Little Things Ch. 02 of 04

Laugher again, helplessly - softer, quieter than before. Happier. My hand traces up along the arm that's held to my cheek, keeping it in place. As I pull away, David's wearing a hopeful half of a smile, one that I can only return, wryly. "You're crazy, you know that, Davey?" Trying for a genuine humor, to push past the little quaver I can hear in my voice. Speaking hardly above a whisper, as the chill wind whistles around us.

He just shrugs, happily unconcerned. For a few moments we remain there, lightly touched together, his eyes dwelling in my face. Drifting with inspired and affectionate slowness amongst my features. And then in what feels an instant I'm taken by all the frustrated hunger of our collection of half-kisses, surging forward into David, my head craning back to find his lips. Pressing myself into him so forcefully that he takes a step back as my mouth clutches and caresses at his, as my hands rise up to grasp at his shoulders.

A second. The limit rings quietly in my head, but this time - rebellious, contrary - I turn it aside. Pushing further, clasping him close, inhaling his breath. As it becomes apparent that I'm not going to break off, David tries to...but I don't permit it, clinging to him as he backs away, until he's stopped by the trunk of the tree. Stopping then, and we just - kiss. Without artificial limits, exploring one another's mouths, tasting and sliding and breathing to the slick sounds of affection, until at last the moment comes to a natural close, until at last the awareness of time and duty and the cold wind looms larger than the feeling and the need of his lips pressed to mine.

Finally, slowly, I retreat, sliding an inch or so down his chest as I drop down off my toes. My hands descending from his broad shoulders, coming to rest on thick biceps. His expression is a war between joy and worry, a smile stretched tensely beneath eyes that jump about my features. His breath coming deep and rapid. "That was..." A moment's pause, his smile twitching. "You said we couldn't go longer than a second."

A little self-consciousness, flustered that I've undermined myself. A nervous grin. "Yeah, well, fuck that. It was a stupid rule anyway." I answer impulsively, my fingers squeezing briefly at his arms. "I mean, a kiss is a kiss, right? Doesn't matter if it lasts one second or a hundred." It's true. Isn't it? What kind of sense did it even make - we can start kisses, but not finish them?

"I guess." His gaze rests on my eyes uncertainly, burdened with doubts held in restraint. Not wanting to question his luck, perhaps. But dammit...I'm not really compromising anything. I'm not. It's just a tiny little concession to feeling, being able to kiss as long as the moment demands, instead of being cut short by a harsh and inflexible limit. Nothing shocking about it. Not a thing.

"Come on." I tug at his hand, pulling him compliantly up from his position, half-leaning against the tree. "We've got to get going again." My tone suddenly firm and businesslike. But as we walk through the slightly sinuous layer of snow back to the car, my thumb slides softly at the back of his hand, a small, warm caress on wind-chilled skin. A note of appreciation, of thanks, for being who he is.

---

Little more of consequence happens on the drive home, listening to the radio and occasionally chatting as the snow outside thickens and thins in uneven rhythm with the passing hours. I'm used to driving in weather like this, but I still don't feel safe pushing it too much, not with the highway so wet and icy. Thus, it's quite a number of hours before eventually - finally - I'm able to take a turn down the little country road that once served as pathway between the world I knew and the great unknown outside. The asphalt quickly gives way to packed dirt, our truck's big wheels invaluable now in plunging through the shin-deep snowdrifts blanketing our path. Only long familiarity really allowing me to keep on course.

At last we pull up before the farmhouse. It looks so much smaller now than it did when I was a child. The barn, larger, on the side opposite, recently repainted in rustic red, seeming like a fugitive from some bucolic artist's imagination; the light blanket of white on top makes for a picture-perfect scene. Even in normal circumstances, going back here carries a feeling queerly conflicted, paradoxical. It's home, but it's not. Stepping back to my childhood, though I retain my years. Taking hold again of something I've let go...

Even as we're stepping out of the truck, the house's front door opens - my mother standing there in the doorway, her figure outlined by the lights behind. I have to hustle up closer to catch her beaming face, to give her a quick "Hi, mom!" and hug of greeting.

"Hi, yourself," she answers back, smiling as she looks me over, taking in the heavy coat, the hair damp and matted. "Have you gotten taller on me again?"

"I don't think so." I tease her a little. "Maybe you're just shrinking. Where's dad?"

