Buffy woke with a start. The room was already brightly lit and her clock reported that it was after nine. She rolled to lie on her back, stretching luxuriously. The pillow beside her still bore the imprint of his head. She picked it up, cuddling it in a morning hug. She wished she could have opened her eyes to find him beside her like yesterday, but she’d see him soon.
It was a beautiful day. Bright, sunny, gorgeous.
She jumped up, humming some melodic riff she couldn’t name that seemed to embody how her heart was singing at the moment. She glanced in the mirror. Agh. Bedhead in a big way. A shower was in order before she went down.
She hurried to get ready, finding herself trying three different tops and adding extra lip gloss, just because. She bounced into the kitchen, wondering if he’d be there already. She skidded to a stop at the sight of her grandmother seated at the table, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
"Grammy? Is something wrong? When did you get back?"
Her grandmother looked up. "Oh, Buffy, you’re finally up. I didn’t want to disturb you, you were sleeping so well."
She approached the table on shaky legs. “Gram? Is something wrong with Gramps? Are you okay? What’s going on? Did something happen?"
Her grandmother nodded wearily. "William’s grandfather had a massive heart attack. The phone was ringing just as we walked in the door."
She sat down with a thud, knowing her face had gone ashen. "Is he, did he . . . die?"
"No. Not yet. He’s in critical condition though. Henry‘s driving William into LAX to catch a flight out this morning."
"Oh."
She knew it was incredibly selfish of her, but she wanted so desperately to ask if he’d said anything, a message for her, a note, something before he left. But she could hardly expect him to think of her with the shock of hearing about his grandfather.
And yet, she felt empty all of a sudden. Alone.
She got up and made her way to the coffee pot, pouring herself a cup and adding milk and sugar mechanically. She stared out the kitchen window. The morning was entirely gray, the sun gone as if it too had heard the news.
She shuffled back to the table.
“Will he be okay, Gram?” She bit her lip, not sure if she wanted an answer.
“William’s grandfather? I don’t know. He’s not a young man.”
Buffy stirred her coffee slowly. “Spike? Was he . . .?”
“He was shaken. His grandfather’s been the only stable thing in his life for years. That poor boy. He promised he’d call when there was news, though.”
“Oh. That’s good. That he’ll call.” Buffy got up from the table, leaving the coffee cup untouched. “Gram, I’m not feeling so well. I think I’ll go back upstairs for a little while.”
She was almost out the door when her grandmother called her name. “Buffy? Was William here all weekend?”
She nodded. “The meetings finished early. Tell Gramps it was a success.”
“I will. Oh, and Buffy?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“He did ask if I would tell you goodbye for him.”
It hit her hard then. She stifled a sob and tried to keep a brave face. “Thank you, for telling me. If you here any more news, will you let me know?"
"Of course, dear. Just rest now."
Three long days passed with no word.
Then on Wednesday afternoon, the phone rang. She ran for the receiver.
“Hello?”
She slid down the wall as she heard his voice in her ear. “Buffy? Is that you?”
“It’s me. Spike, how are you? How’s your grandfather?”
He sounded tired, his voice hoarse and raspy. She wished she could be there, could just hold him, let him rest against her as he related the news. His grandfather was still in critical condition. The doctors couldn’t say one way or the other, only time would tell. If he pulled through, he’d be bed-ridden for months, needing constant care.
She didn’t know the words to use. She told him she was sorry, asked if she could help, but knew that sounded almost trite. She was surprised when he said yes.
“I need . . . If you could pack up my stuff and have it shipped? I don’t know how long it will be before I can come back and get it.”
He wasn’t coming back. That’s what he was saying. He wasn’t coming back.
She swallowed the tears that started to rise and agreed, jotting down the address. He promised to call again when he could, told her he loved her. And then she could hear the nurse calling his name in the background and the line was dead.
The remaining few weeks with her grandparents seemed like a dull gray fog. She followed the same routine. Chores in the morning, afternoons in the greenhouse running and fetching for her grandfather or helping her grandmother work on her centennial plans. She still took noontime breaks at the swimming hole in the little curve of the stream. The sun shone just as brightly, the grapes ripening were just as plump on the vine. But the wonder and magic of the summer was gone.
It took her until Friday to muster the courage to go pack his things. One week from the day he’d come back so jubilant from L.A. One week from the night when they’d slept together, bodies intertwined and everything in the world going their way.
Things shouldn’t change that much in a week.
