CHAPTER SIX- Confusion and Courage
He read the note before he did anything else, exhausted and filthy though he was.
At Connor's for assignments. Will return as soon as possible, don't wait up. Love, Gen.
It would have been perfectly feasible, and Rob wasn't conceited enough to try and claim he'd have disbelieved it on any other day.
But on any other day, Drake Mallory wouldn't have been driving down their street, and on any other day, Rob probably wouldn't have noticed that Connor was still at the school, printing up the Herald. But he'd somehow learned to pay attention who was lurking around that newsroom.
Too bad Lucia Lovejoy wasn't there, lurking around the newsroom instead of jumping into traffic and nearly scaring the-
Gen. Think about Gen. You can't let her go off with some guy, the last time that happened, she-
Rob stood in the middle of the kitchen with a glass of water in his hand, his brow furrowed. Where in the hell had that come from? He was starting to sound like Lucia. There had been no last time, but deep in his mind, there was a hiss like that of a snake, and rocks falling-
The glass slipped from his hand, luckily settling on the counter with a sharp smack instead of shattering. Though he hadn't made a mess of his glass, Rob's stomach was still tied in knots, worry swamping him.
He'd deal with his sister when she came home.
He barely ate the food his mum had left heating on a plate in the oven, his mind divided between Genevieve in that green car and Lucia nearly stepping in front of it.
For a moment, he hadn't thought of the article she was writing, but had thought of her. He'd be a bloody liar if he claimed anyone else-article or no-had given him that sort of attention, had lavished that much time on him. It seemed the other members of his family had gotten plenty of attention, athletically or academically, and Genevieve was the only girl, so she'd had her own little fame.
But Rob had always felt his attention lay in notoriety, in mistakes made and disappointments.
Thinking such, it wasn't at all difficult for him to imagine the worst of the attention he was getting now. All he wanted-or at least all he told himself he wanted-was to play football and go home. But now that he was home, he was lonely, worried, bothered, a score of things that had nothing to do with football.
Now the lost game was a million miles from his mind.
He took a long shower, letting the hot water taper to warm as it sluiced mud down the drain, letting the warm water taper to cold as he stood in it, hands braced on the wall, blowing the cooling spray from his mouth, his head ducked down, hair in his eyes as the water ran down his back, over his chest, and he let his muscles relax and his thoughts wander.
And wander they did; though he knew, dimly, he should be trying to figure out where in the hell his sister had gone and why she'd lied about it, flashes of sensation niggled at his mind, flashes of Lucia. The sharp intake of her breath as he'd pulled her back against him, a gasp-the soft swell of the underside of her breast pressed against the top of his hand as he thoughtlessly placed his hand wherever he could to pull her to safety-the rapid pace of her heart-
Rob's eyes flew open, water stinging them, and he slapped at the tap, turning off the water. He was half-hard, damn it all, just thinking of it. Thinking of her. He wouldn't do it, by God, wouldn't give into her funny little mind games and her weird little bewitching ways. She was driving him crazy on purpose, dammit, and he refused to give into it.
He stood in the shower, listening to its incessant drip-had he told his mum he'd fix it, or had his dad said that?-pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, wondering if perhaps he was going completely mad.
~~~
She was having a difficult time writing.
That was a first for her, a record, even. She'd never had trouble with words, not since she'd first wielded a castoff pencil stub of her father's.
I have lost my journalistic integrity, she wrote on the paper in front of her, composing longhand as she always did. Her father had taught her to write whatever came to mind when she was at a loss for words, but she'd never been so sorely lacking before.
I cannot write with any amount of objectivity on the subject of Robert Wesley.
He is brave, somehow, in ways I cannot quite see, brave in actions I have never witnessed.
She paused, the pen stuttering over the page. What on earth was that supposed to mean?
"Keep writing, Lovey," she said quietly, catching her tongue between her teeth in concentration.
He doubts himself though he has no reason to, and he blames himself when there is no blame to be had. He counts himself the least among his peers and things they count him the least among them.
Her heart wrenched for the truth of it, the simple truth of it, and she laid her pen down.
What was the purpose of this assignment, really?
She'd lost sight of it.
Lucia crawled into her bed, leaving her pen uncapped and her paper laid out. She could work on it over the weekend, if she needed.
For now, she needed sleep. She needed sanity. She needed respite from the confusion. Never before had something-or more specifically, someone-come between her and her words.
Never before had writing taken second place.
But as she restlessly braided the ends of her hair and stared at her ceiling, Lucia knew she'd much rather have Rob than have the story, and it worried her greatly.
