Some of Isa’s Blues – part Two

Chapter Four: If I Knew What Was Bothering You, I Would Run To Your Side

Isabel was trying to get caught up on her work when the summons came at her door; the events of the past few days had rattled her so much that she'd been unable to concentrate on her writing enough to finish anything that didn't sound like utter trash when she went back and reread it later. Thus she'd stationed herself at her desk, typewriter in front of her, trying to force all thoughts of Mike—and the tiny voice down deep in her heart that urged her to tell him it was all a mistake, that of course she still loved him—out of her mind.

But then came the pounding on her door, and—without thinking—she mechanically got up to answer it only to find Davy standing outside, his wide brown eyes snapping with anger, his mouth thinned into a hard line of disapproval.

"What's gotten into you?" he demanded without preamble as he stalked into the house, making a beeline for her living room.

With a resigned sigh, she followed him in there, dropping heavily onto the couch as she prepared to listen to whatever little speech he cared to deliver.

"Look, I care about you, Isabel, I really do," he said, pacing back and forth in front of her coffee table. "But I can't stand what you're doing to Mike!" He stopped pacing and fixed her with an accusatory glare. "This is tearing him apart inside! You won't see him, you won't talk to him, it's just 'get out and don't come back' and with no good reason!"

"You don't know anything about my reasons!" she retorted, feeling the first spurt of strong emotion she'd felt since her confrontation with Mike.

"Too right I don't—none of us do! He's going crackers trying to figure out what's wrong, what he's done, and none of the rest of us know what to say or do about it either because you're not talking."

"I've already said everything I have to say," she replied, avoiding his gaze.

"Well, it's not enough. What you're doing to him is torture—and from what I can see, it's not that much better on you, so what's the point? Why are you makin him and yourself suffer like this?"

"I am not suffering!" she said, a blatant lie, and she suspected he knew it. "I've made my decision and I'm not going to change my mind."

She rose shakily to her feet, drawing herself up with as much dignity as she could muster as she raised her eyes to meet his.

"Now get out," she ordered calmly, coldly. "I'm not going to explain myself to you. Or to him. It's over, and the sooner he accepts that, the better."

Davy opened his mouth as if he were going to speak again, but then he shut it with a snap, shooting her one last angry, bewildered look before walking out, slamming the front door shut behind him.

Isabel sank back down onto the couch, burying her face in her hands as she fought to steady her frazzled nerves. This was just the beginning; she had no doubt about that. She would have to steel herself against the confrontations to come, making sure there wasn't the tiniest chink in her armor that they could use to weaken her resolve.

Being alone, isolating herself from people--from love--was the best solution. She knew that now. She just had to wonder why it had taken her so very long to figure out that simple truth.

~~~~~~~

Isabel considered not answering when she heard the knock on her door—again.

She'd given up all pretence of trying to get any work done at that point, but she still didn't want any company, especially anyone from next door. She knew it wasn't Mike—he would simply walk in—but she was fairly certain it was either Peter or Micky since Davy had already had his turn earlier in the day.

Unfortunately, her car was plain to see in the driveway, and there was no way she could pretend she wasn't home. A quick peek out the peephole revealed Peter standing there, his expressive face radiating worry and concern, and she released a long, slow sigh. She really didn't need this right now...

In a way, facing Peter would be worse than facing Mike. Peter tended to bring out the protective instincts in everyone he met, and she was no exception, plus he was her dearest friend, and the idea of deliberately hurting him was more difficult than she imagined it would be.

But it was necessary, and she would do it. She had to in order to protect herself. He'd get over it quickly enough; she had no doubt about that.

"What do you want?" she demanded coldly once she'd thrown open the door.

"Hello to you too, sweetheart," Peter said as he walked inside.

She let go of the door and followed him into the living room, but she left the door standing open—a clear message that he wasn't welcome to stay.

"You didn't answer my question. What do you want?" she asked again, folding her arms across her chest and giving him the coldest, most quelling look she could muster.

He regarded her for a long moment, then obviously decided to be just as blunt as she was. "I came to see if you wanted to talk to me."

"About what?"

"What in the world is going on between you and Michael?"

"Nothing."

He stared at her, incredulous. "Nothing?" he echoed. "Isabel, he punched a hole through the upstairs bedroom wall!"

Isabel felt her stomach clench in response, and she had to squelch her first impulse to ask if Mike was all right, if he'd hurt himself. Instead, she looked up at Peter, her face a frozen mask, her eyes empty and cold.

"What Mike Nesmith does is no longer my concern," she replied, each word dripping icicles. "It's over between us. I don't care what happens to him."

He's already proven he doesn't care about me, she thought bitterly.

Peter took a step forward, a hand extended as if to wipe away the pain.

"Sweetheart..."

"Don't call me that!" she snapped, rounding on him so fiercely that he took an involuntary step backwards.

"What?" He stared down at her, his eyes growing wide—and wounded.

"You heard me," she answered curtly. "I don't like that name. I never did."

"But...you said..." His features crumpled with obvious confusion liberally mixed with pain.

"Just leave, Peter." She turned her back on him, walking toward the door. Her voice sounded infinitely weary even to her own ears. "Go back to Mike and tell him this didn't work. I want all of you to leave me alone."

Just like everyone else.

"All right, swee—Isabel. If that's what you want." He joined her at the doorway. His eyes and face were filled with hurt, and pain laced his voice. "Michael didn't send me. He doesn't even know I'm here. I came because you are one of my dearest friends, and it's killing me to see you hurting like this." He paused, then gave her a look of pure misery that threatened to shatter her resolve, and she had to steel her heart against the desire to relent that rose up within her. "I've done nothing to deserve this treatment from you, Isabel. Neither has Michael."

Head bowed, Peter left.

Isabel closed and locked the door behind him, then sagged against it. She slid to the floor, curling up in a ball and huddling against the wall as she fought off the tears that stung her eyes.

You don't know, Peter, she thought ruefully. You don't understand what Mike has done--and what it's costing me now...

