he has a plan. Maybe he got tired of being kicked and told he wasn’t good enough. Maybe he ran off to figure out what the hell he wanted for himself, or become the person he thought he should be on his own terms. I want to believe that what he did—his leaving—was a calculated risk. But the truth is, I don’t know, and not knowing is the hardest part.

  “How many stops?” Lena asks. “How many stops do we make before we get home?”

  “Just a couple,” I lie. It’s more than a couple, but Lena’s eyes are heavy, and I know she’ll sleep through most of the trip anyway. No use telling her the truth and having her try to stay awake counting stops and minutes until she gets home—until she maybe walks into the hardest situation and the most trouble she’s ever faced.

  I can’t leave her, that much I know. I can’t just drop her and let her walk into whatever is waiting for her on her own. She took her own risk in spending the night with me, and if she’s going down, I’m going down with her. Even if it means me taking the blame and maybe getting hauled off to jail. I’ll do whatever I can to keep Lena out of trouble.

  “Last night—” she says, staring at her hands in her lap.

  I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and catch all of the baby fine hairs in between my fingers. She looks up at me, but doesn’t finish. She doesn’t know how to describe what last night was, or what it meant to either one of us. I guess I don’t either.

  “I know,” I say.

  “Thank you for showing me all of that—all of your favorite places. I’ll never forget them.” She closes her eyes and though she’s probably just resting them because we’re both exhausted, I hope she’s replaying the way we danced, or when she first saw the storage room under the Opera House. I hope she clings to that wonder and does what she can to live like that more often. I hope she’ll maybe let me show her more.

  “You know so much about this place,” she says. She stretches and groans a little in her seat and I know exhaustion is taking over, because it’s doing the same to me. “About Boston. All of these hidden things.”

  “It’s home,” I say.

  “It’s more than that. It’s your passion. This place is for you what painting is to me. You should, I don’t know, seek out more, learn more, put that passion to use.”

  We make a couple of stops and I tell Lena about the Historic Preservation and Architecture program offered at Boston College that I’ve been thinking about since I was a kid. How I’d love to make a career out of it. How I’ve never told anyone but my grandfather about the career I dreamed of when I was a kid—before shit got too complicated and there was no time to worry about dreams anymore—because I knew he understood. He loved the city as much as I did, and maybe by helping preserve it, I’ll be able to hang on to the memories of him and the places he loved, too.

  “Tired? I ask. She lays her head on my shoulder and closes her eyes.

  “I guess,” she says. “This—this entire night—it just feels like it was a dream.”

  I know what she means, but it’s not. Because I can feel the sliver of warm skin on the small of her back where the sweater she borrowed last night has ridden up. I can feel her breath on my neck, and her hair draped over my chest. I can see the thumping of her pulse in her thin-skinned wrist on the hand that she has laying in my lap.

  And I’ve never felt anything more real than what I feel right now.

  With Lena in my arms.

  When Lena’s breathing gets deeper and steadier, I know she’s drifted off to sleep, and I keep thinking about what she said about things happening for a reason.

  About the second heart defect she had.

  And it’s ridiculous to even compare the two, but I keep thinking of how when we first got to the city today everything felt like a total disaster. But now I think Lena was the thing I wasn’t looking for.

  The thing I wasn’t expecting. Maybe even the thing that can save me.

  Walking down the shell driveway that leads to my house less than twenty-four hours since I was last here should not feel as different as it does. The crunch of the gravel, shells, and snow under my feet sounds the same, but it’s mixed with our rapid breathing and the sounds of blood pumping so hard I can hear it in my ears. Gabe keeps his hands shoved in his pockets, even though I wish he’d hold my hand one more time before I have to say goodbye to him. Maybe he’s trying to keep hi
s distance since neither of us know what we’re walking into.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go by your place first? Check on your grandma?” I ask.

  “Nah, I’m good. I called the neighbor on the train home while you were asleep. She said she and Babs played Liar’s Dice until late last night. I bet she’s not even awake yet.”

  “What about a tool? Do we need to get something to get into the house with?” I’m stalling. I know it, and by the shit-eating-grin Gabe has plastered on his face, he knows it too.

