Summer Shadows

I had locked my door that night, propping a chair below the handle as an extra precaution before retreating to the bathroom. I’d vomited up ocean water between sobs. The shower that followed felt as though it took hours, sitting against the glass wall as the scalding water fell over me. I partially stayed in there to avoid the knocking on my door I assumed would follow once he returned; the other part was merely from dissociating. Just over an hour had passed by the time I had crawled out, and I’d opted to sit in the bathroom floor for a good while then.

The truth of the last little while continued to play through my mind, along with the many, many questions it posed. Why had he kept it all from me? Why had he been so cold? Why had he watched me for weeks and not said a word? Everything came back to Simon; just as it always did. What I’d thought I’d lost months ago, and needed so desperately, had been in front of me since the start of my stay at the Dreyton’s summer home.

My head throbbed as that realization replayed over and over; as Simon’s behavior under the guise of Oliver continued to push me into a deeper state of frustration and confusion. What did he have to gain by acting as he had, by treating me as such? Why would he do that?

It took a while for me to maneuver myself from the floor to the bed of the room I resided in. I lost the will to think about any of it; the want or need to. I just wanted to sleep, to not think about any of this. A lack of existence all together almost seemed preferable.

Sleep came much easier than I had anticipated. The thoughts that left me aching didn’t haunt me long before I was out, but my dreams failed to offer much peace. Water and death and loss plagued those; the water took Simon, not me. And there was no way to get him back.

The next day opened with a dull throb of a headache in the late afternoon coupled with the growling of my stomach. I had crawled out of bed with reluctance, and hesitantly removed the desk chair from below the knob. I sniffled a bit; nose still stuffy from all of the crying the night before. That would go away on it's own. Eventually.

Much to my relief; the door to his room was closed. I was careful to be as quiet as possible when i made my way down the stairs and to the kitchen, ever vigil for signs of what I now knew to be Simon—or even Katie. It seemed at least the latter wasn't back yet. I grabbed a water bottle before quickly throwing together a PB&J, retreating back upstairs with my food in hand. My door was quietly shut and locked before anyone would have even had a chance to stop me. I stared out the window as I ate. The sun was back out that day, gleaming bright and hot off of the white sands of the beach as a few people strolled along the water's edge. I tried to focus on the waves lapping the shoreline, imagining the calming sounds of the tide I couldn't hear from my room. But the sounds I imagined slowly pulled forth memories of the night before; the water racing around me as the current pulled me under, the panic and fear those brought with them; and every little detail of my rescue. Simon's face was once again at the forefront of my mind, just like that.

One fourth of my sandwich remained untouched for the remainder of that day. I managed to keep my food down, though, and opted to crawl back in bed. I didn't want to think about any of it. And sleeping was a surefire way to avoid it all. So I did just that.

For two more days, I maintained an existence that involved sleeping, getting food when no one seemed to be around, and maintaining my self-imposed isolation in my bedroom. Katie and Simon both knocked on my door multiple times; but I refused to open it for either. Letting Simon in was a can of worms I wasn't prepared for, while Katie... actually felt about the same. There was a lot less anger involved with my concern over dealing with her, though, and a bit more uncertainty. Her worries over Oliver's behavior were going to be a whole lot more difficult to explain now, even if the truth of the situation made it very clear for me. I couldn't rightly tell her we were actually dealing with the consciousness of his twin instead, could I?

Their presence beyond my door wasn't the only issue at hand, either. As the days rolled past, it became more and more apparent the stuffiness in my nose wasn't just because of my crying. Soon enough I wasn't able to breathe through my nose, and the sneezing and coughing joined in not long after. My head felt as though it was a constant source of pressure, and by the morning of my third day, I found it hard to deny the presence of a fever as well. I was either sweating or shivering; there was no middle ground. That day, most of my time was spent in a restless on and off again sleep pattern between coughing fits.

That day, Simon Dreyton let himself in my room.

He did it during one of the periods of time in which I'd managed to doze off for a bit; I awoke with another fit of hacking coughs, whining a bit as I'd rolled over, desperately seeking a cool spot on the bed. I'd stopped completely when I'd turned to find him sitting on the edge of my bed with a frown on his lips. It was a weird sensation; having my stomach drop and my heart fly into my throat at the same time as our eyes met.

"How... Did you--" I coughed once, covering my mouth with my arm.

"Skeleton key. I finally found it. And it's a good thing I did."

I’d more or less asked for my summer cold; the day in the rain without bothering to change, crashing on the couch in soaking wet clothes, a late night suicide attempt in the Atlantic ocean shortly after; that wasn’t even factoring in my lack of self-care on a normal level, or the stress of my life as of late. Essentially, I had been the perfect build up to my sudden deterioration in health.