~~~~~~

Micky let out an exasperated sigh as he pounded on Izzy's front door for the third time. He should've expected this; she'd already been visited by Davy and Peter, so she was probably trying to avoid any further confrontations, but he was determined to try to get through to her—at the very least perhaps he could discover some clue about the cause of this whole mess.

"C'mon, Izzy—I know you're in there!" he shouted. "Open up! I want to talk to you!"

"I don't want to talk to you!" she shouted back.

"I've got Mike's key," he replied—a blatant lie. Mike didn't even know he was there, and he certainly hadn't forked over his key to her place! "Either you open up willingly, or I'm barging in—your choice!"

There was a prolonged silence from inside the house, and for a moment, he was certain she'd called his bluff; she was enough like Mike to do that, to wait him out to see if he actually did have a key and if he would use it. Then, to his amazement, he heard the tell-tale scrape of the lock being turned, and slowly the door opened to reveal Isabel glaring up at him.

He stared back at her, feeling his jaw drop slightly; she did not look good. Not good at all. She was deathly pale, there were circles as dark as bruises under her eyes, and she'd obviously lost weight over the past few days. Whatever was going on with her was starting to take a physical toll as well.

"What?" she demanded brusquely.

"We need to talk."

"No, we don't. I've said everything I'm going to say to any of you. I just want to be left alone."

She didn't move from the doorway as she spoke, refusing to give him any room to enter the house; if he wanted in, he would have to push past her. But Micky wasn't about to leave without speaking his mind, even if it meant the entire neighborhood was privy to the conversation.

"That may be what you want, but it's not what you need," he countered.

"Oh, and how would you know?" she sneered. "You don't know me—you know nothing about me."

"I know you're in pain," he stated bluntly, earning a shocked look from her in return. "What I don't know is why because you won't let any of us—not even Mike—get close enough to help any more. I don't understand this, Izzy. What happened? Why're you pushing all of us away now? What did we do?"

For a moment, her stern expression seemed to soften and waver; the belligerence in her eyes faded, and a tiny bloom of hope grew within him. Maybe she would be willing to talk now, to open up to him—

"Go away, Micky."

—Or maybe not.

Suddenly it seemed as if all the doors had slammed shut in her face again tighter than ever, and her voice was hard and cold as she spoke again.

"You listen to me, and you go back and you tell the others that I'm through with you. I don't want you coming around here, I don't want to see you or talk to you. I just want to be left alone. You don't have to understand it. Just do it!"

"All of us?" he pressed, trying desperately to find a hole in the wall she was hiding behind. "Even Mike?"

She closed her eyes briefly, and he thought maybe he'd found his opening, but when she met his gaze again, she appeared more distant and unapproachable than ever.

"Even Mike," she replied, her tone frigid.

"Can you honestly tell me you don't love him anymore?" Micky asked softly.

And he watched the struggle on her face, in her eyes, her silence telling him more than any words ever could.

"Never mind," he said in the same quiet, compassionate tone. "I have my answer."

Micky closed their front door behind himself and leaned against it, his face etched with lines of disappointment; he'd hoped to be able to do some good, but it was obvious he hadn't. He just hoped he hadn't done any harm either.

"I thought you were out on the beach with the others."

Mike's voice snapped him back to alertness, and he stood up straight as he glanced around the room to see Mike sitting on the couch, a book in his lap. His hand was too stiff and sore for him to practice or write very well yet, thus he'd been forced to find other means of occupying his time. He'd gotten through their gig pretty well, but it had cost him; he'd woken up the next morning barely able to move his fingers at all.

"No..." Micky answered slowly, reluctant to confess to anything more than he absolutely had to.

"So where've you been?" Mike pressed. "You looked pretty bummed when you walked in."

"I—" He hesitated, then decided there was no use in hiding the truth; Mike would ferret it out of him one way or another. "I went to see Isabel," he said, then waiting for the explosion.

He expected Mike to jump all over him, reprimanding him for sticking his nose in someone else's business, for interfering where he wasn't wanted or needed. To his surprise, though, Mike simply nodded then asked, "And?"

"And...I didn't get anywhere," he replied honestly. "I did get her to admit she still loves you...but she didn't so much admit it as she sort’a didn't deny it."