  “I think I’ve got it under control,” Gabe says. “Let’s just get you home first.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  My house comes into view, and as exhausted as I am, I wish the driveway stretched on for miles, because, for the first time in my life, I have no idea what I’m about to face.

  “It’s going to be okay, Lena. Don’t worry,” he says. His voice is soft and soothing, but he doesn’t know if what he’s saying is actually true. My sister could have come home and found me missing. She could have called my parents. They could have called the police. I clutch my chest to steady my breathing—to steady my heart.

  When we get close enough to the front porch, I can see the note we left on the front door is still there.

  “Oh, thank god,” I say, relief flooding over me. “I don’t think Kaydi’s been home.”

  “You think she’s alright?” Gabe asks.

  “I’m sure she’s fine. And I may even get to live now,” I say.

  “I’d say you did your share of living last night,” Gabe says.

  We walk up the slick steps to the door and I try the knob one more time, just to be sure.

  “Wouldn’t that be terrible if it opened right up? If I’d been wrong about it being locked?” I ask.

  Gabe dips his head and says softly, “Yep. Terrible.”

  We stand there staring at each other, because none of the things we’re thinking need to be said out loud. Even if we knew how to articulate what the night meant to us, we both know without needing to speak the words.

  “Well, guess I’d better get you inside.” He pulls out his wallet and slides a credit card from the fold. He shimmies it into the doorframe, slides it up and down a couple of times and with nothing more than a quick flick of his wrist, I hear a click.

  I look up at him, wide-eyed, and he nods.

  Slowly I turn the knob, and it opens.

  “But that took you like, thirty seconds. Why not just do that yesterday?”

  “Why?” he asks.

  I look at him, really look at him, with his dark hair that falls in his face too much, covering up his warm eyes. And I have my answer. He needed last night just as much as I did. He hoped for last night just as much as I’d spent my entire life waiting for it, too.

  He guides my hand up to his chest. I can feel his heart beating wildly under my palm.

  “Your heart is—” I start to say.

  “Slow and steady,” he grins, but this time, he won’t meet my eyes. Instead, he presses the back of his hand to my chest like he did when we were dancing, and I know what he’s feeling. My heart is thumping clear and strong.

  For him. For our night.

  We stand there for a few minutes. His gaze is fixed on my mouth, and I hold my breath hoping he’ll finish what he started at the wedding.

  He wants to, I can feel it. I surprise myself by asking, “What are you afraid of?”

  And finally, so carefully, he kisses me.

  He tips my chin up with his index finger and dips his head to meet mine. I can feel his breath on my face, And then his lips finally touch mine. They’re soft against the tight lines of my own mouth. As much as I want to do this, I’m awkward and stiff and don’t know what I’m doing. But this is Gabe…

  “Let go, Lena,” Gabe breathes the words into my mouth. So I do. I let myself relax, to feel this moment. And when I do, his lips become warm velvet on mine. He pulls me in, locking our hips together and I clutch at the fabric of his shirt. It feels needy and desperate and perfect all at the same time. Gabe responds by deepening the kiss, pulling me closer.

  There’s no one around, but my front porch doesn’t feel like the place to take this any further. If he wanted. If I wanted. I don’t know. The thought feels crazy. So I pull back.

  “Don’t stop,” he groans shaking his head.

  “I think we should slow down,” I say.

  “Lena,” he says. He tips his forehead to press onto mine. “We aren’t—this isn’t—I’m not trying to push things. But I do like this. I do like being able to kiss you.”

  “But, I mean here, like this—”

  “I think I’m right where I want to be.”

  The familiar lub dub lub dub of my heartbeat is replaced by intense, erratic beats I’ve never felt before, but want to feel forever.

  It’s our first kiss. But in a way, Gabe and I have already done this before. Our eyes have already met thousands of times during the hours we’ve spent together. Our hearts have already beat in unison. We’ve already connected. But that doesn’t make this kiss feel any less special.

  He kisses my lips, my forehead, and my shoulder through the fabric of my sweater—his sweater, I guess.

  The sweater I never want to return.

  The night I want to remember forever.

  I try to stop it, but I yawn deeply and Gabe steps back.

  “I’m boring you, huh?” He blinks a few times, his own eyes getting heavy.