~~~
He dozed a few times; he knew he must have. Every time he awoke, he checked the clock. Homework at nine at night seemed unbelievable. At ten it seemed laughable, and at half eleven it seemed downright insane.
At twelve in the a.m.-the next day, he noted grimly, now a Saturday and she still wasn't home-he heard the blare of a horn, someone shouting, an engine throttled back to a low, somehow threatening purr, and he tensed.
Slapping footsteps made their way up the walk, the doorknob turned, and his sister slunk in the door. His eyes already accustomed to the dark, Rob could see her all too clearly, her hair hanging in wet ropes around her face, her feet bare. For a moment he thought she was sporting two black eyes, and he nearly choked on his own rage, but the iota of rationale he had left reasoned that it was makeup on her face, not bruises.
And then she peeled off that ratty, much-loved sweater and he lost it.
Genevieve was wearing next to bloody nothing, and the fact was made worse still by the knowledge she'd been out with Mallory.
She would walk right past him, he knew, if he did nothing, so he stood and stopped her by placing his hands on her shoulders and shaking, his fear manifesting itself physically. "What in the bloody hell are you doing?!" he hissed, uncomfortable with her state of undress. He looked her over once more just to prove his point-
And saw a love bite standing out on her neck in sharp relief against the trademark paleness of her skin. Fucking Mallory, Rob thought, and he felt his face turn red, the scalp under his hair burning hot. "I'm going to kill that bastard, even if I have to spill his blue blood to do it." He set her aside and headed for the door, ready to run all the way to the Mallory fuckin' mansion if he had to do it, ready to use Mallory's head as a football, ready to take every bit of the last few weeks' frustration out on the albino arse.
She spoke quietly, and he nearly didn't hear her through the roar of blood in his ears. How many young women would he see misstep tonight? "Rob, no," she said. "Please."
Rob stopped with his long-fingered hand on the doorknob, his shoulders drooping a little. What had he missed, what mistake had he made, that allowed his sister to stick up for Drake Mallory?
"It's nothing, Rob. I'm a big girl, you know, if I'd not wanted to go out, I'd not have gone."
He turned because he couldn't think of a reason not to, needing to see her face, to see the eyes that went with this plea, and he put his hand to her chin, wanting to make an affectionate remark, wanting to hug his sister and tell her to go put on something warm, but he found himself moving her head and looking pointedly at the hickey on her neck. "Nothing, eh?" His voice grew thick and he forced himself to continue speaking, already cursing himself. He'd seen it coming, hadn't he, and had done nothing about it. "Did he hurt you? Did he threaten you?" His mind swam with possibilities of drugs, of force, of coercion of all kinds.
She jerked away from him, stinging them both. "No! Listen to me, Rob! I wanted to go. I have a life, too, you know."
"Well, yeah, but not like that. Not with him. This is totally unlike you, Gen. You skive off classes all day, then you leave at night and lie about it." And was that jealousy he was feeling? That she had the nerve to go out and do her own thing and he was still hiding behind a football and the dumb jock exterior?
"If I hadn't, Mum would have had kittens," Gen said, and he couldn't help but smirk at that. It was true, so very true, and well they both knew it. "Oh, God, Rob, you didn't tell her, did you?"
He winced and wished he'd thought of it. But such betrayal wasn't in him. "No. But by God, Gen, I should," he answered, shrugging his shoulders and eyeing her warily. Insanity. Absolute insanity reigned all around him, and he was just watching it all pass by. The day couldn't be any weirder, truly. He'd lost a game, his sister had lied to him, he'd nearly kissed Lovejoy…
Strike that last one, he thought as his face turned red again as the thoughts he'd been having in the loo returned with a vengeance.
"Oh, right. Just as I should tell her about that time you and that blighter from one of the other football teams got pissed one night on his mum's cooking sherry," Gen said, and the memory gave him something to latch onto other than the discomfiting thought of Lovejoy pressed up against him in the shower.
Fuck.
Gen kissed him on the cheek, and he thanked heavens for the dark of the room. If she could see his blush, she'd certainly ask him what was going on. "I love you, Rob," she said sincerely. "Can't you just trust me on this? He's not all bad, you know."
Their expressions were nearly identical, surprised gapes and wide eyes, and then Gen streaked up the stairs, leaving Rob by himself, his anger burned away, leaving more mystification and the helplessness to do anything but follow suit and go to bed.
When he fell asleep hours later, his sleep was made restless by thoughts of a train, by a willowy blonde with some sort of stick behind her ear, holding a newspaper the wrong way and sneaking covert glances at him.
~~~
It felt like something was missing.