Mike returned his gaze to the book lying open in his lap, and Micky watched him silently for a moment until he was no longer able to contain the question burning on his tongue.

"So what're you gonna do?"

"Wait."

Mike didn't look up at him as he spoke, thus he missed Micky's incredulous look. Wait? Mike—Mr. Get-A-Plan-And-Make-It-Happen—was going to wait?

"That's it?" Micky gaped at him, stunned, but not speechless.

"Buggin’ her won't help. It'll just keep her upset and make her run faster. I'm gonna give her what she says she wants—no contact with me."

"For how long?" he blurted, incapable of remaining silent. This was...This was different!

"Three more days," Mike replied, still not looking up. His slender fingers riffled through the pages of the book, turning it over and over in his hands.

"That's all?"

Finally, Mike glanced up, his dark eyes meeting and locking with Micky's. "I said I'm gonna wait, not let myself get walked on," he answered quietly, tossing the book aside. "I'm givin’ her that long to get her head on straight again."

"And then what're you gonna do?"

"Fight."

Chapter Five: Haven't Touched The Bottom Yet

The rhythmic pattering of rain against the roof underscored by an occasional distant rumble of thunder or crack of lightning was the only sound in the house as Isabel huddled in a tight little ball at one end of her couch; she closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her temples, trying to massage away the dull ache that had been building in her head all day and was now creeping into her bones. She was tired, engulfed by a fatigue that seemed to permeate her entire body, and all she wanted to do was forget her troubles in the blissful oblivion that sleep offered, but she couldn't stop thinking. Her mind kept throwing memories at her, forcing her to relive moments from the past and reminding her just how happy she'd been since moving here...and since meeting the four guys next door.

She remembered the day she'd moved in; she'd been so frustrated because the mover had taken off on her, and then a lifesaver in the form of Peter Tork had shown up, offering himself and his room-mates as knights in tarnished armor to rescue her. She remembered looking at Peter, Micky and Davy and wondering about them, what they were like, and if they'd continue to be friendly neighbors, never dreaming her life was about to become so inextricably entangled with theirs.

And then she'd met Mike, and her whole world had been transformed in that one pivotal turning point moment.

If only she'd fought the attraction back then...If only she'd realized how things were destined to turn out, how futile her hope that this time things would be different for her...How much better it would have been for all of them if she'd just kept her distance and not allowed herself to become involved with them in any way...

Well, it wasn't too late. Yes, she'd made a mistake, but she could still rectify it. She could put distance between them now.

She opened her eyes, her gaze automatically falling on the opposite end of the couch—and suddenly it seemed she saw Mike sitting there, glancing up from his guitar, giving her that little one-sided smile and winking before returning to the music. How many times had she watched him play, pride in his talent swelling in her heart—?

No!

No, she would not let herself be swayed by sentimental memories!

She ground the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to block out the treacherous thoughts, but the images kept flooding her brain, taunting and torturing her. She saw Micky pelting along the sand, his surfboard tucked under his arm, his giggles carrying on the ocean breeze; she saw him lying in bed, looking fragile and pale as he apologized for his delirious outburst while undergoing withdrawal symptoms.

She saw Davy, flashing his charming grin at a pretty young girl as they danced at a club. She saw him looking stricken and achingly vulnerable as he tried to cope with not being able to hear, to deal with the fact that he may have to give up music because of his loss.

She saw Peter, smiling cheerfully as he bustled around the kitchen fixing breakfast on her first day as their guest while her house was being painted and fumigated. She saw him kneeling by the graves of his family members, his face contorted with pain and grief; she remembered how the others—herself included—gathered around him, adding their strength to his, silently offering their support. They'd truly become a family that day...

They had been united in love then...and she was betraying that love, destroying that trust by running away and abandoning them.

But...Mike had abandoned her...hadn't he? Maybe...

The phone rang, startling her, and she jumped, suddenly filled with apprehension that it was someone from next door calling, wanting to question her again, wanting to pry.

Her fingers shook as she reached for the receiver, and when a female voice answered her tremulous, "Hello?" she nearly collapsed in relief.

Until the caller identified herself as Gram's companion and proceeded to tell Isabel that her grandmother had suffered a stroke and had been hospitalized that afternoon.

She stood there, pressing the phone against her ear, her jaw working but no sound coming out.

She heard the woman's voice, but she no longer comprehended the meaning of the words.

She felt her breath coming in rapid, hitching gasps.

