Page 6 of It’s You

He’s busy, she reasoned. He’s settling into a new school, working, studying, meeting new people.

The idea that he could meet and fall for a college girl occurred to Darcy, even edged in on her chipper attitude at times, but mostly she was sure that they had shared something special.

Something perfect. That kiss, she reasoned, had to have meant as much to him as it did to her.

She had seen his face, and she knew it hadn’t been meaningless, which somehow assured her that she’d hear from him again.

Weeks turned into months, and she held on to waning hope as her daydreams modified.

She prayed she’d catch a glimpse of him when he came home from college for Thanksgiving break.

She’d run an errand for her mom to the store, and there he’d be, ordering a cup of coffee at the Dunkin Donuts kiosk, tan from sunny days studying outdoors.

He’d apologize instantly, explaining that his feelings for her were so strong he didn’t want to risk being distracted by her at school by calling or writing.

But now that he was home, could they spend his whole break together?

She’d be mad at first, but forgive him quickly, and they’d spend the long weekend going to the movies and out to dinner and for walks in the frosty woods holding hands, and she would touch his face whenever she wanted to, and, and, and…

Her fantasy came crashing down around her a week before Thanksgiving. It was Willow who told her.

“Remember Jack Beauloup?”

At the mention of his name, Darcy’s face flushed with happiness, and she beamed at her friend. “Of course!”

Willow had cringed before continuing. “Okay. Brace yourself. I just heard through the grapevine from one of his sister’s friends…the family moved back to Canada.”

It was like Willow had smacked her face with maximum force, making her bite down with the force of the blow. Willow hadn’t touched her, of course, but Darcy tasted the warm, metallic ooze of her bleeding tongue. “Moved?”

Willow nodded sympathetically, her eyes searching Darcy’s face, wincing as she realized the full weight of this news for her friend. “So, I guess he won’t be back…”

Darcy’s eyes had filled with burning tears, and the purse on her shoulder slid to the ground with a final thud at her feet.

Willow snatched up the bag, grabbed Darcy’s arm, and pulled her into the girls’ room with a curt “Get out!” to the freshman girls primping in the only mirror. They scrambled out the door as she pulled Darcy against her, and Darcy’s tears had fallen freely on Willow’s shoulder.

If there had been any ambiguity about the intensity of her feelings, everything was clear in an instant, and Darcy knew just how deep and real her feelings for Jack were.

Because Willow’s news wasn’t a that’s too bad sort of situation for sixteen-year-old Darcy.

It felt devastating. It felt like glass shattering into a million pieces that could never, ever be put back together. It felt like a death.

She sobbed on Willow’s shoulder, barely able to process the pain of her broken dreams, the embarrassing strength of her unreturned feelings. After months of daydreaming, she was finally forced to admit that a kiss that meant everything to one person could very well mean nothing to another.

Standing there in the girls’ bathroom that smelled of disinfectant and coconut lip gloss, she wept, clenching her eyes shut against the agony she felt. The final thought in her mind before it happened was as solid as granite. I don’t belong to you, after all, and you don’t belong to me.

A split second later was the first time she ever went inside.

Grateful that she was the kind of girl who never went anywhere without a set of decent hiking boots, and totally apathetic about the fact that she was headed for a walk in the woods in a Sunset Dream bridesmaid dress, Darcy shut the trunk of her Land Rover and leaned against the back bumper, bending down to lace up the sturdy boots.

They were caked with mud from forages made during the winter thaw, but she wasn’t the sort of person who let a little mud get in her way.

“You’re getting your dress dirty.”

She looked up and saw Jack gesturing to the dried mud that virtually covered the lower half of her car where she leaned to put on her shoes.

“Guess I’ll have to stand in the back for the photos.”

“Headed somewhere?”

She nodded, still pulling the laces tightly on the second boot.

“Woods, by any chance?”

She looked up at him and huffed, “What’s with the third degree?”

He shrugged. “I like a walk in the woods.”

“Then you should take one sometime.” She stood up straight and put her hands on her hips.

