in which, selena amorim has never had an easy life, yet when she finds herself crossing paths with an old acquaintance, the first glimpses of hope shine through. as the seasons change, their lives take tumultuous turns and their feelings burn. will...
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She shrieked as I swerved the car again, breaking into a laughing fit at the sight of her fervid expression. Biting her lip, her nails dug into my arm as she held on. These late-night joyrides were the high of my life. I appreciated every one I could get, they would never last.
Whatever these illicit meetings of ours were, they felt undoubtedly wrong, like an elephant in the room every time she slipped off her dress. It was casual and for once, the devil on my shoulder agreed with the angel, it was wrong.
For every problem, there is a solution, only the solution to this problem would be far too cold to display to someone as warm as her. She reminded me an awful lot of Stan, it seemed she'd picked up traits from watching him for so long.
I felt she still longed for him, sometimes she'd pick up the phone and call out his name instead of mine. It was so evident that her regret still lingered and it'd prevent her from having a proper relationship until she could solidify her diplomatic relations with him.
Stan had found out about our time together, as I had personally told him, and had ceased conversation with me for about a month. At school, he sat with Patricia in the back of the cafeteria. No longer did we converse in the halls, have our usual meetings on his porch, or contemplate our mortality by the quarry.
My huckleberry friend was gone, painfully fading as I foolishly attempted to forget him. Perhaps I should've been well-schooled on the effects of my actions, yet there I was dropping her off back home as the night sky clouded above us. Endlessly disappointed in myself.
***
I dried the last drops of water off my back as I let the towel fall to my feet. Wrapping a hand around my hair, pulling down, I gathered a clump of hair in my palm.
It was no longer black or short, it was back to its original untamed form and its natural chestnut color. Sighing at the sight, I slipped into my torn robe as I sat at my vanity staring blankly at my eerily unrecognizable reflection.
My success, my being, and my pivotal falls and turns had been shrunken to one man, one being. Stanley Uris. In all of his golden glory, the madness of his ever changing mind and the standstill quiet of his voice. That rasp that once sung me to sleep, those soft fingertips that lightly stroked my hair as I drifted in his gaze, those glistening eyes that understood my soul so well decrypting my every sentiment and thought.
The boy whom I'd met that summer night, his head held high and his arms loose as they wrapped around me. The boy who fought to see me every evening and chased my fears away. The one who touched me in many ways above physical.
So many intimate moments encapsulated in one single man. Whom I'd witnessed the rise and falls of, like a Greek epic, our time was cut short with an unfathomable self-inflicted tragedy and his plaque as my hero would shine no more.
It felt like the earth had stopped spinning and I'd lost the only thing worth taking. I didn't have any sort of attachment to Richie, he made me feel good for a few hours but after the novelty faded the waves of guilt begun.
Nothing could help, I laid across my bed with a pillow under my hips for support. My ovaries were painfully squeezing every last drop of blood, causing me to be paralyzed to my bed. A warm towel laid across my lower torso as I shut the television off for some quiet.
Downstairs I could hear momma rumbling around, she had been awfully silent after she'd kept me in for ages. No longer had she put her hands on me, for the first time in a very long time. Still, that tension lingered in every hidden crack in that yellow wallpaper that decorated our home.
Directly across from me was a replica of Saint John Baptiste by Da Vinci. I wasn't a great fan of the Italian school but It had been my paternal grandmother's painting, a nearly identical copy of the famous portrait. That grin displayed across his browning face was identical to the one Stan wore when we first met.
The scent of leather still fresh on my nose as the day we lay eyes on each other, I missed it dearly, and I understood the depth of this affair. How had I managed to twist this situation beyond recognition?
The phone rang loudly, causing me to sit up in bed, my heart pounding out of my chest. Shaking off the drowsiness, I reached over to pick it up.
"Hello?"
***
[one month earlier]
"Richie?"
He stood at my door with his coat falling off his shoulders and his hair damp in sweat. Visibly short of breath, he stumbled into the house with no further explanation. Slumming onto a chair at the dining table, it was nearing eight and I was still clearing the table. From our painstakingly silent dinner just thirty minutes before.
"It's extremely cold out there what are you doing out?!" he instantly turned to me with a sort of frown on his face. Furrowing my eyebrows, I took a seat next to him and inquired, "What's wrong?".
He sighed, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon. After running a hand through his hair and slipping off his coat, he finally let out a heavy sigh, "I screwed up bad, man, real bad."
His vague comment hung clouds of obscurity above me. Trepidation crept up through my whole body, shrinking my guard down to a rotting fence. Taking a deep breath, I analyzed the worried look on his face. The strands of sweat that ran down his forehead, the anxious tapping of his foot, then with a veil of shame setting over his face, he admitted,
