Chapter 4
“Every one of those is crooked!? Sheesh! The floor is gonna fall out from under us!”
“Shut up, Buffy. Like you could do any better.” He starts banging away again with the hammer, driving the nail through the knotted plywood into the tree, stabilizing the last piece of the floor of the neighborhood tree house.
She jerks her chin skyward, balls her fists on her hips. “I so could! Gimme that!” She lunges for the hammer, but he stands and holds it up over her head and out of reach.
“Nope. Don’t think we can risk it. Little princess might break a finger, cry all the way home,” he taunts, sticking his tongue out at her as she slaps at his arm, trying to reach. She gives up after a few more tries, settling for stomping on his foot. The hammer clatters down, the handle whacking him in the shin on the way down.
“OW! You BRAT! That bloody HURT!”
She snaps up the tool and starts banging away at the final nail, until it’s driven all the way in, then steps back, grinning at him in victory. “Who’s crying now, Willie?”
He flushes hot with anger. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” She makes faces at him, not noticing his quiet fury.
“Just don’t.” He says it so softly, it freezes her in her tracks. His voice is thick with pain.
Her eyes widen. “OH! Your Dad! He called you… oh.”
“Shut up, you twit.” His eyes are wet. He storms off, climbing down the rope ladder out of their tree house. He jumps on his bike, pedaling madly over the dirt path out of the woods toward his house.
She scrambles down the ladder, calling after him.
“Will, wait! Stop! Wait up!” Flinging herself on her bike, she tries to catch up with him. But his bike is bigger, his legs longer. He is breaking away, lengthening the distance between them.
She’s so focused on watching his back move further away, she doesn’t see the big rock in the middle of the path. Her front wheel hits, tossing her over the handlebars. She slides over the dirt and rocks, whacking her head on a tree stump.
She must have yelled, because in a flash, he’s there, kneeling beside her, his bike thrown to the ground. His eyes are as big as saucers.
“God, what did you do?”
She’s crying so hard, she can’t breathe very well. Her face hurts, and when she brings her hand up, it comes away wet and scarlet. She sees the blood and starts to scream.
“Shhh. You’re ok. You cut your forehead. Let me see.” He bats her hands away and brushes her hair back. Pulls his tee shirt off and presses it to her hairline over her left eye.
Her legs are on fire with pain, little bits of rock and gravel stuck in her skin, blood running in rivulets over her knee.
She’s weeping, so she can’t talk, tries to push him away. He’s having none of that.
“Buffy, stop. C’mon. Gotta get you home to your mum.” He puts a hand under her armpit to help her stand, but she just howls harder.
He takes her face in his hands. It’s the first time he’s touched her like that. Soft. It surprises her so much, she stops yelling, sniffles as he fixes her with his sky blue eyes.
“Hey. I got you. You’re gonna be okay, but we gotta get you home, all right?” His voice is gentle and low, as if he’s talking to a wild animal. It calms her right down. “Can you walk?”
She tries to put some weight on the scraped leg, but it makes her whimper.
He doesn’t say another word. Just scoops her up in his arms with a grunt and starts to walk back toward her house.
They’re both quiet for a minute. She sniffles and wipes her nose with her bloody hand, then holds her fingers open, not sure what to do with the mess.
“You wipe that on me and I’ll drop you like a hot potato.”
She chuckles, and it gets a grin out of him.
“I’m sorry, about your dad. I’m sorry I called you that, Will. Do you miss him? Does he ever call you? Do you talk to him?”
“Buffy?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up. Can’t talk if I’m gonna carry you all the way back. You weigh a bloody ton.”
She slaps his bare chest. He just smirks, cocky and arrogant. It’s a new look for him. It fits him well.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
His living room and kitchen are filled with the crowd from the funeral. His mother’s church friends, people from the neighborhood, his relatives she’s never met before. She stands by the fireplace and watches him moving listlessly around the room. His eyes are glassy; he looks exhausted. His suit is becoming more rumpled as the day wears on. He continually runs his hands over his head, smoothing his two-toned hair back over and over in a nervous gesture as he receives condolences from the attendees.
Buffy picks at the food laid out for the mourners, but she has no appetite. Slowly, the people leave, one by one, until by nightfall, only she, her mother, his aunt and cousin remain.
He walks the relatives to the door, asking after their hotel arrangements and driving directions, his voice thick with weariness. As he is leading them out, Joyce goes to Buffy, gathering her coat.
“I’m headed home, sweetie. Are you coming?”
Buffy watches him. He’s hurting, so much. She wants to do something- she’s not ready to leave him alone yet- not after finally seeing him again after all this time. She looks around the room, seeing all the dirty cups and plastic plates on the end tables and coffee table.
“I think I’ll help clean some of this up first.”
“That’s sweet of you, honey.” She leans in and hugs Buffy quickly, then backs off, shoulders slumped. Her mother looks tired, too.
“I’ll see you at home in a bit, mom.”
Joyce goes to William at the door, offering a maternal hug. He folds himself into her arms, turning his head to rest on her shoulder and closing his eyes. Buffy’s throat constricts in sorrow. He looks to her like a lost little boy, and like a tired older man, all at once.
She doesn’t want to intrude on this moment, which he clearly needs badly. She knows he‘s close with her mom. He has been since they were kids. So she busies herself with picking up the dirty plates and cups, shuttling them to the kitchen trash can, and back again, to grab the serving plates of salvageable leftovers and put them away in the fridge.
She hears the front door shut, walks back to the living room. He’s there, crumpled to the floor, his hand over his face, weeping.
She doesn’t hesitate a second. Goes down to her knees on the floor in front of him, draws him in to her embrace as if he was a small child. He tries to push her away.
“I can’t let you. You should go now. Please….” His voice breaks, like fragments of glass. So brittle.
“Shhh.” She tells him, her hand at the back of his head, pressing his face to her neck. “I’ve got you.”
He lets it all go then, with loud, shuddering cries, soaking her dress with his tears. She says nothing, simply rocks him until he slows, snuffling, then stops, empty and drained.
She takes his hand in hers, that wide, warm palm she remembers so well. Leads him up the stairs to his room, helps him get his shoes off and gets him to lie down in the bed. He makes no protest, but gets under the covers, suit pants and all. She places one hand on his cheek, and her fingers twitch, touching those familiar planes again.
His eyelids are heavy as he whispers, “Thank you.”
He’s asleep before she can reply, so she’s pretty sure he misses her telling him, “You’re welcome. I’m here for you now, Will.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
TBC
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