And somewhere deep down inside her soul, something snapped.

~~~~~~~

Perched on a tall stool on the bandstand, Mike cradled his acoustic guitar in his lap and worked out the melody of a tune he'd had running through his head for the past couple of days; the instrumental part was coming along nicely, and the words—well, they'd come almost too easily. The day following the argument with Isa, the lyrics had started forming; his hand was too sore to write them down himself, so he'd asked Davy to do it for him because he was worried he might forget them.

But he hadn't forgotten. No, they'd been playing over and over in his mind, a constant reminder of this ridiculous situation he found himself in: "All this talk about leavin is strictly bad news."

Three days. He'd said he'd give her three days of total isolation to pull herself together, and it was now the third day—almost a week since that night she'd walked out of their practice session.

He'd said that if she showed no signs of changing her mind, then he was going to fight. Now it was the time, and he had no idea how to begin the siege to break down the walls she'd thrown up around herself. None of them had been able to get through to her, and she hadn't relented in the slightest.

No surprise there, he thought derisively. Once she made up her mind about something, she stuck to it, right or wrong. And she was convinced she was right.

How was he supposed to fight when he didn't even know what had started the war?

And not only was he concerned about what this inexplicable bout of irrationality meant for their relationship, but he was also worried about her. Micky had told him she didn't look well, and he wondered if perhaps she was literally making herself sick over whatever was bothering her.

The phone rang, jarring him out of his reverie, but before he could move to answer it, Davy sprinted out of the downstairs bedroom and ran to grab it.

"I'll get it!" he yelled—quite unnecessarily—as he snatched up the receiver. "Hello...? Oh, yeah—yeah—sure, I remember...No, she's not here, sorry..."

Mike glanced up then, curious. Since he was the only one of them with a steady girlfriend, there was only one "she" anyone who called the Pad could be referring to, and he wondered who was going to the trouble of trying to track her down here—not to mention why whoever-it-was couldn't reach her at home when it was well after 5:00, and she should be home from work.

"No, everyone's fine..." Davy continued, scrunching his face in a puzzled frown as the conversation continued. "No...No, I haven't, not today...Yeah, sure, if I see her I'll tell her...Thanks...Bye."

He replaced the receiver in its cradle and turned to face Mike, his expression registering total confusion.

"That was Gregory," he said.

"Isabel's editor? What did he want?" Mike asked, a sinking feeling forming in the pit of his stomach as he placed his instrument aside carefully. Somehow he knew this wasn't going to be good news.

"He wanted to know if everyone was okay," Davy continued. "Isabel didn't show up for work today, and he thought maybe something happened to one of us—again."

That did it.

Without a word to Davy, without a second thought, Mike launched off the stool, dashed across the room and out the door, heedless of the heavy rain falling as he sprinted across their adjoining yards. He began pounding on her front door as soon as he reached it, but there was no response from inside the house. For a moment, he wished for his keen hearing again; between the wind and the thunder rolling overhead, he couldn't hear anything—not footsteps, not indignant commands for him to go away. Nothing.

Well, he'd hoped she would agree to see him willingly, but it seemed he would have to resort to other methods. With a sigh, he fished in his pocket for his key ring, pulled it out and found the key to her door; it met resistance as he tried to slide it in the lock, but he chalked it up to the rain making it stick—until he tried to turn the latch and it didn't budge.

Frowning, he wriggled the key a little, then tried again. Still nothing.

His jaw clenched, and he felt the first stirrings of anger as he yanked the key out and inserted it again with the same results.

She'd changed the locks.

"That little—" He bit the words off as he shoved the keys back in his pocket, furious at her for taking things this far—and at himself for letting her. He shouldn't have waited this long; he knew that now. He should've gone on and dragged the truth out of her when he had the chance instead of giving her the time to stew and work herself into even more of a state.

"Isa, you open up right now, you hear me?" he yelled, determined to bring her to the door one way or another. She wasn't going to avoid this confrontation, and he wasn't leaving without some answers. Not this time. "Open this door, or I'll break it down!"

He waited, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, and still there was no response.

"Fine," he growled. "If that's how she wants it..."

He backed up several paces, braced his shoulder, and then ran full tilt at the door; it was a flimsy structure, and rage added to his strength, giving him all he needed to burst through into the house with ease. Stalking into the living room, he prepared to unleash the full force of his wrath; by the time he got through, she'd know exactly what he thought of her juvenile tactics!

But the ache in his shoulder, anger and frustration—all faded before the sight that met his eyes.

Furniture lay overturned. Pictures hung askew. Shards of vases, lamps, dishes and other miscellaneous unidentified breakables were scattered all over the floor. The entire room appeared as if a miniature whirlwind had torn through, leaving destruction in its wake.

A five foot tall whirlwind, he thought grimly. Now the question was, what had set this off? And where was she now?

The beachside door stood wide open, letting the raging elements add to the damage already incurred on the room, and Mike took that as a clue, racing out on the landing, scanning up and down for any signs of life, but the rain was coming down too hard, and the cloudy night sky cast the beach in nearly complete darkness.

And then he heard the screaming.

"Mary-bel..."

He took the beach-side steps two at a time, letting the sound lead him to her; a crack of lightning illuminated the sky, and he saw her clearly for an instant, poised near the shoreline, her fists raised to the heavens, heedless of the sharp, cold rain pelting her, soaking her to the skin, her head thrown back as one word tore from her throat again and again, her voice harsher and hoarser with each agonized cry.

