February 2014 Short Story of the Month

OUR SECRET SPRING

You smile.

You smile at her, because whenever she’s around you can’t help yourself. It’s the way her hair falls around her eyes. It’s the soft dimples in her skin that appear when she smiles. Soft, milky ripples in the corner of her mouth.

“How long have you been out here?” she asks. You shrug.

“I was waiting for you,” you say simply, avoiding her question.

“How long?” she repeats.

“Not too long,” you say. “Don’t worry about it.”

She doesn’t.

##

She doesn’t have a worry in the world. That’s one of the things you love best about her. One of the things you’ve always loved and always will. She raises up out of the water, running a hand through her wet, golden hair. You’ve seen the image a hundred times, you’ll see it a hundred more. And it’s still the most beautiful thing that you’ve ever laid eyes on.

“What are you staring at?” she asks.

“You.” No point in giving her anything but an honest answer.

“Come on,” she says. “We should get back. I’m hungry.”

She dries herself off with a towel and moves without even looking back to see if you’re following. Because she knows you will. You always do.

You love her.

##

You love her smile when she tells you that you’re too slow, and you’ll never win a race moving like that.

“I never know when we’re racing,” you say.

She laughs and says, “You’re so weird.”

You don’t laugh at that.

She kisses you and says she’s going to shower so, in the meantime, you decide what to do for lunch. You nod, knowing that it doesn’t matter. You know what she doesn’t know. You know there’s no rush.  But she is kind of cute when she’s in a hurry.

In the bathroom, you hear the shower turn on. A small, satisfied moan lets you know she’s found the right temperature.

You’ve missed that noise. You’ve missed her. When she left, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. You were a mess. The thought of never seeing her again made you miserable. When you thought she was gone you wanted to lie down and die.

But—thank Heaven—she came back. She always comes back. And you love her for it.

You live.

##

You live for her, to be with her. And she lives to be with you. She must, right? Or whenever she left, it would be for good. You belong to her and she belongs to you. The way it’s supposed to be.

You still haven’t thought of anything for lunch. When you hear the shower go off, you rush to fix a couple of quick sandwiches. Extra pickles.

She comes back and you eat and talk, talk and eat. About vaguely unimportant things. Things that only matter because she says them. You love the little squeal noise she makes when she’s eating. Most people would snort. She doesn’t.

She’s never been most people.

After the meal, which she thanks you for, she asks what you want to do tonight.

“Whatever you want to do,” you say.

She rolls her eyes. Pretends to slap you on the forehead. “Enough of that, boy, learn to make a decision.”

You try.

“It’s hard, I know,” she reassures (or possibly mocks) you, “we’ll work on it together.”

You decide, together, on going to the movies. Both of you agree on the plan, the only way a plan really gets formed with you.

She kisses you on the cheek and says she has to change, admitting she doesn’t know why. It’s just what you do when you go out.

“Okay,” you say. “Go for it. I’ll be here.”

You watch her move into the bedroom. The door is left open. Because she knows it’s just the two of you and because she knows you’re watching.

And you are. You smile.

You watch.

##

You watch her undress and you feel beautiful, because she is beautiful. And it feels something like peace. For a moment.

You feel the ache, deep in your gut. No, you tell yourself, not this time. No, no, no. You pray it goes away.

Please, God, let it go away.

You don’t tell her about it. You wonder if, this time, maybe you should. You kill the thought quickly and continue watching. She exits the room, not wearing anything too fancy, just a skirt and semi-revealing blouse. And it’s not just for going out; it’s not for the crowd at the movie theater. It’s for you.

It’s for you.

It’s all for you.

This makes you feel better, so you kiss her—not a kiss on a cheek, but a long, passionate and real kiss—and hope it lasts.

The theater’s busy tonight. All the kids are lining up for something you can’t even pronounce. You wonder if she’s thinking about them. Kids. She seems delighted by their antics, smiling at each one that passes by. Fascinated by them. Something you’ve never really felt. But you’re not here for any of the movies they’re here to see. She wants to see something scary. You happily oblige, and tell her you love her one more time.

