Christie Road
Cause She's 2000 Light Years Away
He could have held her like that all night. Guardian angel, she had called him, and it melted his heart completely.
It would have been so easy for her to have become hard and bitter. The past had not been kind to her, and if she had come to see the world through jaundiced eyes, who could have blamed her? But she had chosen a different path, and she had come through the fire a stronger person, one who still was capable of love, and compassion, and trust. And he realized as he ran his fingers through her soft hair, feeling her hand clinging to his knee, that he loved her for it.
It made him stop breathing for a second as it sank in.
He had been with Lani for so long that he had stopped asking himself if he was really happy. He'd learned to ignore all the little things about her that irritated him, the things that reminded him how different they were instead of pulling them closer. But these few hours that he'd spent with Jazz had been so completely easy. It was no effort at all to be with her, to listen to her melodic voice, so soothing to his soul, to spend time with her without wishing he were somewhere else. She treated him with such care, so considerate of his feelings, and asked almost nothing in return.
All his memories of her had centered around the shy little girl who always seemed to need his help, and they had frozen there at the moment when she disappeared. There had been nothing to replace them, so he had still carried the picture of her at thirteen in his mind. But now, right in front of him, was this young, beautiful woman, one who left him breathless, who looked up at him through those same haunting crystal blue eyes. The confusion was tying him in knots.
He wanted more than anything to tell her, to pour his heart out to her right here, right now. He wanted her to know that she made him feel alive in a way that he hadn't in so long, and to know that he would always be there for her, in every way she could ever want. He wanted her.
But he knew he had to hold it inside. He knew that for her, he was a big brother, a friend who had protected and defended her, but nothing more. He had seen it in the nonchalance in her voice when he took her hand on the beach, by the casual way she had invited him to spend the night on her couch. If she had felt the same things he did, her heart would have been pounding wildly, her hands trembling with a cocktail of nerves and hope, but there was no trace of it in her body, in her voice, or in her eyes.
And so he kept his silence.
****************
It seemed like a dream, because she had dreamed about it so many times. To be so close to him, to feel his hands caressing her hair--it was almost more than her heart could endure. So many sleepless nights she had spent, years ago when he was just a moment's walk away from her, reliving every word he said to her, every affectionate gesture. She had wished so hard for some miracle, some sign that she might be something more to him than a kid sister, a tagalong who always needed his help. But all along she had known better.
And when she had set out on her own, so alone and afraid, it had been the image of his face that had kept her from crying herself to sleep as she lay curled into a ball in some unfamiliar bed or on a hard, unyielding floor. He had been her anchor, the comforting memory that she could cling to when everything else had abandoned her.
Now it was no longer just a memory. He was here with her, real and warm and every wonderful thing she remembered about him. He was more than that--he was stronger, more in control of himself, and his lean, muscled body was that of a man, not a boy. The longing inside her was more powerful than anything she had ever felt. Her arms ached to fold around his neck, to bury herself in the sweet knowledge that she was with him again. To tell him that she loved him...
But it could never be that way. She knew that no matter how kind and attentive he was, in his mind she would always be Jasmine, forever klutzy, eternally in danger, perpetually awkward. He would be her friend, he had made that clear, and she knew that if she ever needed anything, he would be there in an instant to help her. But to hope for more, to think that someday he might look at her and feel that agonizing ecstasy that had burned inside her for him, was nothing but a dream, and she had learned the hard way that dreams don't come true.
And so she kept her silence.
**************************
The apartment was quiet, save for the ticking of the Big Ben alarm clock on Jazz's nightstand. She had tried for an hour to fall asleep, but her senses were on overdrive, and the adrenaline coursing through her body seemed to have a ten year half-life. Her ears were picking up every sound--the rustle of blankets, a soft cough, a tiny creak as he turned over. She almost thought she could even hear the slow, steady beating of his heart.
Willing her eyes closed again (she wasn't sure how they kept popping open), she pushed her pillow into a more comfortable shape and wrapped her arms underneath it. The night was proving to be very long.
It seemed she had just fallen asleep when the alarm clanged loudly. She grabbed frantically at its brass casing, and fumbled for the 'off' button, hoping it hadn't woken him. On tiptoe, she ducked into the bathroom, showered and dressed quietly, and gathered her camera bag and purse.