He passed the ball and made his way down the line, the familiar drill now nearly boring. He'd have to think of new ones, he knew, if the team were ever to make any sort of progress at all.
Saturday was their lazy day, their leisurely day, and no matter how much Rob wanted to give them a pounding for their loss last night, he wouldn't do it. These days were nearly sacred to the team.
As they started a pick-up game among themselves, each man playing a position he didn't ordinarily play, Rob realized what was missing.
There was no one in the stands, not even a lone young woman with big eyes and long hair.
It made him melancholy, somehow, when paired with the disconcerting dreams he'd had the evening before. Even his sister had found something (he refused to say someone), and yet he persisted in pushing everyone away.
He showered quickly when they were finished, not entirely at ease with his teammates. He didn't know how they'd ever named him captain, and oftentimes he concluded it must have been a jest, and a grand one at that. They'd kept it up for such a long time, after all.
"See y'on Monday, mates," he called, throwing a wave back at them with a little more friendliness than he usually risked.
Two of the players exchanged surprised looks. Rob Wesley so rarely brought himself down to their level that they nearly didn't answer him back, nearly couldn't think of anything to say. But one of the older players swatted the two underclassmen on their backs and grinned at Rob.
"It rained all last night, Wesley, try not to dirty your skirts on the way home."
He was nearly insulted, already felt the flush working its way up from his toes, but then he chastised himself. Just a jest, that's all. Just taking the mickey out a bit… "No worries. I borrowed your petticoats from your locker."
He smiled to himself, pleased as he walked out the door, and instead of heading toward his house, he headed east, thinking perhaps it was a day for change.
He wouldn't be confused anymore. He'd clear things up and move on with his life with just a little more confidence.
~~~
She hadn't finished an article, Lucia thought, but she had completed what she considered quite a lovely little sketch at the bottom of her page. It wasn't art, by any means, but it was a reasonable likeness. She'd even managed to give him freckles that didn't look like he'd come down with a horrifying case of pox.
She scowled at the paper, listening to her father's ancient typewriter in the next room, and judged herself only millimeters away from repeatedly writing Lucia Wesley over and over again.
And when the knock on the door came, she was seriously trying to talk herself out of doing just that. When had she ever indulged herself in a little childishness, after all?
Well, never, that's when.
Knowing her father wouldn't answer the door even if someone had knocked right on his head, she pushed away from her desk and turned the knob without looking to see who stood on the stoop. If her father had been a bit more present-and of course, he wasn't-he'd have told her to check.
But the tapping (bloody Poe's raven in there, she thought) persisted and she swung the door wide. Any greeting she may have had ready died on her lips and she simply said "Oh."
She hadn't even known he knew where she lived, much less would have cared enough to recall it. His hair was damp and curling just above his ears, and the white button-up he wore was rumpled, a handmade jumper slung over one arm.
And he was smiling at her.
It threw her off balance, and she stumbled back into the foyer before she really could think of anything to say.
"I suppose that means I can come in?" She seemed softer here, somehow, less threatening. And on the retreat-well, that he could understand. He saw her giving ground and immediately thought in terms of
Quidditch?
Football, his mind supplied, tracking over the odd word without so much as a real skip.
"I'm not really used to having guests," Lucia stuttered, nearly groaning and closing her eyes. Why couldn't she say something else? Why couldn't she think, dammit?
He was stealing her words, one by one, and she didn't know what she thought of that.
He gave her a lopsided grin, looking around the house and its dark, heavy furnishings. It was a man's house, definitely, and he dimly recalled knowing her mother had passed away years before.
"I won't stay long," he said, looking with awe at the framed newspapers on the walls, some centuries old, some fairly recent. "I actually came by to ask you a question." He walked aimlessly, forgetting his manners as he scanned the headlines. "Those are absolutely wicked," he said, never thinking newspapers would look appealing. But it was definitely an alternative to all the flowery prints his mum preferred.
"Thank you," she said, growing more befuddled with every passing moment.
And then he stepped into the room which had once been her parents' room, converted into a study for her when her father had no longer been able to sleep in a room full of memories and Lucia had no longer been able to fit at the cramped corner of her father's desk.
There was absolutely no time for her to get across the room and move the papers without him seeing them, without him seeing the sketch of himself, the odd, incomprehensible things she'd written.
Now that he was here, Rob was trying to work up the nerve to just out and ask her what, exactly, was going on in her head. It was more than an article, that he knew. And while he was at it, he figured he could muster an apology for the way he'd behaved.
And then the courage he'd gathered, the forthright, apologetic speech slipped from his lips as he looked at the desk covered with papers and saw himself.