Chapter 48

She stopped dead in her tracks. Her mouth agape in shock. "What did you just say?"

Disgusted with himself, Brady tossed aside the basketball. The orange rubber sphere bounced lamely to the grassy patch nearby. He ran his hands through his sweat-dampened hair, before he set them jerkily on his hips. "I said," he reiterated, raising his chin a bit, "I'm in love with you." When her eyes only widened and her complexion paled, he shook his head and sighed heavily. "Great. Just great," he muttered, "That must've charmed the shit out of you."

"Brady, I…" Had no idea? Was that true? Her mouth closed to ponder. The birds chirped around them in the late morning sun. This was so surreal. Then, she looked nervously back up at him. And for the first time in her memory, beneath the mocking, pompous, and resentful exterior of those electric blue eyes shimmered vulnerability. The kind that came from countless disappointments and heartaches. The kind that her own once-battered soul recognized. What could she say to him? "Brady, I… really don't know what to say." And that was the bald truth.

He closed his eyes, his jaw clenched, and he let out a breath, trying to compose himself. What reaction had he expected? That she'd throw herself into his arms and… He opened his eyes and let out another breath. "Well, I guess that says it all." Or rather her face said it all. It'd passed briefly, but undoubtedly it'd been there. That look of regret. That look of pity.

He appeared so alone, then. And her heart lurched, sensing his hurt, knowing that this time she was the cause. She opened her mouth again to speak, but no words came forth. Her mind was wiped clean. Dazed, she shook her head. "I can't believe that this is happening," she thought aloud.

"What?" he retorted, trying to gather the dregs of his pride, "That someone besides Kiriakis would be attracted to you? Would want you?"

She frowned. Philip. "I'm sorry, Brady, but-"

"I know," he interjected, his lip in a slight sneer, "Dear ole uncle Phil. I think we've played this scene before."

She sighed, remembering that fateful day on the docks. And nodded. "I love him."

"How could you not, right?" he said, rolling his eyes, all the while mocking himself, "He's handsome and sensitive and loaded and would do anything for you. Hell, his mug shot should be in some fairy tale book." He made a point to gesture high in the air, while her frown deepened. "Prince Philip Kiriakis," he scoffed, "Complete with costume and accessories. All he needs is the crown."

"What?" She froze. "What did you say?"

"Don't forget the royal chariot," he rambled on to an invisible audience around them, "Oh, what the hell. The guy's got a fifty-car garage. What's an outdated wagon and some horses, when you got a Lamborghini?" He was about to chuckle at his own sardonic joke, when she grabbed him by the lapels. "Oh, Lady Chloe, I didn't know you cared-"

"What did you mean by that?" she demanded, "What did you mean about the costume?"

His brows furrowed, before the light dawned. "Ah, Prince Charming didn't tell you about our little talk at the party, huh?"

Her complexion paled further. "It was you."

He tilted his head, as she released her grip and backed away. "Or maybe he did."

"I knew he was upset about something," she murmured into her fingers, "Something had upset him." Reflexively, she looked down at her hand. His hand. He'd hurt his hand, the shards of the crushed cup cutting into his tender skin. Then, in the bathroom, after she'd tended to his injuries… He'd almost been… desperate, holding her, telling her how much he loved her. Her eyes, darkening to an accusing and fiery hue, flickered back to Brady's. "It was you. You said something to him." When Brady remained silent, she demanded, "What did you say to him?"

He cocked a brow, deciding to remain cool. According to his sister, Belle, no one had ever seen Chloe at her most dangerous. The mysterious longhaired beauty always retreated, before anyone could witness the explosion. No doubt in his mind, Chloe Lane was his soul mate. However, Brady wasn't sure, if he honestly wanted to see the female version of his own temper. "Nothing he didn't know already." When her hands fisted at her sides, his lips quirked. No doubt about it. They were connected. It was only a matter of time, before she'd see it. "Do you really think that he has a clue about you? About what you need?"

"And do you," she growled, "In the nanoseconds that we've spent in each other's company honestly think that you have a clue about me or my relationship with Philip?"

"Come on, Chloe," he cajoled, as always growing calmer as the opposition grew more agitated, "Let's get real here. Philip doesn't know Puccini from linguini, probably thinks a g-clef is some kind of kinky lingerie, and the only Italian the guy knows is Armani, Versace, and Ferrari."

"Oh, I get it," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, "This is about you knowing opera and Philip not. I guess you're under the assumption that opera's all there is to me. Is that what you think? That if you know opera, you know Chloe Lane? So, maybe if I follow your deluded logic, then that means that if I know acid rock, I know all about Brady Black. Hey, you know what?" she said sarcastically, "Maybe Shawn Brady's the wrong guy for Belle. He doesn't know a thing about cheerleading."

