Chapter 43

"Pamela Anderson. V.I.P. She could stab a dude to death with those stilettos and he'd still die happy."

"Hell no. Angelina can take her on anytime. See her sweet bod' do those back-flips and then her blow shit up? Damn."

"Cameron Diaz. Kickass karate angel. Now, that's the girl of my dreams."

"Yeah," a boy snorted, before snapping a towel at his teammate's bare butt. "Your wet dreams."

Macho chuckles broke out across the locker room. Captain Phil simply grinned and shook his head at his crass compadres. Was he ever like that? He watched, as another teammate jumped - buck naked, mind you - on a bench and imitated Angelina Jolie swinging high, shooting up a rabid mass of stone demons, all the while holding his imaginary breasts in place. Philip's grin widened, as the team roared in laughter and threw used towels at Angelina, when he tried something between an Egyptian strut and the dirty bird. As far as performing art went, even jocks had their standards.

Not to be outdone, the boy belted out an impromptu rendition of "Lady Marmalade," which earned him a hurricane of damp towels. Freshly showered Jason folded over in laughter, watching his teammate continue to sing from underneath the mountain of terrycloth.

Philip chuckled. Ok, he assured himself. He was never that bad. He sighed. Although he had had a much easier time before, appreciating such asinine humor. What true love did to a guy. He shrugged. Then grimaced, as he rotated his sore shoulder and forearm under the heavy bags of ice. Picking up the slack for Shawn was taking a toll on his pitching arm. Game was tomorrow and he was expected to pitch for most of it.

"Hey, K-Man." Jason popped open his gym locker and dropped his towel to change. "You up for some supper?"

"Sure, man," replied Philip, wincing as he pulled on his baggy shorts.

His buddy watched his friend's ginger movements. "You gonna be alright for tomorrow?"

"Yeah, man." He stood to button and zip his shorts, before reaching for his tank. "Just need to rest up some tonight."

"Aw, does that mean no more studying tonight?" grinned Jason. He pulled on his cotton briefs then his jeans.

Before Philip could come up with a worthy retort, his cell phone rang. He rummaged through his things, finally finding the miniscule phone under his backpack. "Yo… Hey, Mom. What's up?" Lending a half-ear, he sat back down on the bench to pull on his socks and shoes. And froze. "What? A package? From where? A surprise? Oh, come on, Mom-" Then, his face broke in a grin. "Oh my God, it's from Princeton, isn't it? Oh, man!" Ignoring his mother's gentle chide to calm down, he turned back to his buddy and shouted, "I got in, dude! Yes!"

Grinning, Jason gave his friend a congratulatory hit to his good shoulder. "Awesome, bro. Awesome."

Philip turned his attention back to the rambling in his ear. "Alright, alright, Mom. I'm on my way." He clicked off his phone and hauled, with ice bags and all, his buddy Jase into a bear hug. "I'm in! Woo-hoo!" He cheered in jubilation. He was going to an Ivy, and he was going to be right across the river from New York. From Chloe. Loving life, he plucked up his backpack, and slammed his locker shut. "Catch you, later, k, Jase?" He waved to his other teammates and ran out of the locker room toward home.

"So, what do you think, Mrs. Horton?"

Shawn's great grandmother readjusted her reading glasses and took another good look at the scribbly sketch of Mimi's proposed dress for the school dance. She smiled at the classic lines and scooped neck. She'd worn something quite similar for her last formal in high school. Times may change, but fashion recycled. She looked up at the eager young girls squatting by her chair. "Well, my dears, I think it will be the loveliest gown there. And I'd be more than happy to help make it."

"Really?" gawked Mimi, then flung herself into Mrs. Horton's arms, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Smiling, Alice patted her back. "You're very welcome, dear. But I'll need a pair of youthful eyes to help with cutting, threading the needle, and such. Mine aren't what they used to be."

"Oh, no problem," assured Mimi, "I'll be here whenever you want."

