Outcast, chapter 7

"C-Na?" Billie asked, looking very confused and sleepy in his boxers and a T-shirt. "What are you doing here? It's almost 5 in the morning."

I kept looking at him, but not really focusing on his presence. "I don't know," I said airily.

"Is something wrong?"

A few tears went unbidden down my cheek at his words, and I couldn't take it anymore. I could no longer keep my anguish hidden under a mask of apathy. "Billie," was all I said before I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. His worried expression cleared up, and he took me into his arms and led me into his house.

A minute later, Mike came walking down the stairs, looking just as tired as Billie had before. After asking who it was, and once he saw my exhausted form dangling from Billie's arms, his expression also changed to that of concern.

"Is she alright, Bill?"

"I don't know, but get her bags, would you? It's on the porch," Billie said, and he laid me down on the couch in the living room, and Mike went to retrieve my bags. The last thing I saw before everything went black was a glimpse of Mike's face. A worried face. Over me?


*LATER*

I woke up to what seemed like late afternoon, probably around 2, as the room I was in was still brightly lit. Wait, why am I in Billie's living room on his couch? What happened? I moved my hips on the couch slightly, and noticed I was wearing my pajamas that I don't remember putting on, and there was a small down blanket covering me. Good thing, too. Why am I so cold?

I groaned into the silence, merely out of frustration, as all the memories of the past 24 hours came crashing back into my memory. Then what I took to be a fuzzy brown pillow by my elbow gave a jerky movement, and Mike's face emerged. Apparently, he was sitting on the floor by the couch, and he fell asleep.

"Mike?" I groaned.

"Cel! You're awake!" Mike's face lit up and he threw an arm over me and squeezed me gently.

"What happened? Where's my clothes?" I said, hugging the blanket a little tighter to my body. My pajamas consisted of a large tank top and cloth sweatpants, but still, I was a little modest.

Mike gave an apologetic look and said, "Oh, they were wet, so Billie's mom hung them up on the clothesline in the back."
"Billie's mom?"

"Yeah, just after you passed out and Billie laid you on the couch, Billie's mom came downstairs to see what the noise was about. She told me to find your pajamas in your bag, and both Billie and I left while she changed you."

"I passed out?"

Again, Mike gave an apologetic look. "Yeah, but it was okay. You still looked cool." I looked at him and he smirked in a joking way. I would have hit him on the arm if I wasn't scared of freezing to death, so all I could do was roll my eyes and smile back.

"Seriously though, we got worried later this morning when you started running a fever and shivering. That's why Billie and his mom went to the store to get some medicine for you a while ago. You look a lot better now though." he said, and he placed his palm on my forehead after stroking my bangs out of the way.

I suddenly became warm inside, despite my earlier fear that I was going to turn blue from the cold. Trying to find my voice, I croaked, "I'm a little cold." Liar.

He gave a small smile and wiped my forehead with a damp washcloth and said, "Well I'm glad your fever broke in any case. For a while there me and Billie thought you had pneumonia." Looking down from where he was hovering over me, he asked, "Did you want another blanket?"

I shook my head and smiled, "No, I'm fine, I just get these weird cold flashes every now and then." He nodded and smiled back, then he took his hand off my forehead and moved into a position where he was sitting on his knees. Still, he towered over my 5'6" frame.

We looked at each other for a few moments of silence, our smiles never leaving our faces. Then he looked away and looked back at me, as if remembering something.

"Billie's mom was wondering what these were about," he said, and he lifted my left hand slightly. I had only just realized that my black leather trucker gloves were missing, and he could get a full view of my bandages over my knuckles. No one ever saw them because I wore my gloves so much, and that was on purpose. I hated the looks I got or questions people asked me, thinking I was some troubled, abused baby that needed their help.

I quickly retracted my hand under the blanket, and accidentally winced from the still fresh wounds. I remembered that I had punched a hole in my bedroom wall before I left my mom's house this morning.

"I'm sorry," Mike said quickly. "I just... .I didn't realize... I mean, are you... .okay?"