The door swung open easily. The bed was unmade, a glass still sitting in the sink from his hasty departure. She opened the suitcase that sat at the foot of the bed, and pulled open the one dresser, transferring shirts and pants stacked within.
He hadn’t had much with him. It didn’t take long to make the room look as though he’d never been there. She fastened the latches, and crossed to the refrigerator. Inside there were a few bottles of beer and she pulled one out, letting her fingers grow numb from the cold.
She found a bottle opener lying by the sink and opened the top, taking a tentative sip. It was bitter and harsh, the perfect accompaniment as she let the memory of a week ago wash over her.
Had it meant as much to him as to her? Those nights together, when he’d made love to her, held in his arms in the moonlight with the smell of the ripe strawberries scenting the air. She’d been sure it had. He’d said things, whispered caresses in her hair that seemed like lines of poets she had yet to discover. Told her of his love and she’d returned it. It was real, what had happened between them. She knew it was.
And she knew he needed to know it too. She closed her eyes for a minute, trying to even imagine what it would feel like to have it be one of her grandparents lying on a sterile bed, tubes and wires running from their body to mysterious machines.
She recoiled from the image as she opened the notepad she’d brought with her. She wanted to put into words everything she was feeling. If she couldn’t be with him in person, as least she could give him some comfort, assure him she loved him, missed him, longed for him.
She made three attempts before she ripped the letter to shreds. He didn’t need her to whine about how sad she was. He needed her to be there for him.
She found a fresh sheet and started again. Happy thoughts only.
His next call was a week later, the night before her father was due to arrive. She took the receiver and disappeared onto the front porch, wanting the moment alone.
“I got the letter in the luggage, Buffy. Thank you.” She soaked up the sound of his voice, taking pleasure that he’d liked the words she‘d struggled with so much.
“Is he better, Spike?” She fumbled the receiver to her other ear nervously, waiting for the answer.
“He is. They think he’s going to pull through.”
She jumped off the swing in her excitement. “Spike, that’s wonderful!”
“It really is. He’s a tough old goat. He’s talking too, a little. Says he’s going to come back, full strength.”
“I’m so glad.” The week of silence had made her think she’d never see him again. But now, with his grandfather getting better, he’d be back soon. “Guess I shouldn’t have sent your stuff after all.”
There was a long silence and she thought she’d lost the connection. “Spike? Are you there?”
“Buffy . . . shortcake, I can’t come back. Not now. He’s going to need someone, and I can’t leave him with just a nurse. He needs family.”
“Oh.” Her voice was small. “So the thing in L.A.?”
“The job’s going to someone else. Buffy, I love you, but I can’t leave him, not right now. Do you understand?”
“I . . . I do, Spike.”
“It doesn’t mean that it’s the end of us, love, you know that. I’ll call, we’ll write. I’ll be back in L.A. someday soon.”
She heard the words, but they sounded hollow, promises without substance. She found herself agreeing, swearing she’d write, giving him her mother’s address.
He told her he loved her again and she said goodbye, letting the phone drop to the seat beside her as the connection was severed.
She was still sitting on the front porch, watching the spectacular sunset with blind eyes, when the door opened and her grandmother came out and joined her on the porch swing.
"Amazing, isn’t it?"
Buffy nodded distractedly.
"I’ve lived here my whole life, and I never get tired of watching the colors that paint the sky. It always put things into perspective for me."
Buffy looked at her grandmother, puzzled. "How so?"
"Whenever things get bad, whenever times have been hard, I watch that sunset and it reminds me that there is something bigger, something beautiful, that’s always going to be there." She softly patted her granddaughter’s cheek. "You miss him, don’t you?"
She tried to control her reaction, to not let the tell-tale blush steal across her face or the tears well up again, but the sympathy in her Gram’s eyes was her undoing.
"So much. Grammy, I feel like I’m going to split in two."
"Come here, sweetheart." Buffy buried herself in the opened arms and let herself weep.
"Did he hurt you, baby? Did he promise you things?” her grandmother asked with concern.
"He thought he was going to stay, next year.” She fought the hiccups as the sobs poured out, "His, his grandfather wanted him to work in L.A. And now he can’t and I know I shouldn’t be mad at him, but it hurts. I love him so much."
Her grandmother continued to rub her back soothingly and let her cry for a few more minutes until the sobs began to slow. As she dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief her grandmother supplied, and got her breathing under control, Gram lifted her face.
"Did he take advantage of you, dear?"