"Me, too," chirped Belle, cooing over her little puppy, curled up in her lap, snoozing, "That way I can hang with you gals and visit my Nestlé." She gave her puppy's ear a scratch. Nestlé was so plump and happy here with Shawn's great grandmother. And the chocolate colored dog with an adorable pink nose doubled in size each time she saw her, it seemed. How she wished Nestlé could live with her family in the penthouse. Alas, rules were rules. Even if they sucked.

"Wonderful," said the Horton matriarch, "Why don't you bring by the material tomorrow, and we'll start then? We haven't time to waste."

"Oh, I can't believe this," said Mimi excitedly, "It's really going to happen. I'm going to have the most beautiful dress for the Last Blast."

"Now, if only a certain guy," grinned Belle, wiggling her brows suggestively, "Would just get his act together and ask you to the dance."

"Oh," smiled Mrs. Horton, "Do you have someone in mind, dear?"

Normally, Mimi would've shrugged off the notion with her friends, but with Mrs. Horton, she blushed. "I dunno."

"Ah," deduced Alice, "So, you do. What's his name?"

Mimi jabbed Belle in the ribs, before her forthcoming friend could blab. "It's no big deal," professed Mimi, "Besides, another guy asked me to go-"

"What?!" Belle gave her friend a shove. "You didn't tell me that. Who asked you?"

Mimi sighed and made a point to roll her eyes. "This cute guy in my chemistry class."

"So…" Belle spun her open palm in question. "What'd you say?"

Just then, Shawn came through the swinging door, which led to the kitchen. In one hand was a plate stacked high with homemade powdered donuts. In the other was a chilled tumbler filled with soda. "Hey, ladies." He bent down to plant a kiss on his gram's cheek. "Awesome donuts, Gram."

His great grandmother chuckled and brushed off the powder that had fallen from his shirt - evidence of her grandson's limitless appetite, which was indulged earlier in the kitchen. "You'd better slow down or you'll ruin your dinner."

"No way," assured Shawn, already scarfing on his eighth serving. He was a growing boy after all. "So, you ladies figure everything out?" He leaned over to take a forbidden peek at the sketch, which his great grandmother slyly folded away, before he could see anything. "Not you, too, Gram. Come on. Remember me? Your darling Shawn D.?" He flashed his pearly whites.

Gram laughed. "Shameless rogue. You have too much of your father in you. Nice try, dear."

"Fine," he replied with a devilish Irish grin, "I have my ways." He shot his girlfriend a wink.

Philip hoisted himself up into the tree and crawled toward the softly lit window. He then assumed a crouch, eyes riveted.

There she was.

Sitting at her mirror, brushing her hair. That gloriously long hair, which cascaded down her back with each pull of the brush. Each strand shone against that smooth skin and pretty pink nightgown. Marie had given it to her, he remembered almost immediately, when his angel had stayed over at the guesthouse. When she'd told him that she loved him and wasn't afraid anymore. That pretty soft pink nightgown. Oh, how it made her skin glow. His fingers itched, his heart swelled just watching her. Then, his ears perked up. Through the double-pane glass, he could hear her sing with the faint strains of Puccini.

He sighed, content for now, just to watch. And yearn.

She was so beautiful. So pure. So perfect.

So his.

How could he tell her? He'd gotten another rejection letter today. This time from Harvard. He'd known his odds into Harvard or Yale were on the slim side with his junior year grades. But he'd figured that his athletics - football, baseball, and basketball - plus his phenomenal rise in GPA for the past year, not to mention his last name, would at least give him a shot.

And obviously it had. Because he'd also gotten an acceptance letter today. Finally. But from Brown. In Providence. Rhode Island.

An Ivy League school. Just like it was meant to be. Just as it was expected to be. Demanded to be. From him. A Kiriakis.

"Well done, Philip," his father had said, while his mother had hugged him over and over. Then, she ran off to call everyone who was anyone. To brag. Suffice it to say, his parents and everyone were thrilled. Ecstatic.

And he… He could've cried. Rhode Island. Hundreds of miles from New York. From Chloe.

When he finally could escape, when his parents didn't notice, he retreated to his room and fell onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow. In anguish.

Shortly after, Henderson silently entered his room and sat patiently by him. "It'll be alright, my boy," he comforted, knowing exactly why Master Philip wasn't celebrating with his parents. "It'll be alright. Princeton should arrive any day now."