"What I'm saying, Chloe," he said, eyes narrowing, "Is that music's your passion. Music was there, when no one else was. It's a big part of who you are. The right guy for you should know something about it."

"Well, I agree with one thing. Music is a big part of who I am. That's why I'm going to New York to study it. But it's not all I am. And thank God, it's not all I have anymore."

"No, it's not," he returned, sighing, "But that's the other point. You can't tell me that Phil knows anything about what it's like to grow up without his mom. You can't play that off, like it's no big deal."

"Yeah, being without my mother was hard," she conceded and then cocked a brow, "Probably not quite the same as Philip being without his father for so long, but we seem to deal with that little difference well enough." She shook her head. "Everyone goes through pain, Brady. You and I don't have the monopoly on that. It's what we do with that pain that makes the difference." And therein lay the main difference between her and Brady.

"Go ahead, Chloe. Make yourself think what you want to think. You and I both know that we're soul mates. We've lived the same shitty childhood and got through it the same way. We stayed tough and had our music. We didn't latch onto fairy tales. Do you really think that this is you? The good little homemaker, baking cookies and knitting booties? Obediently standing by her man?" He shook his head. "Mark my words. Someday you're gonna finally wake up and see that dear ole uncle Phil has no idea who you are or what it takes to make you happy."

"You're unbelievable, do you know that?" she said, shaking her head. "Do you really think that someone has to live your identical hell to understand you? To empathize? I might not be the world's foremost expert on love and relationships, and neither - might I add - are you, Brady Black. But I know that Philip loves me and I love him. And he does make me happy, happier than I've ever been in my life. I don't feel guilted or pressured to be something I'm not. I feel like I'm myself around him, more myself than I've ever been with anyone. And at the same time, yes, I've changed, and yes, because of him. And you know what? I like who I've become."

She blinked. Did she just say that? That she liked who she'd become? Who she was? She rubbed her hand to her chest and stood silent for a moment. And realized then that indeed her heart felt lighter. And empowered over the shackles of her childhood. She looked back to Brady, who only stood there, shaking his head incredulously. She was happy, but he wasn't. "I love Philip, Brady. Nothing you say or do will change that. Because what matters is how I feel. I'm sorry that it had to be this way." And she meant that sincerely. She never liked love triangles in stories. She most certainly never imagined herself as part of one. Nonetheless, like all triangles unfortunately, someone always ended up hurt. "Goodbye, Brady."

Still shaking his head, Brady replied. "Sure, Chloe."

She sighed. Then, she turned and walked away.

"Damn, I'm beat," mumbled Shawn, as the truck pulled to the curb in front of his house after nightfall.

"Yeah," agreed Phil from the cramped backseat and rubbed his eyes, "Good thing the trip home is always faster."

"Thanks, dudes," said Jason, resting his wrists on the wheel, "For coming with me to check the place out."

"No prob, man," assured Shawn and exchanged a caveman handshake with him, "The place is nice. And the stadium…"

"Yeah," his friends echoed. Each had been awestruck just looking through the chain-link fence. The Notre Dame football stadium. It was like a legend. The freshly shorn grass had smelled so sweet and looked so pristine with perfect stark yardlines and endzones. Two huge scoreboards. Seating for over 80,000.

Phil had almost gotten teary. He knew that Ivy League football didn't come close. He sighed. And Brown wasn't exactly the crème of the crop, when it came to the sport.

"Yeah," continued Shawn, "I could definitely see you there, buddy." He gave Jase a good pat on the back.

Jason passed off a shrug. It simply wouldn't do right now to get too excited. He had to remember that Notre Dame was the old man's dream. Not his. No matter how magical that field was.

"Well," began Phil, before he stretched out, only for his knuckles to encounter the car's vinyl ceiling, "Indiana was awesome, dudes." He began to gather his things, scattered across the backseat. He stuffed trash into a discarded plastic bag. He smiled, when he picked up one empty paperbag in particular. The cookies hadn't made it passed fifteen minutes. Of course, they'd had to stop for drinks to watch it all down. His smile widened. In more of a rush than before, he stuffed the remaining trash into the plastic bag and then picked up two bags from the floor. One held a couple of souvenirs from the school of the Fighting Irish. And the other held something silly for his girl.

"See you guys tomorrow," said Shawn, picking up his own bags of gifts. One held fresh ears of corn for his mother, while another held interesting Indiana trinkets. He pushed the heavy door open and hopped out.