  “Hardly,” I laugh, yanking on the edge of his coat to pull him back to me. “Just tired.”

  “Okay, you need to get your cute little ass up to bed.” He lets me pull him in, but not as close as he was before. “I got you home safely, just like I promised I would.”

  “That you did.”

  “Maybe a little delayed,” he says, tipping his head back and forth.

  “Maybe it was worth it.”

  Gabe nods slowly. “Sleep well, Lena. I’ll see you around.”

  He lives up the street, at least for now. Seeing him leave shouldn’t tug at my heart and make my throat clamp shut like it does.

  “Bye, Gabe.”

  “Let me know how things turn out with your parents,” he says. He walks down the short flight of stairs and then starts walking backward down the driveway.

  “And when am I going to do that?” I call after him. I need a time, a date, specifics of when I will see him again.

  Gabe smiles and throws his hands up as he backs away. “You tell me, Lena! Next move is yours.”

  ***

  Once inside, I make a quick lap around the house to make sure Kaydi isn’t home, to see if there are any new messages on the answering machine, but there aren’t and Kaydi is not here. Everything looks unchanged since I walked out yesterday afternoon. I rush up the stairs to check my phone, still plugged in charging near my unmade bed.

  Two missed calls.

  One from Mom, and one from Kaydi.

  I let my finger hover over the screen before I listen to the voicemails. I touch PLAY and clutch my stomach with the other hand.

  “Hi sweetie, it’s Mom. I tried the house but no one answered. Just wanted to say we love you. Call if you need something. I’ll check in later.”

  That message was from eight o’clock last night. How is it possible that she hasn’t called a thousand times again? I can’t go to the restroom without her asking if I’m okay, but she called one time when they’re three thousand miles away?

  I hold my breath and listen to the second message. This time, Kaydi’s voice:

  “Lena. I’m not going to be home for a while. Maybe not even tonight. I talked to Mom, told her we were having girls night watching movies and stuff. Listen to me, if you tell her, they’re gonna hop on a flight home and I’ll never forgive you. Just please be cool for once.”

  She never came home. She covered for the both of us to Mom and Dad, even if she wasn’t trying to. I can’t believe my luck.

  I pull open my dresser drawe
r and grab my favorite flannel pajamas.

  I step into my bathroom, turn on the shower and peel off the clothes that don’t belong to me, but feel less foreign than they did a few hours ago. I kick the pile into the corner of the tiled floor—all except for Gabe’s sweater. I press my face to the soft wool and am so glad that the smell of him still lingers on it. I drape it carefully over the towel rack. I’ll wash it later. Maybe.

  I stare into the steaming mirror.

  My scar.

  It’s a zipper that stretches from the middle of my collarbone down to my ribcage.

  Normally when I look at it, I cringe. I usually wonder what type of advancements they’ll make other than the cream that I put on it to help diminish the raw redness of the scar. How long it’ll be before it’s faded away for good. Today, it just feels like part of me. It’s a map of my illness, but it’s also proof of my recovery.

  I wearily step into the shower and while I’m grateful for the hot water rinsing over my tired bones, I feel regret at washing away the night. Washing away the faint scent of Gabe’s cologne that clings to me. Still, the hot water and coconut scented shampoo finally slow my heartbeat and my breathing.

  I slip into my flannel pajamas, rake a comb through my wet hair, then climb into my bed, pulling the thick down comforter up to my chin and snuggling up close to the sweater that belongs to Gabe, but I’ve now claimed as my own. I’ve just closed my eyes when I hear the front door creak open, then close again. The light footsteps pad up the stairs and stop outside my bedroom.

  My door opens and I hear my sister whisper, “Lena? Are you awake?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say.

  She steps into the room, and she looks beat. Her normally perfectly styled hair is matted to her face, and deep purple rings sit under her eyes.

  I pull myself up to sitting and ask, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m—-” she tilts her head sideways, her features pulled together full of regret. “I’m not.”

  I don’t know what to say, so, I just reach out and offer my arms instead. My older sister, the one who has long considered me to be the root of everything that is wrong with her life, rushes to my bed and crumples in my arm. She starts to sob in that terrible, guttural way that can’t be consoled.