But those reassurances, though well-intended, sounded empty and meaningless. The responses from Dartmouth and Princeton, if they'd wanted him, would've come by now. The letter from Brown was already an anomaly for its lateness. The odds stacked higher and higher against him, as spring drew to a close.

He reached out to trace her lovely outline on the glass.

Chloe. What would he do without Chloe? What if he wanted hear her voice? Talk to her? See her? Touch her? Here, he could just jog from his house to hers or hop in his car and reach her lickety split. There… How could he bear it?

Without him, he was sure that she'd be fine. She was so smart, so strong, and so driven that she could flourish anywhere. These past weeks had proven that. And everywhere she went, she'd be loved and cared for. How could she not?

But him… What was to become of him? Their relationship was the one thing in his life that made perfect sense. That remained untainted, despite repeated trials and tribulations. She was the one person that ever asked or really cared about his dreams and goals. Everyone else just assumed. Like his parents. Never once had they asked what he wanted. Or needed. They just assumed that their aspirations and his were one and the same.

He let out a breath, as she reached behind her and began to braid loosely her endless hair. But Chloe understood. They'd talked for hours about how they saw themselves, when they finally grew up to become who they were meant to become. They'd been surprised by how much his plans complemented hers and vice versa. And at points, where they didn't, they'd eventually come up with compromises. Now, they'd be separated by more than just atypical childhoods and her disapproving parents. Through the glass, he listened, as her soprano voice hit an achingly high pitch. In New York, in that school, there would undoubtedly be tons of kids - guys - who shared her love for music and opera. What if…

What if she found someone better?

He closed his eyes, as he finally admitted it to himself. That was his greatest fear. That Brady had been right all along. That he wasn't worthy and she'd inevitably find that out. Then, what? Then, he'd die, because he knew - he'd known all along - that he needed her. What would he do without his beloved, who saw something in him that no else could see? That not even he could see? Whose eyes reflected the person - the man - he wanted to become.

Whatever would he do without his angel?

He roughly swiped his eyes and took a breath, before he used his knuckle to tap lightly against the glass.

Her face brightened, even before she turned and gave him a dazzling smile in welcome. His heart twisted. He watched, as she walked to the door to lock it and then to her stereo, before she came to open the window.

"Hey you," she greeted.

"Hey," he replied, struggling for an answering smile.

She moved aside, holding back the curtains, so that he could climb safely inside. It was such a cool pretty night that she decided to leave the window open. Obscuring his surely downcast face with his droopy blond locks, he nudged off his sneakers and pushed them discretely under a chair.

"Oh," began Chloe excitedly, "I have to tell you about the conversation I had with Craig in the car today." She grabbed a pillow, hugging it to her bosom, before she sat down on her bed, waiting for him to join her. "You'll never believe this, but…" Her words trailed off, when he silently sat beside her and simply stared down at his feet. Uncharacteristically taciturn and still. "Philip?" She intuitively reached for him, running a loving hand along his back. "Is everything alright?"

He closed his eyes, fighting back the tremors. He'd put it off for months - the anxiety about college and the future. Their future. First, it'd been a safe semester away. Then, a foreboding month. And then, there was Andrew. Now, it all came down on him, the fear pummeling like an avalanche.

"Philip?" Her hand moved to run over his hair. "What's wrong?"

A span of heartbeats passed, until he raised his head and looked into those eyes he loved so much.

The sadness she saw made her chest ache. "Oh, Philip," she said, concerned, her earlier elation completely forgotten, "What happened?"

Closing his eyes once more, he placed his hand over hers, when it brushed his cheek in a soothing caress. He leaned into it. She had the softest and gentlest touch. His Chloe.

Bewildered and worried for him, she curled her free arm around him. "Philip," her voice soft and beseeching, "What is it? Please tell me."

Eventually, he opened his eyes. Slowly, tremulously, he guided his hand to her elegant wrist down her slender arm to her silky shoulder. Cherishing the texture, he drew the back of his hand across her collarbone, along her fragrant neck and down her center.