He was soon followed by Philip, who crawled out of the backseat. On the way back, they'd switched for shotgun. Phil stretched out his legs a bit and rotated his neck. Then, he gave a hasty salute. "Later, dudes."

His friends waved goodbye. "Yo, Phil!" called out Jason from the driver's seat. "Say hi to Chloe for us."

Philip's lips split into a grin, unphased by the chuckles that broke out behind him. The truck honked in farewell and rumbled off. Shawn gave a final wave, before he disappeared into his house. Philip dug into his pockets and found his keys. He disarmed his red convertible and deposited his bags in the trunk. And found himself whistling.

He'd dreamt on the way back to Salem. He dozed off and dreamt of exquisite blue eyes and a waterfall of wavy tresses. And it didn't help that he could still smell her on his clothes. Her shampoo in his hair. His buddies had given him a good ribbing on that one. But he'd taken it all in stride. Especially since he knew how the lavender got into his clothes and hair in the first place.

He slipped into his car. The engine roared to life. He'd just drop by, he decided. He backed out of the driveway. To tell her about the trip and give her her gift. He missed her, he realized, as he stopped at the first stop sign. They'd only had a day apart, but after late August, when it was time to go to college, he wouldn't be able to just drop in on a moment's whim, like he wanted to now. The car smoothly changed lanes. He'd be over a hundred and eighty miles away from her. Missing her. He sighed, as he turned onto her street. When the car glided up to the curb, he spotted two matching Mercedes in the driveway. Well, the Wesleys were home. Which meant Philip would have to take the unconventional route up to see her.

So, he parked inconspicuously behind an oak tree and climbed out of the car. He was already gravitating toward that second story window, before he remembered to retrieve the bag out of the trunk. What a girl did to a guy, he chuckled at himself. He stepped cautiously onto the front walkway, when he spotted a fluffy blue robed figure curled up on the corner porch bench. As he drew closer, he saw her turn the page of her opera magazine, engrossed. Her damp hair was twirled up atop her head. Her face was shiny and clean of makeup.

Approaching the base of the porch steps, he grinned. "Hey, gorgeous." A dimple winked, when she jumped a bit. "Come here often?"

"Philip!" her hand on her thundering heartbeat. The boy could sneak up on a panther. "You're back."

"Just got in a couple minutes ago," he said, sighing, when she stood to hug him in greeting. She felt so good. She smelled phenomenal. "You miss me?"

In reply, she pressed her lips to his. "How was Notre Dame?" She led him back to the bench, giggling when he pulled her into his lap.

"It was cool. Think Jase liked it, too. But he's still kinda pissed at his dad. You should've seen the campus, though. And the stadium… Amazing." He was about to reach up and play with a stray tendril of hair, when he realized he still had the bag in his hand. He grinned, "Hey, check this out," and pulled out the small tablet of wood.

Focusing in on the object through the dim light, she cocked her head in curiosity. Then, burst into laughter.

"Hey!" he chuckled, feigning offense, "You're supposed to go, 'Aw, Philip. How sweet.'"

Stifling some of her laughter, she dutifully reached out to trace the colorful kernels of dry corn, arranged and superglued in the outline of a heart. Inscribed in bright yellow kernels was "P & C 4ever." She bit her bottom lip to try to achieve somewhat of a straight face. "Aw, Philip. How sweet." And it was. Ridiculously silly, but sweet. "I'll treasure it always." And reached to take it, when he pulled it teasingly away.

"Hey, who said it was for you?" He slanted her a sly grin, before he held it at an arm's length to inspect it. "You think, Cook will like it?" He laughed, when she gave his ribs an admonishing poke. "Ok, maybe it was for you," he admitted, surrendering it to her eager hands. "Don't know why I bothered, if you're gonna laugh at it."

"I wasn't laughing at it," she replied, tilting it, so she could see it better in the dim porch light, "I was laughing at you." Before he could respond with a worthy comeback, she leaned in to give him a kiss. She let the corn plaque fall between them, before she wound her arms around his neck and continued to convey her gratitude in silence. Breaths ragged, they pulled apart, resting their foreheads against each other. "Thank you," she said softly.

A dimple flashed. "You're welcome." He watched, as she picked up the message of corn to put it safely aside. Her movements shifted her robe, revealing a smooth expanse of skin from the neck down. Hmm, he wondered. Was she wearing anything underneath that robe? His muscles twitched in response. He sighed. Scalpel, Kiriakis. Her dad, who was dangerously in the vicinity, wielded a scalpel. "So, what're you reading?"