"Why?"

"Isabel!" He called to her, but she didn't turn; she didn't even appear to have heard him, and he ran towards her, grabbing her shoulders and making her face him when he finally reached her.

Her screams stopped the instant he touched her, and she sagged in his arms as if her strength had suddenly left her all at once, but still she didn't acknowledge him.

"What d'you think you're doin, you little fool?" he demanded, giving her a little shake to get her attention, and she snapped her head up, finally looking at him, finally meeting his eyes—and showing no signs of recognition whatsoever. "You want to kill yourself? Is that it?"

"Who are you?" Isabel gasped, staring up at him, her features registering pure fright. "Get away from me!"

"Isa, stop it!" He tightened his grip on her shoulders, hoping to prevent her from running away, but she struggled, trying to twist free. "It's me—it's Mike."

"No, you're not Mike. I don't know you," she countered, yanking harder in her desperate attempt to escape until he feared he'd accidentally bruise her. "Mike's gone! He left me—just like everyone else—he's gone for good—"

"No." His commanding tone stilled her frantic motions, but she didn't look at him, turning her gaze to the sand at her feet instead. "The man who left you wasn't Mike. He wasn't anybody. Look at me, Isa—you do know me. You know who I am."

Slowly, she raised her head; for the first time, he noticed the unnatural glitter in her eyes, the hectic color in her face. She reached out to touch his face, and even though her clothes, her hair, her skin—all were drenched by the frigid rain, her trembling fingers were hot, burning his cheek.

"Mike...is the one who came back,"she whispered.

Then she collapsed, senseless, in his arms.

Chapter Six: I'll Always Need You; I'll Never Leave You; I'll Love You Forever

Tell me just one more time the reasons why you must leave...

Consciousness returned slowly, unfolding in gradual stages. First Isabel was vaguely aware of the world around her, but she was incapable of reacting to it; all was still darkness, and she preferred to hide there for a while longer.

Tell me once more why you're sure you don't need me; tell me again but don't think that you'll convince me.

Then she became aware of warmth against her side and of a faint numbness in her right arm that let her know she'd been lying on it too long.

And then she realized she wasn't alone.

As her mind wakened, it began to work, and soon it figured out that warmth + regular up-and-down movement beneath her head + something heavy across her shoulders = another person.

In bed.

With her.

Her eyes flew open then, and she discovered that she was lying in her own bed—draped across Mike. Even though she couldn't see his face from the position she was in, there was no mistaking that long, lanky body pressed against hers for anyone else's. She was on her side, using his chest as a pillow, one arm thrown across his stomach and her legs tangled with his, and she could feel the rough denim of his jeans against her bare skin.

Wait...

She peeked down at herself and saw she was wearing a full-length flannel gown...that had gotten hitched up awfully high in her sleep. And how had she gotten into it in the first place? She thought of some of the possibilities, feeling a dull heat flare in her cheeks.

Slipping his arm from around her shoulders as carefully as possible, Isabel eased out of bed, flexing her fingers and shaking her arm a little to restore circulation; Mike was still deeply asleep, and she didn't want to disturb him, but she needed to think, to sort through the events of the night before—and to figure out why couldn't she get that unfamiliar song out of her head.

One backwards glance, however, was her undoing. Mike's face was so open and vulnerable in repose that it made her heart ache to look at him.

How could she have been so stupid?

How could she have ever harbored the illusion—even for a single moment—that she wanted to dismiss him from her life?

She just hoped she hadn't completely ruined things, that he would still be able to forgive her...

On impulse, she sat down on the edge of the bed again and reached out to brush a stray lock of hair that had tumbled across his forehead; he didn't move or give any indication that she'd woken him, and she assumed that meant he was a fairly heavy sleeper. She didn't know one way or another, but then, she thought with a silent chuckle remembering the mornings she'd gone downstairs at the Pad to find Micky still asleep on the couch and snoring loud enough to wake the dead, he'd have to be if he shared a room with Micky!

Another impulse seized her, and she acted on it, leaning down to place a light but lingering kiss on his lips, assuming that wouldn't wake him any more than her gentle touch had done, but as she pulled away, his slender fingers closed around her wrist. He gave a firm tug, making her tumble against him, and when her startled eyes met his, she found him watching her, appearing drowsy but definitely awake.

Still holding fast to her wrist, he reached up and touched her forehead, then smoothed his hand down the side of her face and cupped her cheek in his palm.

"Fever's gone," he said, his voice low and husky with sleep. "How d'you feel?"

"A little weak," she admitted. "But clearer-headed than I have been in days."

"What does that mean?"

He removed his hand, his expression turning stern, almost cold as he looked up at her, and she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Had she driven him away for good with her behavior?

"It means I owe you an apology," she answered quietly. Only the honest, direct approach would work now; if she tried to hide behind any walls, she knew she'd blow any slim chance she might have of winning him back.

He regarded her somberly, his dark eyes never leaving hers as he waited for her to continue.

"I'm sorry for the way I've acted lately—"

"Why'd you do it?" The question was harsh and terse, making her inwardly quail, but she fortified her strength and met his eyes with some semblance of calm as she framed her response.

Gathering her dignity around her as best she could, she sat up, folding her hands neatly in her lap; he remained reclining against the pillow, watching her impassively as if he were reserving judgment—and determined not to relent an inch—until he had the answers he wanted.

"I think," she began, hearing her voice quivering slightly, and she stopped, waiting until she felt steadier to continue. "I think the strain of everything that's happened since your blindness finally hit me all at once. That, and—" She bit her lower lip, worrying it with her teeth; accusing him now might make things worse, but she had to be totally honest.