The look on Simon’s face told me clearly that he knew I was ill; perhaps it was the flushed skin without so much as setting a foot outside; perhaps it was the indisputable sheen of sweat that plastered my clothes to my body in a house that maintained a temperature closer to 55 than 60; perhaps it was the fact that I felt like complete hell to a point it was visible. Regardless; Simon knew.

“Maggie—“

I let out a groan, cutting him off as a stream of coughing shortly followed. I was still upset; still bothered, and even in my disgusting state, I didn’t want to depend on him. Rolling over, I pulled the comforter above my head.

“Go away—“ My words were followed by a few more coughs, scratchy sounding things that seemed to rattle in my chest. I knew just as well as he did though, he was not going to go anywhere. One thing we indisputably had in common was a stubborn streak that was near impossible to break.
The comforter was tugged away almost as quickly as I had pulled it up, and I felt a weight on the bed behind me as his hand found my shoulder, turning me back to face him.

“Don’t touch me—“ It came out a raspy hiss, swatting at his hand in the manner of a moody cat. He ignored that, placing his other hand on my forehead for a small period of time, blue eyes settled starkly on my face. I hated that I enjoyed the sensation of his cool hand against my skin in that moment. His frown deepened almost immediately.

“You were just going to stay like this, and not bother telling anyone, weren’t you? Jesus, Maggie, you’re burning up. Get up, I’m calling the doctor.”

The final word he spoke gave me enough energy to push myself away from him, and as close to the edge of the bed as I could manage without landing in the floor. “I’m not—I am not going near a hospital. You can’t make me, I refuse—“

Speaking near constantly seemed to lead to a new coughing fit, and I tried my best to stifle against the pillow I clung to like a life raft. I could tell I was going to be sore from hacking my lungs up, body tensing with every rattling exhale the cold seemed to push out of me. My breaths were slow and deep--yet horribly shaky—as I tried to stop myself; willing my mind to believe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed, despite knowing very well that wasn’t the case at all.

His touch was gentle as he grasped for my wrist, carefully pulling me off of my side and onto my back. I was reluctant to look up at him, lips pressed tightly together before I slowly gave him my gaze. The worry was apparent on his face; brow furrowed a bit as he watched me steadily.

“Maggie, please,” he spoke softly, using his other hand to brush a bit of my hair back. I feebly shifted away from his touch. Simon sighed in response. “No hospitals, okay? It’s just… the family doctor. No hospitals. Just a visit. You need antibiotics, or something. What I don’t want is for you to actually wind up in the hospital, okay? That’s what I’m trying to avoid. I know you don’t want to be in a place like that, and I don’t want you to either. I know you’re upset with me, and I know I’m the last person you want to see. I can’t blame you. But I just. Want you to be okay.”

I hated the intensity of his gaze; I hated how I could feel the sincerity in his words as he spoke to me then. I hated how I wanted him to care about me like he seemed to. I hated how I wanted to cling to him then, how I wanted to let him take me to the doctor if it would ease his mind. Where had that been for the last six months of my life?

My frustration and irritability only seemed amplified by my poor condition; I could feel the heated sting in the corners of my eyes as I managed a sniffle—only partially due to my current state. I didn’t want to cry then; I had already cried so much since the start of the year; mostly out of misery or loss; not this time. I felt the sob leave me with a harsh rush, coughing immediately after. It was a little difficult to have a proper breakdown with coughing between every few shaky breaths. It hurt physically, but that still seemed nothing compared to the emotional turmoil that had finally boiled over.

I could hear myself cursing him in a cracked, shaky, rasping voice. I could hear myself pouring out only a fraction of the frustration I felt as I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to pull my wrist from his grasp, my other hand hitting him pathetically with the pillow I still held. I wanted him to know how much I was hurting; how betrayed I felt and how frustrated I was. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair he didn’t seem to feel anything at all about what he had done to me, left me waiting, thinking he was gone while he had been here all the while.

“You’re—awful—“

“I know.”

“I n-needed you and you just—“

“I know.”

I whacked him with the pillow one final time, with less force than even the other attempts I’d made. Even through the blur of tears I could tell he wore remorse and regret well—even sincerely. That was the look I needed from him in that moment. Everything felt hazy then, as it had for the majority of the last twenty-four hours, but I slowly pushed myself up. I was hurting, I was upset, and I was sick, and I wanted just one thing in that very moment; once I felt better I was sure I’d change my mind about that. But right then, I just wanted to be held by Simon Dreyton.

It was with unsteady movements that I made my way into his lap; his figure tense with uncertainty for a brief period of time. I let my arms circle his neck, dropping my face against his shoulder as I released a few shaky breaths while trying to calm myself. He was frozen only briefly, arms wrapping around me tightly. I had needed that for so long.