"Oh, where do you think?" Shaking her head in half-serious exasperation, she steps out of the doorway, gesturing for me to enter. "Come in, come in. He's watching football games on the teevee again. Harold!" Her voice rising to a sudden shrillness, penetrating no doubt the breadth of the house. "It's Samantha!"

It's a few seconds before my father lumbers around an interior corner, a little greyer and a little more hunched than he used to be, but still a big, powerful man, incongruous in the close walls and low ceilings of the farmhouse. No question from whom David gets his build. "Well, of course it's her," he grumps irritably. "Who else would come out here today, the FBI?" But for all his dourness, he, too, smiles as he draws up before me, and sticks out his hand to be shaken. "Glad you made it, Sam."

"Glad to be here, dad." I smile back, a little wryly, as I shake. His hand firm around mine. Maybe not the most affectionate father a girl ever had, but I wouldn't trade him.

"You two must be hungry," my mother announces firmly as David steps inside with the bags, closing the door after him. "And Samantha, how long has it been since you've had a good home-cooked meal?"

"A good one?" I laugh. "I don't know, when was I here last?"

So we eat. She's prepared a feast, left simmering for however long before our arrival; mashed potatoes, sausage, corn on the cob, green beans, mac & cheese...probably spent hours at the stove, a patience I've never really been able to muster for cooking. The food is delicious, but I can't even bring myself to finish my share - not active enough anymore to justify farm food. A familiar chatter around the table, falling back into the patterns of home as though I've hardly been away. Only afterward, as we settle back in our wooden dining chairs to digest the meal does mom shift topics, to another still familiar but less comforting.

"So, Samantha," pushing her plate inward from the table's edge. "Any new boyfriend out there that we should know about?"

I glance over at David before I can catch myself, and almost panic as my mother notices. "Oh, I get it." But the bizarreness of the truth helps to keep it hidden. "He found something out on that front, didn't he?" Her voice patiently nosy, she turns her gaze to David. "She has one, hm? Did you meet him? Is he nice?"

Looking more than a little trapped, he smiles nervously, shakes his head, a mild blush spreading on his face. "No, um, I didn't meet anyone. Any boyfriends." Stumbling through his words, he tries neither to lie nor to reveal the truth. "I don't think she has one right now, really."

"No?" Skeptically, she watches for some moments at David's averted eyes, before turning her attention back to me. "Is that so? Still not dating anyone?"

I shrug, half-heartedly. "Not really." My voice kept at a deliberately casual mutter.

"I see." Her lips twisting into a quiet moue as I look away, my eyes climbing the paisley walls. "You know, Samantha, it would be much easier for me to believe that if you'd ever answered anything different."

"Oh, leave the girl alone, Edna," my father rumbles.

"We're her parents," she answers, defensive and annoyed. "We have a right to know what's going on in her life. You can't tell me you're satisfied with these vague, half-answers of hers." And as my father shakes his head disdainfully at the old argument, mom turns her attention back to me, smiling with tight falsity and speaking in tones that can't decide if they want to be encouraging or remonstrating. "You know, honey, when I was your age, I was already engaged to your father."

"Yeah, I remember," I respond with biting heaviness. That particular fact gets pointed out each time I visit home without a fiancé in tow. "Unfortunately the guys at college are less interested in marriage than they are in a quick fuck."

My mother's mouth clamps shut, frowning at the phrasing. Hissing after a moment, "I wish you wouldn't be so vulgar." An old story, another old fight. I just roll my eyes, not wanting to get into it again - but she pushes harder. "Have you considered that you might have a better chance of finding someone if you acted a little more respectable?"

I shake my head - she sighs. "David, help me out here. If you could choose between a girl who spoke with refinement and one who - who cursed like a sailor, which would you prefer?"

Two pairs of eyes on David - one impatient, the other tempered in the faint humor of irony. He swallows awkwardly, unhappy at being asked to take sides, and his gaze darts pleading and apologetic between my mother and me. "I dunno." His voice diffident as he shrugs, trying to evade this burden.

"David." Mom's voice sharp, incisive. Demanding.

