The Only Exception

It was cold, and it was raining. The sky was a dark gray, packed with angry looking storm clouds. There was static present in the air, and every so often, a bolt of lightening would streak across the sky, shortly followed by the angry rumble of thunder.

Rainy days were not on Sunday's list of things she disliked. In fact, she found them quite beautiful, and she loved the smell that accompanied them. She liked watching the raindrops pelt the glass windows mercilessly as they concocted their own strange rhythmic beat.

However, there was also a drawback to inclement days. They often caused Sunday to be trapped in one of the unoccupied rooms in her large house. Her mother was at work, and during the day, Mr. Phillips usually relaxed or calculated profits and losses for the restaurant. It didn't matter which he was doing to Sunday really, because neither activities were compatible with her conversations or distractions.

The stormy weather wasn't enough to cheer Sunday up the morning after her horrendous night with Alex though. She couldn't bring herself to lift her pencil or charcoal to draw a sodden beach scene or to depict the tumultuous sky. She had wandered into the sunroom that was adjacent to the guest bedroom—which is what Sunday's parents had called Henry's room ever since they had cleaned out his things—and had been lounging on the comfortable futon in the room with a constantly cooling cup of hot chocolate in her hand since the early morning.

Sunday couldn't remember the last time she'd been in Henry's room, especially not in his sunroom. He had loved the room when he was alive, and if things were particularly stressful for him, he would spend hours in the room. Not even doing anything, really, just half dozing on the futon that Sunday was currently sitting on.

Right after he died, Sunday had spent a few days on the futon. It had retained Henry's scent, yet it faced out to the beach so Sunday didn't have to look at the owner-less relics that cluttered his bedroom.

Until one day, Sunday had returned home from lunch with Amber to find that all of Henry's possessions had been removed from his bedroom. New sheets and blankets covered his bed, and instead of posters and picture frames detailing his high school career, expensive photographs and paintings were hanging in ornate frames upon the walls. And when she had dropped onto the futon, Sunday had found that the smell of Henry's cologne had been replaced by the strong smell of cleaning agents.

Sunday rubbed her eyes wearily, wishing she had gotten some sleep the previous night. After she had turned Alex away at the front door, she had tried very hard to go to bed. As soon as her black dress had been replaced by a worn t-shirt and pajama bottoms, Sunday had put herself to bed and begged herself to lapse into unconsciousness. Yet no matter how long she had laid still in her comfortable bed, there was no discernable change in the weight of Sunday's eyelids or her level of alertness.

As her parents were still not home, Sunday couldn't ask anyone for the medicine that would easily put her into a dreamless sleep. But she needed it, and so she had slipped out of her bed and into the kitchen before she began sorting through the cupboards where her mother kept all of the medicine that Sunday had been prescribed.

She found them after opening every bottle and looking for the right color and shape of the pills that she often spied her mother crushing up for her before dinner. She wasn't sure how many to take though, so Sunday had dropped four or five into the palm of her hand and had been about to swallow them when she suddenly felt as though she was doing something terribly wrong.

What if she was taking too many? Would that be bad? So after a little internal debate, she had admitted that she had no idea what she was supposed to do and dropped the pills back into their orange bottle. She tried to substitute her sleeping pills with a movie, but it was no use. Alex was the only alternative that easily put her to sleep.

So now Sunday's eyes were red, burning, and most likely a little puffy. She hadn't looked at herself in the mirror, but she guessed that she looked tired enough. She felt tired. But she didn't want to sleep now. She wanted to stay awake and watch the rain come down in heavy sheets.

Sunday wasn't the only person in a dismal mood that morning. When Alex had woken up he had been greeted by a feeling of dread (in addition to his hangover) as his lethargic brain dug up snapshots from the previous night. And despite the fact that he felt sick to his stomach, had a splitting headache that light aggravated intensely and the world seemed to be shaking a little bit, Alex had forced himself into clean clothes and grabbed his keys with the goal of seeing Sunday in the forefront of his mind.

Alex didn't like being wrong and tried to avoid admitting to this as best as he could. But he knew that he owed Sunday an apology, a big apology. He had forced her to go somewhere she had told him she didn't want to go, he had ignored her, he had allowed some guy to creep on her, and then he had been completely ignorant to all that he had done. Yes, there was no doubt in Alex's mind that an apology would be the appropriate course of action.

The sound of Alex's knock on the doorframe of the sunroom was drowned out by the angry pounding of raindrops upon the windows. Sunday didn't turn around as Alex approached the futon either, until he stepped on a loose board that squeaked at which point she glanced over her shoulder. She frowned when she saw him, making Alex cringe.

"Hey," he greeted her in a voice that sounded raspy and a little pathetic. He cleared his throat before he added, "I got you coffee."

Sunday set her coffee mug down on the table beside her before she heaved a sigh and took the steaming Starbucks cup from Alex's hand. "Thanks," she mumbled as she stared at the cup without taking a drink from it.