Simon let me cling to him then, to hold onto him as though my life depended on it. After grasping at a memory for months, having the real thing in my arms was almost too much, especially when I thought I’d never see him again. He ran a hand through my hair as I sat in his embrace, not a word said by either of us. I had missed him; I had needed him so desperately. Even if he made me wait, having him back then was better than not having him at all.

“We won’t go until you’re ready, but, you’ll let me take you to the doctor, right?” His voice was a low murmur in my ear; a small shiver rippled down my spine. Even if I was feeling more like myself, telling him no when he used that tone would have been difficult.

“I… suppose so. But I don’t want to move yet.” In contrast, my voice sounded cracked and sick; not smooth and enticing like his had. I managed another cough against his shoulder. He gave my head a small pat in response.

“You’ve got thirty minutes, Mags. It’s half past three and the doctor closes at five. Once we’re back, you can cling all you like. Okay? I won’t even call you a brat if you get whiny.”
I let out a scoff at that, shaking my head against him. “What’s the point of having you back if you’re not going to act like you.”

“What, do you want me to call you a brat?” The skepticism in his voice was as clear as day.

I paused momentarily, but, my filter slipped and I poured a bit of honesty out for Simon Dreyton. “…Even if you didn’t mean it as such initially, it… felt a bit like a term of endearment.”

“I… ah. You’re not… wrong, I suppose,” he muttered. I turned my head slightly, enough to peek up at him. There was a hint of color on his face, gaze pointedly focused on the wall. "I mean, you /are/ a bit of a brat, Magnolia Walton, stubborn as hell, that's for sure. But. Its... charming, on you. I don't think I'd want you any other way."

My staring was involuntary as he finished his response; and silence took over in the wake of his words. I had never exactly had an opportunity to adjust to hearing things like that from Simon, and no matter how earnestly he seemed to mean them, it was seemingly always going to take me by surprise. Even if I was sick, even if he had abandoned me for months, I wanted to hear these things so desperately.
Being lost in my own thoughts I hadn't even realized he had looked down, returning my stare with a fixed and steady gaze. He reached out, carefully brushing my unkempt hair away from my face. His focus was intense, captivating in a way that made looking away from him nearly impossible. I didn't want to lose the moment; I didn't want to miss a second of his attention.

"I owe you an explanation, and more apologies than I can probably crank out in a lifetime, frankly. I thought... I thought I was doing what would be best for you, by not getting involved with you once I came to in this body. I thought..." His brow furrowed slightly, eyes never leaving mine. "You went through so much because of me those months back. I was the reason you almost died; I was the reason you were hurt, and pulled into something that absolutely could have been avoided. Everything that happened to you was because of me. I thought... I thought you would be better off if I kept out of your life."

In the days building up to our current encounter, I hadn't planned on giving him a chance to explain himself, no matter how badly I had wanted a reason for why he hadn't sought me out, why he had left me in the dark. Even if I had wanted answers, I wasn't sure if I'd have been able to stomach them. But as it was, in that moment, Simon Dreyton's words were all I cared about.
His hand slid down from it's place in my hair, and he gently cupped my cheek. His voice was soft and low. "I was going to transfer schools; keep myself as far away from you as possible. I didn't count on Darren still being around, or my father bringing you down here. I didn't count on my presence still having lingering effects on your life to a point where you would still be in danger. And I didn't count on... how you felt. About me."

The jolt of embarrassment that hit me felt like a baseball bat as I realized just what he meant. My thoughts immediately jumped to our brief trip back home; the day he'd twisted his ankle; the day I admitted to being in love with Simon Dreyton. The realization of that confession to the brother it was about as opposed Oliver hadn't dawned on me until that moment. I'd have taken that secret to my grave if I'd have known then who I was actually dealing with.

"That—I mean--" I tried to pull back from him then, grateful my face was already flushed from my fever in that moment. One of the corners of his lips pulled softly upwards, but he let me put a slight distance between us as I gave another few coughs.

"We can talk about it another time, once you're feeling better. But for the moment, I need to get you to the doctor's. I want you alive and well." Simon shift then, leaning in towards me as he cupped my face with both hands, bright eyes intensely focused on mine. "I didn't let my mother or the ocean take you, and I'm sure as hell not losing you to a cold."

I let Simon Dreyton take me to the doctor that day, without further argument, and he stayed with me that night just as he'd promised. We didn't speak much, but at that point words didn't seem absolutely necessary. In the sick haze of those first few days after the doctor's visit, just having him there with me was enough, and a new realization came to light.

My want to protect Oliver from whatever fate Darren had planned for him had been strong; but as the truth had surfaced that it was actually Simon I was dealing with want became far too light a term. Much like it seemed Simon felt about me, keeping him alive was now a necessity. I'd lost him once. I wasn't going to give him up again.

No matter the cost.