Another moment of silence passed, during which I decided to sit up on the couch and place both my hands over the blanket on my lap, modesty be damned. Mike glanced quickly at both my bandaged hands, but then just as quickly looked back at me.

I was halfway through giving him a nod, but then my conscience thought better of it. I had wanted to talk to someone for so long, and now was my chance. All my previous inhibitions about who he was or who he associated with went right out the window in my desperation. No, not desperation... .need. My need to talk about what was going on.

"Yea-no," I started, and then I paused, not knowing how best to phrase everything going on in my head. "I left," I sighed, "I left home." I could tell by the look on his face that Mike was wanting to ask me all these questions about why, how, etc., but thankfully he kept listening.

"Yeah, my mom... my dad... " I paused, "They don't want me. They don't want me around. I'm... I'm just a burden to them." I looked at Mike with glassy eyes.

"My mom had a miscarriage. Did you know that?" Mike shook his head. "Yeah, when I was about 7 and her and my dad were still together. It was gonna be a boy." I looked back down at my lap and started twisting my hands around.

"I don't know exactly what happened, but she went to the hospital one day and came back saying that her baby was dead. She was already 8 months along, so she had to carry the baby for another month until she was actually ready to deliver it."

"That's awful."

"Yeah, and then she started saying it was my fault. Every time she got drunk, she... she... " I stammered, and my voice shook in spite of myself. Mike placed one of his hands on mine. I finally looked up at him.

"She would always tell me that I made the baby go away. She said it so much, even my dad believed her after a while. I knew they always wanted another baby. She would drink, and talk about how much she missed the unborn baby. She drove my dad crazy, because she kept asking him to get her pregnant again, then he left us. One time she said... " I croaked, and I couldn't say it.

Mike gently squeezed my hand and said softly, "Go on... " I met his soft blue gaze and swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

"She said she wished it was reversed; that her baby had lived instead of me. I gave her so much trouble, she didn't want me," I said softly, and a few tears slid down my cheek. I looked down and sniffed. "Then I started to think maybe she was right. That maybe I shouldn't even be here. If she doesn't want me, then what's the point, you know?"

Mike took his hand and placed it under my chin to level my gaze with his. He used his thumb to wipe my tear-stained cheeks. I didn't want to look into his face, so I closed my eyes and sniffled quietly, with him still holding up my face.

"Hey," he said quietly. I opened my eyes to find his face a foot away from mine. "It wasn't your fault. No matter what anyone says, it wasn't your fault. Do you hear me?" he said softly yet firmly. I gave a small nod in acknowledgement.

Still holding my face in his hands, he said, "Cel, there are other people who matter. People other than your mom that can and do love you, even though you may not know it." I furrowed my brow in confusion and peered at him through my bloodshot eyes.

Before I could ask what he meant, however, he had already sat beside me on the couch, and pulled me against him. Though surprised at first, I relaxed against him and put my arms around his middle. I cried heavily and quietly for an hour, and he sat with me the whole time, holding me and rocking me back and forth.

When my sniffs came few and far between, I realized the utter peace I felt; relaxed against the couch in Mike's strong arms. He was far from knowing the whole reason for my up and leaving my mom's home, but at least he knew something. I had told him something. I hadn't kept it in like before. I told someone I had begun to trust as a good friend, and possibly more.

Yes, despite the complete innocence of the moment, I could help but to wish again. I wished that his soft hands stroking my hair were being done not only out of sympathy and as a comforting method, but out of love as well. I felt complete by confirming his compassion, but also empty, at the fact that his compassion was being directed at a friend, and nothing more.

I realized though, that if I were to tell him how I feel about him -that I wanted to try to be more than friends with him- then I would possibly destroy what we have here. I don't want to take that risk.

So if telling him means making a great friendship awkward with even more emotional roller-coasters than there are now, then I choose to be in wanting. We can hang out and talk normally, and I can drive myself crazy with what could have happened if we were together, but as long as everything's familiar and comfortable, I'll be fine. I'll be fine with 'what if.'