"Can—can I sit down?" Alex asked hesitantly.

She shrugged her shoulders, which were currently encased in a sweater that looked very large on her. In combination with the blanket that her legs were swathed in and her slumped back, Sunday looked even smaller than usual.

Alex sat down beside her, nervously picking at the cardboard, heat deflecting sleeve around his cream colored cup. "Sun, I'm really sorry about last night," he began after a considerable time period of silence.

There was another shrug of her small shoulders and then a deep sigh. "It's over," Sunday countered, "Don't be sorry."

"Are you...?" Alex trailed off, not sure what he wanted to ask. Was she okay? Was she angry with him? Was she about to ask him to leave and never come back?

She set her drink down next to her still full mug before she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "I'm not mad at you," Sunday decided. She kept her gaze fixed on the windows in front of her, which was not particularly comforting for Alex.

"You're not?" Alex drew his eyebrows together in confusion.

"No," Sunday shrugged. "You were just being... you."

"Sun, I don't want to be like that," Alex countered, "especially not around you."

"Why does it sound like you're apologizing?" demanded Sunday, as she turned to look at him finally. "I should be apologizing to you—we've known each other for weeks, and not once have I really let you be yourself."

"That's because myself isn't someone that I want to be all the time," Alex retorted, "I like the person I am around you. I don't want to be a dick to you."

"But I want you to feel like you can be yourself with me," Sunday explained.

Alex paused. This wasn't the direction he though his conversation with Sunday would have gone in, and he didn't like it, even though he was technically getting off very easily. It sounded like she was blaming herself, which Alex couldn't stand. "Sunday," he said, scooting closer to her and taking her hands so that she had to turn and look at him as well, "It's okay to be mad at me, you know. What I did last night—making you come with me, ignoring you, being way too drunk to make sure you got home okay—it wasn't my best moment. I'd be mad at me. I am mad at me. I'm always trying to be better around you, for you."

Sunday couldn't look at him. She hated that he was blaming himself, just as much as Alex hated that she tried to shift the blame onto herself.

But in that moment, as he held Sunday's cold hands and watched her avert her gaze to inanimate objects in the sunroom in hopes that he wouldn't see the tears pooling in her eyes, Alex understood it. It wasn't just him that Sunday refused to be mad at. She didn't want to be angry with anyone. "Sun, you know it's okay to hate them," he whispered.

"What?" She looked back at him, and tears were clinging to her eyelashes.

"I hated my brother after he killed himself," explained Alex. "I was so mad at him for so long. But after I was mad, I could be sad."

"What are you trying to say?" Sunday demanded as she took a hand from him and wiped tears off the tops of her cheeks.

"It's okay to be angry with people," Alex told her, "because once you're done being mad, you can feel the other things. But you've got to feel that anger first."

He paused as he watched Sunday turn away from him, placing both her feet on the ground and dropping her head into her hands. There was no movement from her back that alerted him to silent sobs, so Alex continued on. "It's okay to be mad at Henry because he's gone. It's okay to be mad at your parents for keeping you at home, for keeping you alone. It's okay to be mad at Amber for leaving. And it's more than okay to be mad at me for not being better for you."

When she looked up, Sunday had succumbed to tears, and they were drifting down her soft cheeks in small streams. "No, I can't be," she countered, "Henry didn't mean to die. It wans't his fault. And my parents do the best they can; I'm ruining them, Alex, I can tell. And Amber might not always be the greatest friend, but she tries. And you."

She closed her eyes before she finished her explanation, "You are the most amazing thing that has happened to me in years, Alex Gaskarth. I don't want to get mad at you for something that's not your fault and lose you forever. Because—because I don't know what I'd do without you, Alex. I've gotten so used to having you around and to seeing you every morning and to being able to tell you whatever I'm feeling no matter what it is."

Alex's throat felt thick, and he instinctually reached out to pull Sunday into his lap, keeping his arms tightly wrapped around her. Sunday buried her head in the crook of his neck and allowed herself to keep crying as he rubbed small, comforting circles on her back.

"I'm afraid that I'm going to ruin you like I'm ruining them," Sunday muttered once she had reserved herself enough to speak without having to gasp for air.

Alex closed his eyes and swallowed back the feelings that her self-loathing stirred in him. "Sunday, you're not going to ruin me," Alex insisted, "And you're not ruining your parents. They're fine, they really are."

"How do you know I'm not going to ruin you?" Sunday challenged.

"Every day, Sunday," Alex began in a soft dispute, "you introduce me to something knew, even if it's just pointing out a different view that I never knew existed. Every day you make me want to be a better person. If anything, you're making me better."

Sunday clasped her hands around Alex. "I already think you're perfect," she mumbled into his chest.

Alex didn't feel like talking anymore, partially because he couldn't think of anything else to say and also because he felt so at ease that he didn't want to ruin it with meaningless chatter to fill the air. At that moment, just being together was more than enough for both Alex and Sunday.