A brief wince on his face. "Jeez. I guess being refined is good. I think Sam is, though, 'cause she knows more words than I do. And cursing sometimes, y'know...I mean, maybe it sounds bad, but it shows like that she's got strong feelings, strong opinions. And it's nice, um. For a girl to have those." And he pastes on a half-hearted smile, one that I return with warm appreciation.

"Well, that's great," my mother returns with tight-wound irritation. "David, I know you think you're helping your sister, sticking up for her, but you're not. She needs to learn..." Shaking her head, she refocuses her attention on me. "You need to learn that people react to you, judge you, based on how you present yourself. If you want to succeed in life and in love, you need to put your best foot forward."

"Well maybe I just want to be myself!" I fire back recklessly. She always does this, the lecture about being a good and charming girl. It bugs the shit out of me. "Maybe I don't want to act like fucking little miss buttercup to get people to like me!"

Mom drops into an outright scowl, her eyes flashing with frustration. But before she can respond, my father puts down the paper he's been reading and speaks in tones that affirm him as the man of the house. "Sam, don't swear in front of your mother." His eyes heavy and authoritative on me - I can only nod, quietly. It's a reasonable request. "Edna, get to the dishes, would you?" And though a note of rebellion twitches at her lip, my mother accedes as well, moving to grab our plates. Taking some small satisfaction, perhaps, in the fact that her rebuke at least came second. My father's not an educated man, but he has a wisdom for such things.

He addresses me after, as mom works in the kitchen. "Shouldn't needle her like that, Sam." His expression lying low and stern, his moustache drooping down dourly, streaked with gray.

"I know," I admit quietly. "I don't mean to, really."

"Well, she'll get over it." A long pause, contemplative. "What she was asking about - just tell me two things. You ain't getting taken advantage of by anybody out there, are you?"

"Come on, dad." I try to laugh at it off, though it feels a little forced. "Like I'd let anybody."

"All right." His voice carries a calm concern. "In that case...are you lonely out there?"

"I..." My mouth hangs open, hesitating, and I can feel the twin gazes of my father and David. It's not a question I expected. The obvious answer would be 'no;' I have friends up at college, I've had boyfriends, lovers, there's no real shortage of people with whom I can spend my time. And yet... "Maybe I am, in a way. I mean," my voice wavering a little, "It's hard to find someone that you can really be close to." I glance unavoidably over at David again, finding his eyes filled with a protective worry, and my heart flutters with soft appreciation. "Um. I'm getting by and everything, though."

My father's expression still lies low and serious as he gravely nods. Finally speaks, "You do what you need to, Sam. Got a good head on your shoulders, always have."

"Thanks, dad." I smile back, wryly; he just nods, returns to his paper. It has the feeling of a dismissal, and I gesture with a jerk of the head to David. Time to unpack.

Up the steep and narrow staircase rests our room. Well, maybe his now, but the one we shared for a decade and a half, cramped with dressers and with the bunk bed that sits against the side wall. Childhood mementos line our old oak bookshelf, medals and model rockets, clumsily-assembled crafts in clay and wood. A little odd, I guess, that we never pushed for separate rooms, never tried to get dad to turn the den downstairs into another bedroom. Never really felt the need, I suppose...it was no imposition, sharing this space with him, small as it was. More a comfort, knowing he was there in the bunk below me. Why would I want to be without it?

In any case, there's been hardly a change made in the years that have passed. My trinkets undisturbed on their shelves, like he's kept them carefully preserved. I'm able to transfer the clothes in my luggage to the same drawers I emptied when I first left - and my bunk bed, of course, still sits solidly atop his. I slide my bags beneath, leaning heavily against the metal rungs of the ladder up. "Well. Home again."

"Yep." That slightly goofy smile on his face as he plops down unceremoniously onto his bunk, tossing his sweatshirt gracefully over the back of his chair. "How does it feel?"

"Weird." I admit quietly, letting my eyes drift over to the large picture window. Nothing to be seen, really; night's fallen outside, the deep darkness of the world away from the city. Whatever illumination would come from the stars and moon are lost to the heavy clouds which still blanket the sky. "Like it doesn't quite fit. Like...I don't know, listening to a song a little bit off-key. Even when everything seems the same, it doesn't feel the same, you know?" A beat, contemplative. "Maybe I'm the one who's different."

He shakes his head lightly. "You feel about the same to me." Cheer in his manner, perhaps meant to be comforting.

