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Chapter 3

She wears a pleated plaid skirt to church, stiff with starch and scratchy on her thighs. “Love your neighbor, as you love yourself,” the minister says. In the car on the way home, Buffy thinks about her new neighbor.

“Mommy? Father Wilson said ‘Love your neighbor.’ Does that mean I have to love our new neighbors?”

“Well, sweetie, it means you should treat people you know how you would like to be treated.”

“What about people I don’t know?”

“Yes, them too. It means everyone deserves kindness and respect.”

She thinks on this the rest of the way home. It bothers her that she has to love someone who was so mean to her. He didn’t treat HER with kindness. She’s annoyed that the rules only apply one way.

She stomps up the stairs, now as mad at Father Wilson and his dumb rules as she is at the new boy. In her room she sits on her bed, grabbing for Mr. Gordo, her stuffed pig.

Then she sees movement across the way, in the window directly across from hers. He is sitting on his bed, a mirror image of her. He has a piece of paper and an envelope in one hand. The other is cupping his face, as he sobs into his palm. She can faintly hear him breathe in ragged, shuddering gasps. It makes her head hurt to watch him cry like that. She can’t ever remember hurting that much.

She gets up and goes downstairs, all her anger gone. In the kitchen, she spies a plate of big, amoebic-shaped homemade chocolate chip cookies under saran wrap. She grabs the plate, heads out the back door and sits on the back step. Waits.

She doesn’t sit long. Fifteen or twenty minutes later he comes crashing out, the wooden-framed screen door banging shut behind him. He throws the paper and envelope in his hand into the swimming pool in the back yard. He watches as it floats on the surface, then slowly melts and sinks. He grabs a rock beside his foot and hurls it at the fence beyond the pool. It makes a heavy ‘thunk’, so he grabs another. Then another. His arm is whipping up and back, his hair flying up with the repeated motion, until he has worn himself out, run out of rocks. He props himself, hands on his thighs, leaning forward, gasping for breath.

She still thinks he’s pretty, but she won’t say that again.

Instead, she clears her throat. He spins around, his chest pumping for air, gives her a withering look. She simply holds out the plate. He looks at her, wary, assessing. Then, his features soften as he blinks at her. He walks to her, plunking himself down next to her with a woof of expelled breath.

After he gets two cookies down and is reaching for a third, she takes one for herself.

“What’s your name?”

“William.”

“I’m Buffy.”

“You told me before.”

“Oh. … Do you have a bike, William?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna ride out to the lake in Hollis Woods?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The morning of the funeral is sunny and crisp. Birds are singing, their song carried through her open window on a light breeze. The air smells of cut grass and honeysuckle blossoms.

The way the light falls across her bed in the same way it always did, the way she can open her eyes and see his window, hear her mom moving in the bathroom down the hall, smell those flowers- it all is a comfort in it’s familiarity. Like walking down a well-worn, familiar path, she knows this routine.

There is no movement across the way. She allows herself the luxury of a few minutes to lie still, watching his window shade move in the same breeze that is stirring her curtains. She wonders if he smells the flowers and cut grass. If he’s looking at her window, right now. Remembering how they used to greet each other from across the way, every day on waking, for years.

But not now, she thinks, with a pang of regret.

She gets up and makes her bed, laying out her under things, black dress, hose and heels. Preparing to see him again, and to say goodbye to his mother.

She and her mom are quiet when she goes downstairs, save a “good morning” greeting and brief discussion of the time and location of the ceremony. They drink their coffee, breathing slowly, exhaling long, soft sighs. Trying to stay as quiet inside as they are outside.

They leave the house at 10:00, for a 10:30 ceremony at Restfield. When they arrive, the cemetery is full of cars parked one behind the other, a long line of people making their way in to the site. Buffy totters her way along on the roughly paved drive, wishing she hadn’t chosen heels for this. Her nerves are up. She can see a large crowd ahead, and thinks, like bees in a hive, they are clustering around him in a protective swarm. Her belly is upset, her palms sweating. It’s been fourteen years. She cannot imagine what he will look like, especially in this circumstance.

And then the crowd around him moves and she sees him. He is wearing a dusty black suit that hangs loosely from his frame. His white shirt looks brand new and just out of the box, the collar stiff. His skin is ghostly pale, little lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. His hair is his natural brown, longish with loose waves, just the tips touched with his signature bleached blonde. Clearly it’s been a while since he could keep that up. His face is haggard, drawn. His hands hang limp by his side, even as mourners come up to hug him, pat his shoulder.

He looks up and sees her. His face registers surprise. She watches him suck in a big breath, steeling himself as the two Summers women approach.

Her mom hugs him tightly, her voice low as she tells him, “I’m so sorry, William. She was such a fine lady, and a dear friend.” He hugs her back, but never takes his eyes off Buffy, as if he’s afraid that if he looks away, she will disappear.

When her mom steps aside, she is before him. She worries her voice will fail her, but she manages to bring it up.

“Hello, Spike.”

One corner of his mouth quirks up. “Hello, Buffy. Been a long time since anybody called me that.”

“I’m so sorry… for your loss.” It’s awkward. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, where to look. What to do.

He surprises her by stepping forward and pulling her in hard. Squeezes her so tightly, she’s sure she’ll have finger bruises on her back and upper arms. “Thank you,” He says, his voice croaked out and jagged. Raw.

He feels just right. His body fits against hers so perfectly, just as she remembers it. The memory of all the other times they stood pressed together like this rush in, kicking out her defenses and making her flush with emotion. Her eyes abruptly sting with tears as she inhales his own unique, clean smell. All she can feel is her love for him, rising up the back of her throat, threatening to choke her, his heart beating hard against her breast.

When he pulls back, he moves slowly, reluctant to let her go. He fixes her with his stormy blue eyes. She is paralyzed by the pain and need she sees there.

“Will you stay? Come back to the house afterwards? Please?” His ‘please’ is so desperate, she thinks her heart may shatter for him.

“Of course,” She assures him, patting his hand.

“Thank you,” he repeats, his voice a whisper. Then he is pulled away by the minister so the ceremony can begin.

Her mother comes up beside her and takes her hand. Squeezes.

“Thanks,” she whispers, grateful for the support. All she can see is how he looked at her, desperate for her kindness. How that is the same look he wore when she left, all those years ago.

It has haunted her.

Despite the loveliness of the day, she shivers, thinking of them both hurting, missing the other, all this time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

TBC





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