"When you left," she continued in a softer, more subdued tone, "you triggered my deepest fear."

"Which is?"

"Abandonment."

Watching him from beneath her lowered lashes, she studied the play of emotion on his face, noting the exact moment that guarded bewilderment turned to dawning realization tinged with regret.

Nodding to acknowledge his reaction, she continued. "Intellectually, I knew my parents didn't leave me because they wanted to, but even absence through death felt like an abandonment on some level. When they died, my mother's brother took me in, but I wasn't with him and his family a week before Gram summoned us—the first time she'd had any contact with me since I was born. As soon as we walked in the door, she announced that she didn't want her son's child raised by 'that woman's' people—never mind that she'd had very little contact with my father in the fifteen years since he married Mama—and she gave my uncle a check."

Memories of that day crowded her mind; she remembered being terrified of the old hawk-like woman with her shrill voice and harsh tone. The house seemed like an endless mausoleum, and she was afraid of being left there, afraid she'd get lost and never be found in one of its endless dank hallways.

"Gram never let me forget what an imposition my presence in her life was, how she was too old to raise a child." She paused, drew in a deep breath, and forced herself to continue. "She also never let me forget that my only other living relative practically sold me to her, and she was all I had left. She didn't like rambunctious children in the house, so I didn't have the chance to make many friends, and very few young men dared risk dating me because of her, so I grew accustomed to being alone," she stated matter-of-factly. "Until I came here. I thought things would be different here. You all accepted me so easily, and you...Well, I'd hoped that you would turn out to be the one stable aspect of my life—something I'd never had before—but—"

"But then I took off, and you thought you were bein’ left again," he concluded for her.

"That's pretty much it, yes," she affirmed solemnly.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" he asked, frowning a little. "Why didn't you tell me how bad this scared you?"

"I was too overwhelmed," she admitted, spreading her hands in an apologetic gesture. "All my instincts were telling me to run, that you were just like everybody else in my life, and I was a fool for thinking otherwise." She paused, staring out the window for a moment as she collected her thoughts. "I thought I was cursed. Nobody I loved would ever stay with me—"

"Mary-bel—"

"No, let me finish," she interrupted gently, raising one hand to silence him. "I think the fear of you leaving me plus the strain of the past year or so—all that just made me a little crazy." She gave a mirthless smile. "Would it help you forgive me if I plead temporary insanity?"

"So what happened last night?" he asked.

Her heart sank a little; he seemed to be avoiding the question, which wasn't a good sign. On the other hand, he was still there, still listening to her.

"I got a phone call," she explained. "Gram's in the hospital."

"Another loss if she dies," Mike stated matter-of-factly, and she nodded mutely. "No wonder it looks like Hurricane Isabel swept through the living room. At least all I did was punch a hole in the wall."

"I...kinda lost it," she admitted with a sheepish smile and a shrug. "That was the last straw—I couldn't take anymore, so I just..."

"Went nuts."

"Yeah." She fell silent again, twisting her hands in her lap. "But some good came out of it," she ventured at last. "I got out a lot of stuff that's been festering inside me for years. I feel better now. More at peace. Like I've finally let go of my anger and resentment. Maybe even my fear." A sudden realization struck her, and she spoke her thoughts aloud even as they formed in her head. "Being hurt is bad, but being alone is worse. Love—in whatever form it takes—means you risk being hurt. Sometimes you lose, but when you win...It makes up for all those horrible losses."

"Have you won?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," she replied just as quietly. "Have I?" She leaned forward a bit. "I know I said some awful things, but I don't want to lose you," she murmured against his lips.

He didn't encourage her, but he didn't push her away either, and she took that as a positive sign; bracing herself on her hands, she kissed him, coaxing his lips apart with her tongue, exploring, teasing, caressing—until finally he responded, slipping both arms around her as he returned the kiss in equal measure.

"Forgive me?" she asked, her voice a husky whisper as she ran her forefinger down the length of his nose, then traced the outline of his mouth.

"Mm. I think I need more convincin’." But his non-committal words were belied when he captured her hand and nibbled on the soft pads of her fingers.

Laughing softly, she leaned down once more, lightly nuzzling his beard-stubbled chin. "I'll do whatever it takes," she replied, only partially joking.

Suddenly he tightened his grip on her and rolled them both over, and she let out a startled squeak when she found herself pinned beneath him. He touched his lips to her in a light, teasing kiss, obviously meant to assure her that things were okay again, but it wasn't enough—not after the fear and loneliness and separation. She wanted more; she needed more. A soft whimper escaped her throat as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close.

For a brief moment, he held himself away from her, but she knew it wasn't out of anger; rather his gentlemanly instincts were probably warning him this wasn't a good idea, but she was beyond caring. Between his problems and hers, she hadn't really been with Mike since before Peter's identity crisis, and she had missed him more than she could possibly express. Then it seemed as if he gave up the struggle because the next thing she knew, he was holding her as close as he possibly could and still remain a separate entity; she twined her legs around his, all thoughts of recent events banished as their kisses grew deeper and hungrier.

You're just running scared.

No, not anymore.

Stay with the man who loves you.

Always.

They broke away from each other suddenly, their breathing rapid and shallow, their faces flushed as they stared at each other, wide-eyed.