Lying to her grandmother had never been something Buffy had been able to do, But she knew she was telling the truth when she looked her grandmother in the eye and whispered softly, "No, he didn’t take advantage."
That seemed to be enough to satisfy her grandmother, and she nodded. "It’s for the best, dear. I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but it is. His world, Buffy, it’s so different. He couldn’t have stayed in ours, even if he’d wanted. But that doesn’t make your first love any less special. Or make it hurt less."
"Will it stop, Gram?" She wiped away the tears, trying to stop the flow.
"It will. It just takes time. Then this will fade into a happy memory, something that you look back on and smile, I promise. Now, how about some ice cream?"
Maybe her Gram was right. Perhaps one day she could recall those clear blue eyes and beautiful face as a pleasant memory. But right now it still felt too fresh, too raw. He was there, in her heart, and she couldn’t expel him.
But ice cream would help for the moment. Buffy nodded gratefully and followed her inside.
Her father arrived on time for once. She’d planned to spend her morning visiting her usual haunts, but besides a quick pat for the sympathetic cow with the big eyes, she found herself whiling away her remaining hours in Sunnydale on the front porch swing. Everywhere seemed to hold so many memories that she wasn’t ready to revisit.
When he exited the car, she noticed that her dad seemed tanner, thinner. Apparently divorce was agreeing with him. He’d brought her a beautiful wooden box, ornately carved and beautifully inlaid, from Spain. She accepted the gift and his hug, then went inside for her bags.
The good-bye with her grandparents was sad. She knew deep down that there wouldn’t be another summer like this, and she found herself clinging a little harder, and whisking away a few stray tears as they hugged her.
Her dad tried to make conversation as the miles dropped away, taking her back to reality, but she found herself disinclined to even feign politeness. He finally gave up, and she stared out the window instead. Which was how she got the first inkling of bigger changes to come, as they pulled into the drive and she spotted the for sale sign firmly planted in the front yard.
The move was so swift she didn’t have time to protest. Her mother had found a job in Chicago at a gallery, and the offer was too good to pass up, she said. She wanted to get them settled before Buffy started school.
She felt herself being swept along with the tide, the new school, new apartment, new city. Change was good her mother kept saying, a fresh start. Buffy found she didn’t really care. She wrote Spike religiously as August turned into September and haunted the mailbox each day looking for a return missive.
School started and the high school gods apparently decided to smile on her in her final year. She made the cheerleading squad after much prodding by her mother to try out and get involved. She was invited to the right parties. Somehow in not caring, she found herself more popular than she’d ever been.
She still wrote Spike, but the return letters grew shorter as the winds whipped colder off the lake and the trees lost their coverings entirely. His grandfather was deteriorating again, she thought, though Spike tried to be amusing in the posts he sent. They still signed their letters with love, but the words just seemed to skim the surface of their emotions.
When homecoming approached, one of the running backs, Riley, asked her to be his date. She agonized for a weekend, pouring over the most recent letters that said little, trying Spike’s number over and over with the international calling card that was supposed to be used to contact her father on business trips. There was no answer.
On Monday, she told Riley yes, but only as a friend. She still wrote Spike, but the letters grew fewer and further between, and his responses even briefer.
The senior year flew by with classes, and clubs, and cheering. Somewhere along the way Riley became a permanent fixture, always around. She had planned to try to go back to California after graduation, nursing some vague fantasy that he’d come back, she’d go to UCLA, and everything would be as planned. The year would be just a temporary detour. But she’d been also been accepted at Northwestern, and so had Riley. He wanted her to stay with him. Her mom wanted her close as well. She was torn.
And then her grandmother called and told her that Spike’s grandfather had passed, and he was taking a role in the company under his father in London.
She spent that night late in her senior year reading, for the last time, through the old letters she’d kept in the carved wooden box. The memories of him were still there, in sharp relief, when she closed her eyes. Their bittersweet passion was reflected in scrawled handwriting and his face was forever etched in her mind, how he looked in the moonlight, the way he laughed, his magical eyes. But it was almost as though it was a brilliant dream, that their time together beside the stream where the rest of the world didn’t exist hadn’t been quite real.
She found a sympathy card the next day. Her message was sincere, her regrets heartfelt. But she also included a brief line about her college options and asked if he thought he might be back.
She waited for two weeks, her self-imposed deadline for some sort of response. He never wrote back.
At the end of the second week she dropped her acceptance letter to Northwestern into the same slot and promised herself she wouldn’t cry over him again.