The movie hasn’t sold out yet, but the woman at the ticket booth says it will soon, so you better get your seats. You go and sit down; you say you’re going back for popcorn, because you know she doesn’t like to miss the previews.

“Okay. Hurry back.”

You promise that you will.

On the way back out to the concession stand, you see the line and decide to give it a minute, so you duck into the bathroom instead.

The ache has started to come back. You look in the mirror and tell yourself that you’re okay. Really. You’re fine.

Luckily, there aren’t too many people in here. And the people that are in here are the last ones fit to be judging you.

You think about taking a dip in the water in the morning, how maybe you’ve really wanted to ever since you got up this morning and saw her rise from it.

Sighing, taking a deep breath, you tell yourself to go to hell. For a moment, this calms the ache in your gut, and you can think about food again. You order a big, greasy popcorn and candy. Yeah, you love it but so does she. Small, delicate girl. Can’t get enough of incredibly unhealthy stuff. Another thing you love about her.

You go back in and sit down. Just missed the previews. Movie’s starting. You’re about to kiss her but she goes for the popcorn instead of you. You get a warm, buttery kiss a few moments later—after the first few handfuls.

You think.

##

You think the movie’s kind of a bust. Not too scary, not bad enough to be funny. But she—though she agrees with it—loves every minute. It’s a talent she has that you’ve just never picked up. But you envy it. You envy her, in a way. The way she won’t let something like a bad movie turn her night into a waste. She’s able to turn every situation around. She won’t let anything get in the way of life. She’s too busy living it.

She’s living, and what are you doing?

You’re sitting here and watching her.

It hits you again that you’re kind of jealous of her. The ache is so strong now you almost can’t bear it. You keep thinking and none of it makes any sense. These are the very reasons you love her, because of who she is. And part of you hates her for them. She’s not letting anything turn into a waste. You can’t say the same. All you do with your life is waste it and here she is doing the opposite and rubbing it in your face. And you could do the same if you really wanted to and—no that’s a lie.

That’s a fucking lie.

If you were able to change it, you would have done it already. The ache is strong. And the blood is boiling. And you don’t want to, no one who’s ever loved anyone would actually, really want to.

But you have a reason.

##

You have a reason to kill her.

No.

She rests her head on your shoulder. Watching the movie and, as always, assuming you’re right there with her. You want to be. But you can feel it happening again. She’s getting distant. Leaving you.

No, you think. You promised yourself it would be different this time. And it will be. You can be whatever she needs you to be now, you know you can.

Your mind goes back to the water. The spring. To taking a dip.

Again, you tell yourself to go to hell. As always, it has less impact the second time. You’re tensing up and she’s starting to notice.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing,” you say. “Really. I’m fine.”

“It’s not the movie, is it?”

“No,” you say. “There’s nothing the matter. I’m fine.”

You lie.

##

You lie to her. No two ways around it, you lied when—again—you should have told. Once, you made a promise never to lie to her again. That’s another lie. You’ve made that promise more than once.

Eventually, the movie ends. You don’t remember it. But you were afraid in there, so the movie did its job, even if it wasn’t the reason for it. You’re still afraid. But you’re good at acting like you aren’t, so she doesn’t notice. So she can shut up and you can both just go home. Relax. Sleep together—oh, you’ve missed that—and maybe even have a little late night swim in the spring.

You don’t tell yourself to go to hell this time. The car’s already pulled out of the parking lot, made a turn back home. You’re already halfway there.

As you look out the window, you tell yourself that it can still be okay. That you can still work everything out. This isn’t her problem and you promised it wouldn’t happen again. But you’re not the one leaving, are you? You’re not going anywhere. She’s going to leave you all alone, just like she always does. And maybe she’ll come back, but it will only be to leave again. So what’s the point?