"So I guess that means I'm forgiven," she said lightly—much more lightly than she felt. Those words, that tune echoing in her head seemed so familiar; she knew she'd never heard them before, but she felt certain she knew their source.

"Nothin to forgive," he told her, smoothing her tousled hair out of her face. "The only thing you did wrong was not tellin’ me about this sooner." He paused, then added with a one-sided smile, "That, and changin’ the lock."

Heat flooded into her cheeks at that, and she averted her eyes, ashamed and embarrassed by her childish, impulsive actions. "I'm sorry—I—"

"It's okay." He managed a shrug. "I busted the door down."

"You—" She gaped at him, incredulous, then burst out laughing. How could she really be surprised by that? He'd never been one to let anything stand in his way, and he wasn't going to start with one flimsy wooden door. "Anything else I should know about?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I'm surprised you haven't asked if anything happened last night considerin’ where you woke up this morning."

"I don't have to," she replied simply. "I know you. Nothing happened."

That response obviously pleased him; he smiled and bent his head to kiss her once more.

"You're right," he affirmed. "And in case you're wonderin’, I didn't have anything to do with you gettin in that nightgown either. You did that yourself around two o'clock."

"I did?" she asked blankly. That was one thing she had no recollection of whatsoever!

"Yep. You were still pretty out of it, but you woke up just enough to manage on your own."

"But that doesn't explain what you're doing in bed with me," she replied, schooling her features in the most serious expression she could manage.

"You 'bout froze yourself wanderin’ around in the storm," he answered, the barest hint of a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I had to warm you up somehow."

"How convenient!" She laughed outright, not bothering to hide her amusement.

"Anything else I should know about while we're playing True Confessions?"

"Yeah." He met her eyes, his expression especially somber, even for him. "I wouldn't have let you go no matter how hard you tried to run."

"Good," she whispered. "Now sing it to me again."

He started, giving her a look of pure surprise. "What?"

"That song. The one from last night," she explained, reaching up to caress his cheek. "I remember parts of it, but not all of it.

Instead of answering, he simply shifted to recline against the pillows again, pulling her along with him, and she rested her head on his shoulder, draping herself across him again with a sigh of sheer contentment.

"Tell me just one more time the reasons why you must leave. Tell me once more, why you're sure you don't need me. Tell me again, but don't think that you'll convince me..."

Chapter Seven: You Shouldn't Be Shy For I'm Not Gonna Try To Hurt You

It was some time before either Mike or Isabel felt inclined to get up; they lay curled together in her bed, so entwined that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began, the sun filtering through the sheer curtains, warming the room, filling it with a hazy golden glow. Mike seemed content to cuddle with her as if to make up for the wasted days they'd spent apart. For her part, Isabel was relieved that he understood her reaction and forgave her; she wanted to cling to him for a while to reassure herself he was real and that all this was indeed really happening.

"Course I understand," he'd assured her. "Neither one of us let other people get close real easy. Acceptin’ love where it's offered is something I had to learn too while I was gone."

Only then did she dare ask him about his disappearance. To her surprise, he told her, warning her in advance that it would sound "really weird," and that he wasn't certain himself whether it had actually occurred or he'd dreamed the whole thing.

"If I didn't know you're not into that scene, I'd say you had a bad trip," she remarked after he'd finished telling the tale.

"It does sound like that, doesn't it?" he agreed with a wry smile. "I still don't know what to make of it."

"Well, regardless, we both had important revelations," she replied pragmatically. "Now we just have to make sure we remember them."

Cleaning up the living room took a considerable amount of time as well even though it mostly consisted of sweeping up irreparable shards of broken objects. Mike took care of replacing the furniture, using his limited handyman skills to repair a chair leg or two, while Isabel combed the floor with a broom and dustpan, careful to collect every tiny sliver since they both had a habit of walking around the house barefoot.

It was late afternoon, and long shadows stretched across the floor through the back bay window when they finally had everything more or less back in order. Isabel groaned and stretched, rubbing her lower back as she cast one last critical glance around the room; it was much more spartan—she would have to replace several lamps, vases and picture frames—but it was tidy again, and that's all she cared about at the moment. Mike sauntered over to stand behind her, massaging her shoulders with skillful fingers. She leaned against him, enjoying the attention, when she suddenly felt rather than heard him chuckle.

"Your phone hasn't rung all day," he said.

She glanced up at him quizzically, wondering where that non sequiter had come from. "Well, except that call from Gram's companion," she amended. Isabel had been greatly relieved to learn that her grandmother was recovering well, and she would probably be returning home within a matter of days. "So?"

"So you know they're about to explode next door wonderin what's goin on," he replied, his voice laced with amusement.

"You're right," she said, laughing softly. "I have to commend their fortitude in holding out this long."

"Bet they're scared to come over. They probably think you killed me, and they'd be next."

She let out an unlady-like snort and swatted him; he flashed her an unrepentant smile, then quite unexpectedly wrapped his arms around her from behind and squeezed her tight for a moment before releasing her again.

"You ready?" he asked softly.

A low, burning dread coiled in the pit of her stomach as the implications of his words sank in. Not only had she hurt the man she loved, but also her dearest friends, and now she owed them an explanation and apology as well. She just hoped they would be as forgiving as Mike.

"No," she admitted candidly. "But I have to face them sometime."

"Yep, you sure do," he said, reaching to capture her hand. "But not alone." With that, he linked his fingers with hers and, tugging lightly, led her out the door.