She knew full and well how ridiculous she must look: strawberry-blonde flyaway hair falling precariously from its tenuous up-do, melon-colored cardigan lumpy from the taffeta bodice underneath, not to mention the Technicolor skirt, tan pantyhose (Honoria insisted), thick wool socks, and mud-caked, beat-up leather hiking boots.

But, she reminded herself, this isn’t someone who cares about you, Darcy. This isn’t someone you have to impress.

He was staring at her face, not her ludicrous ensemble. Her face.

I did care. I do.

You left!

I had to.

She stared back at him, one question that needed to be answered before anything else. Am I going crazy, or are we in each other’s heads?

“I had to,” he repeated in a whisper, his eyes crackling with urgency.

She sucked in her breath, holding it, then stumbled back from him, almost immediately hitting the bumper of her car with the dress bustle, trapped between Jack and the car, unable to look away from him.

Impossible! This is impossible.

It should be, but it isn’t.

How?

I don’t know.

HOW?

“I. Don’t. Know,” he repeated aloud in a calm, even voice.

He wasn’t shocked. He didn’t even seem that surprised, she decided, as she searched his eyes. They ignited with a whoosh under her scrutiny, like a gas valve being twisted to turn on a BBQ grill. In a moment, they were blazing copper.

He looked down, away from her, and spoke softly, as he would speak to a frightened child. “Let me walk with you.”

Oh my god, what is going on? Darcy had long come to terms with her occasional daydreaming, chalking it up to an overactive imagination when she heard Jack’s voice or smelled pine needles in her head.

This was different. This was interactive.

Jack Beauloup is back. Jack Beauloup is back, and he can read my mind, and I can read his.

“Just let me walk with you.” He put out his hand, palm side up, still looking down, submissive, imploring.

“I, um…” She swallowed, her brain a jumble as she tried not to think of anything inappropriate. “I must have had too much champagne or, or…”

“It’s okay,” he said gently, softly, not looking at her, not moving.

“It’s definitely not okay,” she answered. Her eyes burned from keeping them open so wide. She blinked them quickly and felt them water. To her embarrassment, she realized she was about to cry.

“Hey, Darcy Turner,” he breathed.

His voice was deep and soft, and she had a sudden flashback to him singing “It’s You.” That boy and this man are the same person , she thought, trying to re-establish some facts actually grounded in reality .

“I promise it’ll be okay,” he said in a soothing tone. “Let’s just walk a little.”

Darcy needed to understand what the hell was going on, and without the benefit of an MRI machine at the ready to confirm that she had officially lost her mind, Jack might be her only option for answers.

“Okay,” she whispered, but she didn’t place her hand in his. She scooted to the side, moving around him, shivering as she headed toward Proctor Woods with Jack Beauloup trudging beside her. “Be warned. I have some questions for you.”

“Thought you might,” he answered. Then, “I have a jacket in my car if you’re cold.”

She snapped her head to the side to look at him. “I didn’t think that!”

“I-I know you didn’t.” He was still looking down, but she could tell he was smiling. “You shivered.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll be fine once we start moving.”

He kept pace beside her, easily matching her quick stride as they walked through the parking lot around the old white clapboard church. They followed the path through the parish rose garden, which would bloom pink and red in another couple of months. Darcy’s boots squished in the muddy ground.

“And don’t try anything. I mean it.”

That made him look up. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. I barely know you. You show up in Carlisle after twenty years, attending my cousin’s wedding with my little brother, somehow conveniently seated at my table, and for some reason, I can hear your thoughts, and you can hear mine. Want me to use my imagination? Just don’t touch me.”

“Stop walking.”

“What? Why?” She kept walking.

He spoke from behind her. “Stop walking.”

She turned around to face him.

“I’d have grabbed your arm to make you stop, but you said not to touch you.”

She nodded curtly as he caught her eyes and held them.

I would never hurt you. Never.

She swallowed.

I mean it, Darcy. It’s a sacred pledge. I would never hurt you.

She put her hands on her hips. And why exactly should I believe you, Jack?

Because.

He looked down, and when he looked up again, his eyes were on fire.

Because you belong to me. And I belong to you.