You hold back tears. All you want is to stop it. Just make her stay this time. You imagine being with her forever. It’s all you really want. Her. To have her and always have her. But it’s unrealistic. Everyone always leaves. But she’s different.

It’s true. You’ve known she was different from the first time you saw her. None of them ever made you feel this way. You have loved her more strongly, more passionately than you have loved anything in your entire life. But you never really knew how different it was until you found the spring.

Because all the other girls left you, no matter how much you begged them to stay.

But she’s the only one that ever came back.

Pull into the driveway, you park the car. She kisses you before you get out.

“How long has it been?” she starts to ask, coyly. “Since we, you know? In the car?”

Last night, you want to say. “I can’t remember. I think it’s been a while.” Another lie. You don’t feel as bad about this one.

She starts crawling over before you’ve even got your seatbelt off. You should have known this would happen. That all of this would happen. It’s the reason you don’t make decisions, because she always does, and they’re always exactly the same. And maybe this time, you can do something different, and she’ll stay. But she starts to unbutton your pants.

You don’t do anything different.

And when all is said, and moaned, and screamed, and done… you feel it again. You know what you’re going to do. What you have to do. Holding her with one hand, you reach for the knife in the dashboard with the other.

“Goodbye,” you whisper in her ear.

She smiles, because that’s what she does when she’s having a stupid moment and has no idea what’s going on. She smiles. God, you hate that. “What?”

“I said, never say goodbye.”

“What, like leaving you? Why would I do that? I love you.”

“I know.” You lie. You don’t tell her about all the other times, even though you could and she wouldn’t remember. She never remembers. It’s so odd, how she never remembers and the same things still happen every time. And every time she leaves. Every single time. No matter how much you want her to stay.

“Hey,” she says, “Do you want to maybe go for a late night swim? You know, in the spring?”

You do. You really, really do. “Yes.” But you don’t. You want her to stay, you’ve got her back, why would you want her to leave again? What if this time she goes away for good?

She won’t.

She can’t.

No. You don’t want her to leave. But she’s going to anyway. And if there’s one thing you’ve learned being in love with her, it’s once she’s put her mind to something, there’s no changing it. You’re just along for the ride.

You put the knife in the back pocket of your shorts. It’s a passenger on the ride too. Always has been.

She goes into the water first. You wade in after her, pulling it out of your shorts as you draw close.

She kisses you. “I love you,” she says.

“I love you too,” you say, then whisper in her ear, louder so she can understand this time, “goodbye.”

Your mouth still close to hers, you bring the blade up and smooth it out across her throat. Like buttering your toast in the morning. Only red. And dark, God, so dark. She shakes a little, but then falls limp. Into the water.

Leaving you.

Just like you knew she would. Just like she always does. And there’s no use crying over it, but you will anyway. Sobbing, you throw the knife onto the edge of the land. You look down. Her eyes are still staring up at you, from beneath the water. She’s still—barely—alive. But that’s fading. She’s made up her mind to leave you, and now she’s heading out the door.

You blow her a kiss.

And she’s gone. But it’s the beauty of this spring. Something you’ve never really understood, and probably never will. Nor did whoever must have owned this property before you, if they even discovered it.

She leaves in this water.

And she comes back in this water. Yet somehow she never remembers. Wipe your hand across your face and dry your tears. There’s nothing you can do here now. She left. And that’s all over with now and, as you know, it’s the hardest part.

All that’s left to do is go back, sit by the water, and wait for her to come back. That part… that’s your favorite.

You wait.

##

You wait until morning. Until the sun has already come up and there’s a steady bit of mist over the water. Not eerie, though. It’s actually kind of beautiful. Some mornings, it’s there. Others it’s not. Nice to have that change.

You wonder if she’s taking longer this time, even though she’s probably not. A few bubbles surface.

She rises from the water. The most beautiful image you’ve ever seen. Her hair, her dimples, her unmarked skin. Throat as white and beautiful and soft as you remember. She blinks. She looks at you.

You smile.