~~~~~~

Mike and Isabel returned to the Pad still hand in hand; he paused at the front door, giving her a moment to brace herself, then he opened it, leading her inside. The other three were scattered around the room engaged in various activities; Peter was practicing "For Pete's Sake," Micky was polishing his cymbals, and Davy was flipping through a magazine. They all looked up as soon as the door swung open and saw them, wary smiles blooming on each of their faces.

"Well?" Micky asked, his expression hopeful but guarded.

Mike and Isabel both nodded—him firmly and her shyly—and the others seemed to relax a little, their smiles growing slightly wider. But the tension was far from gone.

Isabel then disentangled her hand from Mike's and slowly walked over to Micky; he threw down his polishing rag and met her half-way across the room.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, not quite able to meet his eyes. "I thought I was protecting myself by pushing you away. I was so afraid of being left again...I decided to leave you all first, before I got hurt."

"I would never hurt you, Izzy," Micky said softly, holding out both hands for her to take; after a moment's hesitation, she slipped her fingers into his palms, feeling the warm strength, the gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"I know that now," she replied, returning the squeeze in equal measure. "I just had to learn it the hard way."

"Well, don't forget it!" he admonished, giving her a mock-stern frown.

"Never," she promised fervently, meaning it more than any vow she'd ever made before in her life. They were her friends—no, more than that. Her family. United by bonds other than those of blood. And she never wanted to risk losing them again.

"Good." And then he released her hands and pulled her into a warm embrace, letting his sunny grin shine down on her, and she basked in it eagerly as she held him tight.

Releasing Micky at last, she turned to Davy. "Davy—" she began hesitantly, but he shook his head, holding up both hands to silence her.

"No, Isabel. You don't have to say it. I understand."

"But..." she tried again, then stopped, studying his face, seeing the compassion and the affection in his eyes; he meant what he said. She had hurt him, she knew that, but it was obvious that he had forgiven her and didn't want to discuss it any longer.

Determined to let him know how she felt one way or another, Isabel locked gazes with him and mouthed, You are very important to me, my friend.

Reading her lips, Davy smiled. "I know. So are you." He hugged her briefly, then released her.

Isabel glanced at Mike, her eyes troubled once more but for an entirely different reason, drawing on the strength he seemed to give her to make the hardest apology of all, to face the one she'd hurt almost as much as she'd hurt Mike.

Peter lingered at a distance from the group clustered together in the middle of the room, his hands jammed into his jeans pockets. Even though he was staring at the floor, the pain was evident on his face.

"Peter..." she breathed, moving to stand in front of him, reaching up to touch his cheek with hesitant fingers. Did she have the right anymore? Would he accept her once more? "Peter, I can't...I don't know how to express how deeply sorry I am for the things I said to you. How I acted."

Slowly, Peter lifted his eyes to meet hers, doubt lingering in the light brown depths. He seemed to be debating within himself, then those expressive eyes lit up with forgiveness. He smiled slightly. "You don't have to apologize, sweetheart, I—" He broke off, visibly confused and wounded again.

"It's okay, Peter," she told him gently. "You can call me 'sweetheart' any time you feel like it."

"But you said—"

"I know what I said," she interrupted, her cheeks flushed pink as she thought on her hateful words. "Forget what I said. Please. I didn't mean it." She paused, then added, "I like it when you call me that."

And his smile broke forth like a ray of sunshine. "Thank you, sweetheart," he whispered, his expression radiating joy.

Then he wrapped both arms around her, engulfing her in one of those hugs—one full of surprising strength, but also warmth. The type of hug he'd been giving consistently since his identity crisis—a pleasant combination of Mike's intensity and his own tenderness.

Isabel pulled away but did not release him. She kept one arm around his waist and extended her free hand to Mike in a clear invitation which he didn't turn down.

Mike smiled and closed the gap, draping his arm across her shoulders as she slipped hers around his waist. Peter held out his other arm, and Micky quickly moved to wrap his arm around Peter's waist.

Micky then looked at Davy, who joined—and closed—the circle, embracing Micky on one side and Mike on the other. They stood there for long moments, joined by more than a simple shared embrace, and memories washed over them all.

Blindness...deafness...paralysis...personality mix-ups...self-discovery...abandonment...

Each of them had been through their own personal purgatory. Each had come through tempered, but not broken, stronger for having suffered through it. And they had done so together. The one lesson they had all learned; the one revelation they all shared was that they might be strong individuals—but together, they were a mighty force to be reckoned with, their love a shield that nothing could destroy. They no longer dared to take the others for granted. They had truly become a family, bound together by adversity, shaped by their love for each other.

And each of them knew it.

The year of hell was finally over.

The End



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