TROUVAILLE ... l.danes (REWRITE)

chapter thirteen; the past

HE MUST BE DAMNED

nineteen-eighty-five

HE'S REALLY doing this.

Oh God, he's really doing this.

The sickly rose petals dye the tips of his fingers red as he scatters them over the front garden of the pale-yellow house towering above him. Every so often he takes a few steps back just to have a better view of the words he's trying to spell out. Thank God the wind has decided to take a break today. It would be too much if he had to battle the elements as well as his twisting emotions and the nausea rising further and further up his throat. It's all too much really. Him, standing here in her garden, surrounded by rose petals that he can't stand the smell of, waiting for her to take notice from her bedroom window.

She's probably too busy studying to even stop for coffee, let alone bother with the boy standing outside trying to get her attention.

Lucas, with the perfectly arranged rose petals sprinkled behind him, works up enough courage to climb the three steps up onto the cream-coloured porch. The wood is splintering beneath his feet, but he barely registers the creaking slats, much too concerned with the wild beating of his heart. Shell-ey. Shell-ey. Shell-ey. He raises his fist, hesitates, and focuses on the bruise blossoming over his thumb. When did he manage that? Helping Fran Weston hang up some stupid painting done by her youngest grandchild? God, of course, he hit himself with the hammer. He's spent all day thinking about this. Only thinking about this. Unable to think about anything but these rose petals behind him.

He knocks. The wood could split apart his knuckles if he knocked hard enough. He'd let it, just to feel anything but the churning of his stomach as he waits. And waits. And waits. Her parents aren't home. He knows that because he'd bought the roses off of Auntie Pam and he'd passed Marlon helping Pastor Littlewood out of the practice. It's just Shelley, who he's desperately waiting to swing open this front door before he loses all confidence and promptly shits himself. He might run away first. Less embarrassing that way.

The door swings open, the hinges squeaking. He should fix that for them. His Dad is always getting him to fix stuff around the house for the St James'. Like a family tradition that will never be broken.

Shelley stands in the doorway, wearing mismatched socks on her feet and her hair starting to fall out of the braid she must have thrown it into in an attempt to keep it out of her eyes. One of her hands is wrapped around the door handle, the other on her hip. And those eyes, like the dying leaves of a tree, burn through his own until it takes every part of himself to keep his gaze from moving away.

"What are you..." Her eyes catch sight of the rose petals behind him and her question trails off, offering a million more that she can't quite piece together as her eyebrows start to draw downwards into what seems to be the frown reserved only for him. He must be damned because even his heart does a little jump at that thought. "Lucas, what have you done to my Mom's lawn?"

He lets his head swivel around to the perfectly crafted petals torn from their home before twisting it back towards her, trying to keep his smile as innocent as possible. If only he could see how nervous it came across instead. He gestures for her to stand out on the porch as he takes his place right in the middle of the strewn bouquet, arms thrown out wide as soon as she takes her place in front of the porch swing.