I'll Be Here

another.  A date.  With Alex Faber.
    Ack! 
    Nervously looking forward, I wait for Alex to round the car to the driver side and slip into his seat.  He turns the ignition and backs out of the driveway, making a northbound turn out of my neighborhood.  I’m so full of electricity right now that I think I could power a small appliance.  I wonder if Alex feels it too. 
    Cautiously, I cut a glance to my left and catch him looking back at me.  We both smile shyly. 
                “So…” he says biting on his lip.
                “So…”  I answer biting my own lip.
                 We laugh.  It’s timorous but softens the tense line between us and we begin again—hesitantly, but better this time. 
    By the time Alex parks the car and we are walking in the direction of the movie theater, we have fallen into something resembling a comfortable banter.  As we round the corner his elbow touches my arm and I wonder what it would feel like to hold his hand but I quickly quash that idea.  I am not going to be the one who makes a move tonight.  At least that much I’m certain of.
    We step, carefully avoiding the shallow rain puddles that mottle the sidewalk.  It rained earlier and the familiar musky aroma of freshly washed world whorls around us. 
    I look at Alex in profile.  He’s fallen quiet and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about.  I don’t have to wait in suspense for long.
                “You didn’t tell your mom that I was coming to pick you up,” he says matter-of-factly.
                I wasn’t expecting him to bring up my mother and I’m momentarily thrown.  “No, I didn’t.”
                “Why not?”
                There’s something in Alex’s voice that forces me to stop walking and look at him. 
    He is nibbling on his lip and I wonder if he is worried that I was embarrassed to be going out with him.  Nothing could be more ridiculous and I want to reassure him.  I place one hand on his forearm and he turns to me. 
    We are standing still in the middle of the sidewalk.  A man and woman pass beside us, their feet kicking up water on the rain-stained sidewalk.
    “Alex, my mom and I…”  I trail off.  This part is hard to put into words.     
                “You were so close.”  Alex prompts.  “Before.” 
                I don’t need to ask what he means by before.  He means before the cancer, before the winter solstice debacle, before Dustin, before I stopped drawing.  Take your pick. 
    His blue eyes search mine.  I realize that I want someone to understand and I want that someone to be Alex.  So I do what everyone has been trying to get me to do for almost two years—I open up. 
    “There’s this picture of my mom and me on a side table in the living room,” I make a rectangle with my fingers. 
    “It’s black and white and framed the way you frame special pictures.  It’s my mom and me a few years ago and even though we don’t look anything alike, we look the same—like mother and daughter.  It’s the way we’re standing, our bodies leaning towards each other, her arms wrapped around me, our heads tilted exactly the same way, you know?”
                He nods.  I don’t know if I’m making any sense but I keep talking.
                “And people would always make comments like ‘you can tell who you belong to,’ or ‘you’re just like your mother,’ and I guess I took them as compliments.  But, when she got diagnosed with cancer I would look at that picture of us and it would feel like it was already a memory—like she’d already died and everything else was just a flashback of what happened before.  Like I was living a life that I already lived and I knew what was going to happen and I didn’t want it to hurt so much,” I sigh. 
    “I can’t explain it but it was like I grieved for her or something and when it was over I couldn’t figure out what normal was supposed to be like.  I couldn’t figure out who I belonged to anymore.”
                “Willow, you don’t have to belong to anyone but yourself.”
                “Wise you are indeed,” I say in a stupid imitation of Yoda.
                Alex chuckles.  He raises his pierced eyebrow and says, “You’re scared.”
                I jerk my chin up.  “Do you know the relapse rate for