Her eyes drooped a bit, as they often did from his touch. But this time, it was different, almost reverent, as if she were so delicate, so fragile that she could disintegrate before his eyes. She didn't know what to make of his behavior. She only knew that something was troubling him. And he needed her.

So, following instinct but leading with her heart, she gently took his trembling hand and placed over her breast. She saw his chest rise with a sharp intake of breath. Before he advanced. In a blink, his lips came crashing down on hers, plundering, while he pressed her back against the bed, body to body, desperate. His hands grasping, molding, possessing.

Her body arched, blood already racing through her veins to match his wild pace. She bit back a moan, as his mouth traveled hotly down the center of her body. I love you, Philip. That thought, that truth reverberated from her lips, through her body, in her mind, and with all of her heart.

His greedy hands streaked down to the hem of her nightgown and dragged it with his hands and lips and teeth, passed her thighs, her hips, waist, breasts, until he pulled it over her head and flung it aside. Ravenous, he tugged and discarded the little slip of cotton, until she was completely bare to him. Sensation colliding with sensation, she gave a little whimper, before his mouth ravaged hers again, while he ground himself against her. The fabric of his clothes rustled over already sensitized skin. She moaned his name against his lips, no longer worried that her parents might hear over the music. She only knew here and now. Him.

He yanked off his tank, his sore shoulder completely overridden by his need for her. He laved her skin, as he kicked off his shorts. He couldn't slow down. If he did and let in cold reality… All he wanted was her, to sink into her, and in this moment to escape time and place and just be.

When she reached for him, he caught her wrists, pinning them out to her sides, and devoured.

"Oh, Jason!" Elated, his mother greeted him at the door and pulled him into an embrace.

"Whoa, Mom," he said, awkwardly balancing his gear and patting her back, "What's going on?"

His father, dressed in his usual polyester slacks and button-down work shirt, approached from behind with a rare grin on his face. "Notre Dame, son," he bellowed. He held up a thick packet. Seal already broken. "You're in, boy. With a football scholarship. Notre Dame football." His chest puffed. "What'd the old man tell you?"

"Oh, Jason," cried his mother, giving him another hug, "I'm so proud of you."

Meanwhile, his father pulled out the letter again and preened over it.

Jason sighed. They hadn't been this happy, when he got the acceptance to Salem U. a week ago. In fact, his father shrugged it off with little comment. Only his mother hugged him and told him how proud she was. But his father… yep, his father had gotten exactly what he'd wanted. Like always. "Well, I got some studying to do." Some writing to do.

"Forget about that, son," interjected his father, "We're going out to celebrate. Katie!" He shouted up the steps after his daughter. "Katie! Get yourself down here! We're going out!"

"Naw, Dad," said Jason, clenching his jaw, "That's ok. It's no big deal."

"No big deal?" repeated his father in his booming voice, "This is Notre Dame, son. Now, let's get going."

"Look, Dad. I just don't feel like it, ok?" he gritted his teeth, his irritation beginning to show. This was his father's dream. Not his. Jason liked being close to home. Close to what he knew. "Now, I got exams coming up. I need to study." He turned toward the steps.

"Don't feel like it?" his father echoed and then threw up his hands, completely agitated.

Little Katie, her skinny frame engulfed in overalls, carefully crept down the steps, eyes wide, as she took in another family argument.

Taking no significant notice, his father continued, "Oh, that's just great. You know, for once I'd like for you to take your future seriously. Just once, damn it."

"Freddy," Jason's mother admonished at his tone and use of language.

"No, no," he shrugged her off, "He's gotta hear this." And began his tirade. Same old, same old. "You'll never amount to anything… At least, you've got football… You're lucky a school like Notre Dame wants you…"

Jason kept his mouth shut, his hands fisted in restraint. The ranting would blow over quicker, if he didn't say anything. Sooner or later, the old man would run out of hot air. Then, Jason could retreat to his room, pull out his journal, and purge his frustrations via ink and paper.

Then, his father stepped over the line. "…Your mother… she always coddled you too much. That's what it is. You think, everything gets handed to you on a silver platter, like your spoiled, no-good little friends-"

"Shut up!" exploded Jason, fuming. First, his mother. Now, his friends. It was always someone else.