She carried her shoes so she wouldn't make noise going down the hall, and when she reached the living room, he was sleeping peacefully on his side, arm tucked under his head. It might be the last time she saw him for a while, but she couldn't bring herself to wake him to say goodbye. But before she let herself out, she leaned over and pressed her lips very, very gently to his forehead.
"'Bye, Billie Joe," she whispered softly. "And thank you."
**************************
She was gone when he awoke a couple of hours later. He could tell by the angle of the sun, before he even consulted his watch, that she was already hard at work in the darkroom, his image being conjured out of pans of developer and stop and fixer, and hung by clothespins on a string tacked to the wall. He wondered, when she examined the shots she had taken, if she would notice his eyes, how they had been drawn to her every movement, her faintest expression.
There had been the promise of coffee, and the smell had filled every corner of the tiny apartment. He shuffled barefoot down the hall, searching through cabinets and drawers until he found cups and a spoon. Then he returned to the living room, and sat down in the recliner, taking with him the picture of her from Vegas.
Two girls and two guys were posing with her, and they all wore carefree smiles--all except one. The girl with the streak of platinum in her dark curls had obediently lifted the corners of her mouth, but her eyes told a different story, a melancholy vignette, like a tintype of people long dead and forgotten.
He finished the coffee, and washed and dried his cup. He supposed it was time to face the music back in Albany, and make some practical decisions. It wouldn't be pleasant, he was sure of that, but it had to be done. At the least, he was certain now beyond any doubt that it was the right thing to do.
Suitcase in hand, he looked around to make sure he had left her apartment as neat as he had found it. Lying beside the telephone on the end table was a notepad and pen, and on impulse, he picked it up and began to write.
"Hey Jazz~
Thanks so much for the hospitality. The couch is really comfy, and you make a hell of a cup of coffee.
I hope I'll see you again, very soon. I can't begin to tell you what last night meant to me.
Keep smiling,
BJ
He left the note on her pillow, and hoped it would be the last thing she thought of before she fell asleep. Maybe it would chase the nightmares away.
It would have been so easy for her to have become hard and bitter. The past had not been kind to her, and if she had come to see the world through jaundiced eyes, who could have blamed her? But she had chosen a different path, and she had come through the fire a stronger person, one who still was capable of love, and compassion, and trust. And he realized as he ran his fingers through her soft hair, feeling her hand clinging to his knee, that he loved her for it.
It made him stop breathing for a second as it sank in.
He had been with Lani for so long that he had stopped asking himself if he was really happy. He'd learned to ignore all the little things about her that irritated him, the things that reminded him how different they were instead of pulling them closer. But these few hours that he'd spent with Jazz had been so completely easy. It was no effort at all to be with her, to listen to her melodic voice, so soothing to his soul, to spend time with her without wishing he were somewhere else. She treated him with such care, so considerate of his feelings, and asked almost nothing in return.
All his memories of her had centered around the shy little girl who always seemed to need his help, and they had frozen there at the moment when she disappeared. There had been nothing to replace them, so he had still carried the picture of her at thirteen in his mind. But now, right in front of him, was this young, beautiful woman, one who left him breathless, who looked up at him through those same haunting crystal blue eyes. The confusion was tying him in knots.
He wanted more than anything to tell her, to pour his heart out to her right here, right now. He wanted her to know that she made him feel alive in a way that he hadn't in so long, and to know that he would always be there for her, in every way she could ever want. He wanted her.
But he knew he had to hold it inside. He knew that for her, he was a big brother, a friend who had protected and defended her, but nothing more. He had seen it in the nonchalance in her voice when he took her hand on the beach, by the casual way she had invited him to spend the night on her couch. If she had felt the same things he did, her heart would have been pounding wildly, her hands trembling with a cocktail of nerves and hope, but there was no trace of it in her body, in her voice, or in her eyes.
And so he kept his silence.
