"It's just, you know, lonely when Roger's gone," she says, and you nod dumbly. You could say all sorts of things – you used to feel that way all the time, when it was just you and Roger in a tiny apartment together, and he'd go away for a couple days, though then it had been visiting family rather than touring with his band. Instead of saying any of those things, which would make you sound smart, or at least not an idiot, you can only stare at her and take note of the way winter light falls on her face, how the snow rests to lightly on auburn hair, or her smile, that's like a ray of pure sunlight...
April doesn't seem to know you're watching.
She gasps and shivers as the two of you walk underneath a tree and it chooses just then to dump some of the snow from its branches, so it lands on the back of her neck, sliding a little down her coat. That's perfect and beautiful too, the rounded shape of her mouth as she gasps, the graceful way her shoulders move as she hunches then. You realize you're composing shots in your mind, and drag your thoughts away from that.
"Let's go find a coffee shop somewhere," you tell her. "Somewhere warm. I'll buy you coffee."
She smiles and asks eagerly, "Can I have hot chocolate instead?" Your heart gives a single, painful, joyful throb at the fact that that smile is, at the moment, all for you.
You never quite understood love – real love, romantic love, deep and wild and passionate love. Love in friendship, love in family, that's different, that you get, but you never understood how people can lose themselves so completely in another person, until now. Until her...
Love is spending money you really can't spare, buying a single flower from the store on the way home from work – a yellow rose, not to be too romantic, too presumptuous – and leaving it on her bed, just to see her smile when she gets home.
Love is watching her with Roger, out of the corner of your eye, and feeling a pang of jealousy at every kiss because it should be you, and a pang of guilt at the same time, because it's Roger, you shouldn't feel jealous of your best friend. Then again... it's her.
Love is wanting to film every second of her, every smile, frown, movement, capture the way she tilts her head, or bites her lip when she's thinking, or sprawls carelessly on the couch with a charming gracelessness, thinking that every second of her needs to be captured and saved.
Love is simply April.
You used to dread Roger's absences just because it meant you'd be alone for a week or so. Now you dread them for different reasons.
The thunderstorm knocked out the power, so you've got candles lit here and there, the few that you could find. It's hot, humid with no air conditioning, so April's wearing just underwear and a camisole, and you're trying not to look at her.
You don't really notice the candles are going out one by one, until April walks up beside you, where you're sitting at the table, and leans over to blow out the candle you were using to read. The room plunges into darkness, shadows and half-visible shapes. "April, what–"
She kisses you, and you can't tell if the flash behind your eyelids and the crashing in your ears is from the storm, or something else.
I love you.
It's an unbidden, unexpected thought, one that leaps to the forefront of your mind whenever she's near. When she speaks, laughs, God, when she touches you, you want so badly to say it. It never makes it past your lips.
I hate you.
Something that never crossed your mind about Roger before this, before her. Now you can't stop it, however you try, because he has her, and you don't. You never do say it.
"I need you."
This you can say, and it's as true as any of the others, but not true in the way Maureen thinks or wants. She's beautiful, she's charming, wild, funny, but you don't love her, and aren't sure you ever will.
You thought it would all go away, if you kept a polite distance, reminded yourself she belongs to Roger, tried to love Maureen, everything would set itself right. And it works for a while.
Then April smiles at you, and it's not like her old smiles, it's quiet and sad and lovely, and if you could just get that on film you know you could break a million hearts. Then again, you don't need to, because it breaks your own. In that moment, every hidden wish and want and hope and desire you ever had about her comes pouring back, and you realize you're never going to move past that, not in a million years.
"Are you okay?" you find yourself asking, and she answers, still with that sad smile, "Yeah. It's nothing."
She pauses, and then says quietly, "I love you, Mark."
You try to tell her you love her too, but your voice gets choked off in your throat.
It's all over.
April is dead, Roger's in rehab, Maureen's off God knows where, and you are here, alone. The bathroom still needs to be cleaned, but for now you are standing in the middle of it, shattered mirror and the tub stained red-pink, the razor and the note gone now. You feel hollow and empty, like every drop of blood drained from her took something of you with it.
You can still see her lying there, prone and pale, her head tipped back so you can see a few hickeys Roger left on her neck two days ago. Funny that you should notice that, but... dead people shouldn't have hickeys. Dead people shouldn't look like they're only sleeping, except for how pale...
Standing there, staring at the tub, you decide never to let this happen again. From now on, love is something that happens to other people.