The Beautiful Truth

// 95

Much later that evening, after the mini-Parrishes retired for the night, Taryn and Terry herding them across the street like baby ducks, and Jason Mandrino had gone home to get some rest before his epic golf match in the morning, and my dad had gone back to furiously typing in his office, I was loading the dishwasher, and Talyn was sprawled on my couch, flipping pages of my script periodically while the Cardinals played the late innings of the night's game in St. Louis.

I started the dishes, made myself a glass of water, and went to join him in the living room.

I couldn't tell if he did it because of something he read, or because he saw me sit down in his periphery; he didn't look up from the pages, but he smiled.

It wasn't one of those megawatt Hollywood grins, and it wasn't one of his fake-bashful smiles. It was just a brief, one-second, close-lipped smile of contentment.

I turned back to the game. It felt good to relax.

It was true and undeniable—I still missed Barton Black. Even after two and a half months of radio silence, I missed him all the same. But, looking at Talyn, I tried not to think about it.

Having played Doris Day on the way back from the airport almost killed me. It had been a while since I'd listened to any kind of music—let alone anything that so vividly reminded me of...him. But I didn't want Talyn to know that.

Some nights, despite the time and distance and other girl, I could still barely hold myself together. Those last few weeks at Cal were, yes, therapeutic.

I saw him with someone else. He'd moved on. It was time for me to do the same. Clearly, he didn't love me anymore. And while I had so many other things to think about—writing, studying, Micki, schedules and housing assignments for next year, surfing, tutoring—I'd been OK.

But at home, I had far less to entertain my thoughts, and I felt hopelessly alone. I didn't want anyone to know—I put on a happy face for Jason, and Micki, and my dad, even though I'm sure at least he could tell I was mostly acting.

That's not to say I wasn't happy at all. It was summer. I'd just finished my first year of college at my dream school. I was home with my dad. I could go to the pool every day. Micki was doing great and I knew I had a lot to look forward to.

So many of my life's more omnipresent questions had been answered in the last year. I'd experienced so many incredible things...and that was the Catch 22. It all came back around to Barton Black.

But then there was Talyn. So forgiving and understanding that despite the longest hiatus of communication in the history of our friendship, he was still lying here on my living room couch, having rarely left my side since I met him at the airport.

"I don't deserve you," I sighed, watching him read.

He didn't react at first, and I almost wondered if I hadn't said it out loud. I wasn't sure I'd meant to.

But, he finally put down the page he was reading and looked at me with worried eyes. "Don't ever say that again."

I opened my mouth to protest—to contradict him, but he cut me off.

"Sawyer, nothing you could do or say is ever going to make me stop...loving you. Nothing. OK?"

I just stared at him blankly.

"You are my best friend," he added, looking at me like he couldn't understand why I seemed unable to get it.

"And you're my best friend," I assured him. "I'll always love you, too," I admitted.

Talyn winced, although it was barely perceptible and I was certain he hadn't meant to do it.

It tugged on my heart, nonetheless. I was being cruel again. I would always love him, but being in love with him was an entirely different matter. It was quite possible that Talyn was still in love, I supposed.

I was still getting over Barton, sure, but the most frustrating part of all this was that I knew it would be easy to fall in love with Talyn, too. And maybe I already was. But my heart couldn't handle that right now, so I tried not to let it show.

I hoped against hope that we'd have to figure this out right away. Talyn was better at facing his feelings than I was. Patience, I tried advising him telepathically. I knew I was capable of loving him the way he loved me. But it would take some time.

Talyn finally gave me a sideways smirk and we were back to normal.

"This," he held up the remaining pages of unread screenplay and waved them at me, "is incredible. When you get nominated for an Oscar, I better get a shout-out from the red carpet."

I scoffed. "I'll do you one better. I'll thank you when I win."

Talyn grinned, and went back to reading.

After our final class of the year, Dr. Bovich and I had met one last time, despite having missed my regularly scheduled independent study session. It was more just to say our goodbyes and so I could reiterate my appreciation.

Dr. Bovich, though, had offered to get me an internship with just about any magazine or publishing house in San Francisco. I was astonished, and slightly overwhelmed, but I'd politely declined. I was, I'd told him, going home for the summer.

As I drifted off to sleep in the recliner next to Talyn's space on the couch, Cardinals winning in the background of my awareness, I couldn't imagine being anywhere else.