Oh, stars on high, why can't I make you see
That I don't want your light to shine on me?
He said goodbye; just let me cry, yeah
Don't let me hear the robins sing above
What good is this song if I've no one to love
He said goodbye; just let me cry, yeah
Hide every lovely flower from my sight
Don't let that dreamy moon come out, out tonight
Please don't let me see 2 lovers kiss
Don't let me be reminded of what I miss
He said goodbye; just let me cry, yeah
He said goodbye; just let me cry, yeah
Just let me cry by Lesley Gore
You finally manage to quell your sobs. A slight trickle stains your cheeks and falls onto Johnny's shirt. You sniffle and reach to wipe your nose with the back of your hand. As you do, your fingers brush against his chest.
You hear his heartbeat, steady as you're anything but. He's warm and soft and sturdy. You feel a sudden rush of guilt for spilling all this out on him. You slowly sit up, pulling away as Johnny gently, almost reluctantly, slackens his embrace.
"I'm sorry, I-" You raise your head but find your words smothered.
You don't realize what's going on at first. Johnny's hand cradles your face as his lips press to yours, tilting your chin up as his thumb slides under it. You hum in surprise, eyes round as the scent of his sweat invades your nose.
You put your hand flat to his chest and push. You bring your other up and shove until he lets you go. His arm falls away, and you turn, shifting and sliding off the step. You stand, dizzy and confused, clutching your splitting head.
"I... I'm sorry," he stammers as he rises, too.
You run past him up the steps, legs wobbling, skull pulsing from the hangover of your grief. You push the door inwards and clamor inside. You don't stop. You barrel upstairs and down to your door, swinging inside with a careless snap of wood on wood.
You run past him up the steps, legs wobbling, skull pulsing from the hangover of your grief. You push the door inwards and clamor inside. You don't stop. You barrel upstairs and down to your door, swinging inside with a careless snap of wood on wood.
You lean on the door and slowly slide down, knees bent to your chest as you hang your head forward and shield it with your arms. You hear shuffling and a set of hinges groan. Footsteps pad quietly outside your door.
"Honey, are you okay?" Your mom calls through.
"Yes," you force out evenly, the effort further thumping in your temples.
"Oh, uh, I'll be downstairs," she says, her voice silty with sleep, "you in the mood for coffee?"
"No, thank you," you eke out.
You wait until she's gone before you can breathe again. It can't be real. That can't have happened. You really didn't believe it when your mother said it. Johnny? Why would he ever think of you like that? And now? Of all times?
Your father is sick, your mother is in shambles, and life is already so complicated. It isn't that he's a bad guy. He's nice and helpful and all of that. It's just that you're already scared and lost. It would only make things so much more complicated.
You stay in your room for the rest of the night. When your mother comes to check on you, you tell her you have cramps. Your period isn't due anytime soon but PMS can be a bitch. Just as much as life can.
She leaves a plate on your nightstand regardless and you thank her. You're not very hungry and only pick at it before giving up on the meal. You wallow in your restless discomfort. Your head pounds until you're nearly delirious.
You fall into a sleep less than refreshing. Your headache follows you into the void and its shadow greets you with the daylight. You wake and roll over, unready for the day but knowing you must face it. You wash and dress and head down to pretend everything is okay. Again.
You start on breakfast as your mom has yet to appear. You don't mind, it keeps you busy. You count out the eggs and strips of bacon, a few sausages too. You stack a plate with bread ready to toast and yawn over the percolator as you put it on to boil.
You hear tires and an engine. You go rigid, frozen as you stand at the counter. What do you do? Go get your mother? Help her with dad? Or Shane? He can keep Johnny distracted.
Too late. There's footsteps on the porch then a tap on the frame of the screen door. You panic and clear your throat. Nothing happened. Nothing's changed.
"Come on in," you call and pull out a skillet to heat up.
The front door opens and your ears tweak as you listen to his movement. Deliberate and drawn out, as if he's also avoiding you. You keep your back to the door as you work at the stove, adding a touch of oil to the pan.
He enters, his shadow flickering over the wall, and you sense him. Is he watching you? You refuse to look back and check in fear of being caught. You grab the sausage and the bacon and lay them out on an oven sheet.
"Good morning," Johnny says.
"Good morning," you return in a small squeak.
He's silent. Neither of you know what to say. Each time you try to think of something, the friction of your lips reminds you of the feel of his. You hadn't been thinking in the moment, but you remember how soft but determined he was.
Why would he do that? After you were just bawling on his shoulder? Seeing you like that, a mess, vulnerable, half-broken? Your stomach knots as you keep your hands moving and eyes averted.
"How are you?" He asks in a strained timbre.
"Fine," you answer sharply, taking a breath to ease your tone, "you?"
"Tired," he says, "you need any help?"
He steps forward and you shy away. You stop yourself from going any further and shake your head, "I got it."
"Right, I..." he begins.
"Alright, Patrica," your mom's voice wafts from upstairs, "that's it. You're doing so well."
"Oh, I gotta-"
You turn with the spatula and nearly run into Johnny as he also moves towards the door. You stop as you face each other, wavering as you stare. His jaw squares and his cheek twitches, his eyes sparkling.
"You're cooking. I'll help."
"Really, you do too much-"
"I know," he agrees staunchly and turns away, "too damn much."
He strides out and you stand there. What does he mean? Too much of what? Well, you can't ask from him. He has helped more than he should, but is that what he means? Or does he mean... that?
He wouldn't just walk away because of that, would he?
CITEȘTI
the farmer's daughter
Fanfictionit was the summer of July 2004. In a small town, he lives next door. Further away than ever he never imagined that he'd ever end up working on your fathers. farm but what if he saw you and you both started to fall in love with each other, but the...