It doesn't quite take. "I don't think so." A bit of the somber in my voice. "I read something a while ago, and I think it's true. That the only constant in life is change, that we...I mean, every day we alter ourselves a little. Think new thoughts, or mire ourselves in old ones. Learn things we didn't known before. Even our memories...we either forget the past, or we reshape it as we remember." I smile down at him sadly. "So we lose who we used to be. Turn into poor imitations."

David looks up at me, brow furrowed. Uncertainly, maybe a little askance, and as he does - as the quiet builds - I feel a crushing despair settle in my heart. God damn it, this is so much like me. To ruin a moment with stupid pseudo-philosophical bullshit nobody cares about. And of course he won't call me on it, and he's trying to be polite, but I... "Don't worry about it, Davey." I try to force another smile to my lips, without much success. "I'm just being dumb."

A few moments more before he shakes his head, intones the word "No..." with a slow, peculiar emphasis. Leaving me to raise an eyebrow, uncertain what he means - a short-lived speculation. "I mean, you're right, kinda. Can't stay exactly the same, or else you'd just go through every day thinking and doing all the same stuff, I guess. but still..." A brief hesitation, his mouth stretching, reaching for the words. "Even if those surface things change, even if you cut your hair and listen to different music, something keeps. Something deep, you know, important, the thing that makes you who you are. Your soul. Or your personality, or whatever. The way you think, react...I mean, if we lose ourselves all the time, would we still have this?" His eyes blue and earnest, looking up at me.

"Have what?" I ask, quietly quizzical.. He doesn't answer - not exactly. His left eyebrow raised the faintest fraction, the scent of expectation. A little curve at his lip. His hand moves outward at his knee, and I abruptly know what he means. "Our connection."

"Yeah, if you wanna call it that." He grins, and I lose myself in momentary adoration of the honest joy that dances in his eye. "If we lost that, then maybe I'd believe that you changed, or that I did. Otherwise..." An expansive shrug, a flash of straight, shining teeth. "It's still you."

I don't have an answer. This time, I'm happy for the lack. Just smiling a bit sheepishly, shaking my head in bemused affection. I didn't expect that from him - don't know why, really, he's thoughtful and everything, just...I don't know. Maybe I underestimated him.

"Well, we've got some time yet." I change the subject before the quiet goes on too long. "You want to watch a movie?"

"Sure." Easygoing unconcern. "What've you got in mind?"

"I brought some with me, um..." Some moments digging the DVD case out of my bag, and then flipping through it for something he would like. My fingers linger, hesitate on one disk in particular, its front stamped with the image of a girl in rags, stretched out on a park bench. The title traced in delicate letters across the bottom - 'Tomorrow's Hour.' "How about this?" I hold it up for him to see. "I haven't watched it in a while, but it's kind of an indie movie, about a homeless girl who falls in love with a privileged guy..."

"Sounds fine." Maybe not the most enthusiastic I've ever heard him; I guess it's not really his genre. But I remember liking it, and I want him to do the same. So I feed the disk to the cheap player perched atop a dresser, flick off the lights and drop down on the bunk beside him. Moving to rest my head upon the side of his shoulder, feeling unaccountably glad, hungry for this chance to squeeze up close again. Already the little warmth in this, the pleasure of company, of family, of affection, of memory. A recollection touches me softly, as the intro sequence begins to roll. "Remember when we used to watch movies together when we were little?" How I keep going back to that, like a dreamland, a brighter day...

"Sure do." He glances over, smiling, his left hand half upon my knee. "You mean how we'd bundle up in a blanket, and I'd sit on your lap?"

"Yeah." I have to laugh a little. There's some pictures of us like that in the family photo album - we looked ridiculous. "I wonder why we stopped."

"Well, I think I was probably getting a bit big for it." A smile.

The movie's starting in earnest now, the protagonist waking up amidst filth and misery, but I barely pay attention. Murmuring back, "I guess. You'd probably crush me if we tried that now." My arm sliding under his, lightly interlocked, hand grasping softly at his forearm. The obvious thought circulating slowly in my mind, as I quarrel with myself over whether or not to say it. I shouldn't. My fingertips stroke absently at his skin. I mean, come on, I shouldn't push this, I shouldn't...

"We could, um..." Tension tingles in his voice like a snapped rubber band, half a thought forced into the open past the thick of resistance.