"Jason!" gasped his mother.

But the dam had broken. "Shut the hell up! You don't know anything about me! Or my friends, you got that? I'm so goddamn tired-you know what?" Jason threw up his hands. "Forget this. I don't need this crap." He turned abruptly, snatching up his bag on his way to the door.

Snapping out of his shock, his father shouted, "Just who the hell do you think--where the hell do you think you're going, mister? I'm not through with you--"

"You know what?" screamed Jason in return, angry like never before. He needed to get the fuck out of this house. "Why don't you two go back to screaming at each other, like you always do, and leave me the hell alone!"

"Oh, Jason," whispered his mother tearily. This was supposed to be such a happy occasion for their family.

Instead, her son slammed the front door behind him and hurried to his car. With a growl, he started the ignition and peeled off into the night.

Philip's heart rate gradually recovered, until their breathing was in synchrony. He lay on top of her, legs entwined, still intimately locked. She ran gentle fingertips along his slick back. He inhaled that sweet lavender scent. Outside the crickets sang a summer song.

In the comforting circle of her arms, he made a trail of kisses from her ear down her neck and came across her heart-shaped locket. He'd given it to her for their first Valentine's Day. The diamond at the core winked in flawless brilliance. His eyes burned. His despair came skidding back. Inwardly screaming, he rested his cheek against the smooth skin of her chest. If he could at that moment, he'd embed himself in her. So that they'd never be apart.

She sensed the chill come over his body. Her heart twisted, when his arms tightened around her. Trembling.

He kept so much inside, she thought. He'd cried once, confessing the problems at home - the problems his parents were so sure he knew nothing about. He also told her about the pressure to be the best - to be a Kiriakis. He was so afraid of being a disappointment, most especially to his father. She ran a comforting hand over his hair. However, he'd always dismiss his own worries and concentrate on her, particularly when merciless fate struck.

But that didn't mean he didn't suffer. That didn't mean he was immune to fear. Oh, how she knew what it was to fear and fear so much, as to keep it all bottled up. Terrified of the fear. She kissed his hair, offering perhaps for the first time what he'd always given so freely to her. Unconditional love.

"It'll be alright," she finally whispered, "Whatever it is, whatever happens, we're in it together. No matter what. You taught me that, remember?"

The stereo switched cds with a smooth click. The opening act of "Aida" filled the room. She was reminded of their amazing trip to New York together and how far they'd come. So, she gave his hair another kiss, hugged him tighter, and waited.

"I got into Brown," he finally said against her throat.

She'd heard the forlorn tone in his voice. "Congratulations," she said, keeping her voice on the neutral side of light, still unsure of exactly what was bothering him, "I knew you would."

"Got rejected from Columbia and Harvard," he murmured, his lashes brushing her neck, as he closed his eyes in a mix of shame and panic.

"Well, it's their loss, then." She brushed her fingers down his back.

"I…" He rolled onto his back, his skin still tingling from the warmth of hers. "I don't think I'm going to get into Princeton."

She turned on her side and gazed down upon him. "We don't know that." She laid a reassuring hand on his chest. "Plus, you got into Brown University - one of the top schools in the country." She reached to smooth back his hair. "I know I'm proud of you. My smart, sexy jock."

He caught her hand, gripping it. "Princeton's far enough away from New York, but Brown…" He looked down at her elegant hand and brought it to his cheek.

So, that was what was troubling him. Her sweet Philip. She scooted closer, letting her skin rewarm his. "Providence, capital of the state of Rhode Island," she quipped with an informative tone, "Is approximately 180 miles away from Midtown Manhattan. Three hours by car, but less than a half hour by plane."

His eyes bulged. "How'd you…"

She smiled and caressed his face. "The internet is a wonderful thing. I can get maps and driving directions. Flight plans, even. So, I know exactly how to get to the man I love."

His heart swirled in his chest. He reached out to cup her cheek. "I don't know what I'm going to do, being so far away from you."

She leaned down, so that her hair fell from her loose braid and tickled his skin. "We're in this together," she promised, "We'll find a way."