****************
It seemed like a dream, because she had dreamed about it so many times. To be so close to him, to feel his hands caressing her hair--it was almost more than her heart could endure. So many sleepless nights she had spent, years ago when he was just a moment's walk away from her, reliving every word he said to her, every affectionate gesture. She had wished so hard for some miracle, some sign that she might be something more to him than a kid sister, a tagalong who always needed his help. But all along she had known better.
And when she had set out on her own, so alone and afraid, it had been the image of his face that had kept her from crying herself to sleep as she lay curled into a ball in some unfamiliar bed or on a hard, unyielding floor. He had been her anchor, the comforting memory that she could cling to when everything else had abandoned her.
Now it was no longer just a memory. He was here with her, real and warm and every wonderful thing she remembered about him. He was more than that--he was stronger, more in control of himself, and his lean, muscled body was that of a man, not a boy. The longing inside her was more powerful than anything she had ever felt. Her arms ached to fold around his neck, to bury herself in the sweet knowledge that she was with him again. To tell him that she loved him...
But it could never be that way. She knew that no matter how kind and attentive he was, in his mind she would always be Jasmine, forever klutzy, eternally in danger, perpetually awkward. He would be her friend, he had made that clear, and she knew that if she ever needed anything, he would be there in an instant to help her. But to hope for more, to think that someday he might look at her and feel that agonizing ecstasy that had burned inside her for him, was nothing but a dream, and she had learned the hard way that dreams don't come true.
And so she kept her silence.
**************************
The apartment was quiet, save for the ticking of the Big Ben alarm clock on Jazz's nightstand. She had tried for an hour to fall asleep, but her senses were on overdrive, and the adrenaline coursing through her body seemed to have a ten year half-life. Her ears were picking up every sound--the rustle of blankets, a soft cough, a tiny creak as he turned over. She almost thought she could even hear the slow, steady beating of his heart.
Willing her eyes closed again (she wasn't sure how they kept popping open), she pushed her pillow into a more comfortable shape and wrapped her arms underneath it. The night was proving to be very long.
It seemed she had just fallen asleep when the alarm clanged loudly. She grabbed frantically at its brass casing, and fumbled for the 'off' button, hoping it hadn't woken him. On tiptoe, she ducked into the bathroom, showered and dressed quietly, and gathered her camera bag and purse.
She carried her shoes so she wouldn't make noise going down the hall, and when she reached the living room, he was sleeping peacefully on his side, arm tucked under his head. It might be the last time she saw him for a while, but she couldn't bring herself to wake him to say goodbye. But before she let herself out, she leaned over and pressed her lips very, very gently to his forehead.
"'Bye, Billie Joe," she whispered softly. "And thank you."
**************************
She was gone when he awoke a couple of hours later. He could tell by the angle of the sun, before he even consulted his watch, that she was already hard at work in the darkroom, his image being conjured out of pans of developer and stop and fixer, and hung by clothespins on a string tacked to the wall. He wondered, when she examined the shots she had taken, if she would notice his eyes, how they had been drawn to her every movement, her faintest expression.
There had been the promise of coffee, and the smell had filled every corner of the tiny apartment. He shuffled barefoot down the hall, searching through cabinets and drawers until he found cups and a spoon. Then he returned to the living room, and sat down in the recliner, taking with him the picture of her from Vegas.
Two girls and two guys were posing with her, and they all wore carefree smiles--all except one. The girl with the streak of platinum in her dark curls had obediently lifted the corners of her mouth, but her eyes told a different story, a melancholy vignette, like a tintype of people long dead and forgotten.
He finished the coffee, and washed and dried his cup. He supposed it was time to face the music back in Albany, and make some practical decisions. It wouldn't be pleasant, he was sure of that, but it had to be done. At the least, he was certain now beyond any doubt that it was the right thing to do.
Suitcase in hand, he looked around to make sure he had left her apartment as neat as he had found it. Lying beside the telephone on the end table was a notepad and pen, and on impulse, he picked it up and began to write.
"Hey Jazz~
Thanks so much for the hospitality. The couch is really comfy, and you make a hell of a cup of coffee.
I hope I'll see you again, very soon. I can't begin to tell you what last night meant to me.
Keep smiling,
BJ
He left the note on her pillow, and hoped it would be the last thing she thought of before she fell asleep. Maybe it would chase the nightmares away.