"Hmm? Oh," she remembered now, "An article about the next Maria Callas. She might play 'Madame Butterfly' at the Met next season."

"Yeah?" he said, twirling a loose tress around his finger, "If she does, we're definitely there."

"Really?" she smiled.

"Yeah. This prima donna's gotta be pretty good, if they're comparing her to a legend. And it's only one of your all-time favorite operas." He tugged affectionately on her hair. "Besides, it's about time I see what you've been raving about. Gonna be weird, though, seeing a chick that's supposed to be Japanese sing in Italian."

She chuckled. He really had picked up quite a bit about opera, hadn't he? Her sweet jock. She wasn't the only one, who had changed this past year. Her smile froze. She remembered. She looked down at her hand that had naturally rested over his heart. It thumped steady and strong beneath her palm. She took a breath. "I spoke with Brady today."

Philip stiffened. "What?" He hadn't meant for his voice to turn so harsh. But this was the first time she'd brought up that bastard's name, since…

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, looking back up to meet his eyes.

His eyes widened a bit, confused. Angry. "Didn't tell you what?" His hand dropped from her hair to fall to his side. Fisted. He looked away. That image in the solarium was still burned into his mind.

Watching him, she said, "That he was at the costume party that night. That he said something to you."

His eyes flickered back to hers in surprise. This tangent he hadn't expected. Then, he sighed. Then, he gave a broken shrug.

"Ah," she sighed, "Now, I get it. So, you can beat people up, when someone tries to hurt me. But I can't do the same for you?"

His eyes popped open. "What?" Now, he was completely confounded.

"You heard me." She cocked a brow and crossed her arms over chest, but made a point to stay exactly where she was. Right by his side. Or on his lap, as it were. "Well, you can just forget about that, Mister. This is the twenty-first century, and I can bitch-slap people with the best of them. Especially if someone messes with someone I love. Are we clear?"

After the shock wore off, his lips twitched and then stretched into a goofy grin. "Yes, ma'am." When she broke into a dazzling smile, he pulled her into his arms and held on. That painful image dissipating from his thoughts. "God, I love you."

She closed her eyes, taking in the embrace and him. She sighed, "Good answer."

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Jason quietly entered his house. Man, was he bushed. All he needed was a warm shower and then maybe a snack from the kitchen, before he turned in for the night. But he heard the tv blare from the living room. Baseball game. Dad. He sighed. He turned toward the steps. Maybe if he could just duck upstairs, before his father saw him…

"Oh hi, honey!"

With a silent curse, Jason turned. "Hey, Mom."

She sat on a living room chair, crocheting. And gave a hopeful smile.

But his face revealed nothing. Except discomfort, as father and son achieved fleeting eye contact, before each gaze flittered away. Too proud and too afraid to be the first to extend the olive branch. Jason's mother sighed. And strained another smile. "Have you had supper?"

"Uh, no," her son muttered, feeling the weight of the bag on his shoulder.

"Why don't you go wash up, while I reheat some chicken and potatoes?"

"Ok." He turned and ran upstairs, inwardly relieved to escape the tension. Two and half months, Jase, he told himself. Two and a half more months and he'd be out of here. He approached his room and then veered to the door diagonally across from his. He softly knocked. A little voice answered and he let himself in. "Hey, munchkin."

"Hi," greeted his sister, who was already in her favorite pajamas and reading a bubble gum teen magazine. "Did you like the school?"

"It was alright," he replied, "But, hey, I gotcha something."

"You did?" She sat up in bed, her emerald eyes excitedly watching him pull out a bright green jester's hat with green and white pom-poms at the three pointed tips. She giggled, when he plopped it on her head.

"You like it?" He grinned and sat at the foot of her bed.

Peeking out from beneath the nutty hat, she smiled and nodded. "You liked it, didn't you?"

Chuckling, he plucked at a pom-pom. "Sure, I liked it. That's why I got it for you."

"No," she said, as emerald met evergreen, "You liked the school. Notre Dame."

He was about to brush off the notion again, when Katie crawled over to hug him.

"I'll miss you," she spoke softly, "But I'm really happy for you."

Humming to himself, Philip closed the trunk, after he hefted his duffel and Indiana bag over his shoulder. She loved him, he smiled. She really loved him.

She'd first uttered those three remarkable words six months ago. That day after he'd thought the world had ended. After that night in the solarium. After Brady. She'd come to his house - another amazing first - and told him that she loved him - Philip Kiriakis. And in a wink, he'd gone from blubbering depression to dreamlike bliss. And in those months following, he'd fallen in love with her all over again - harder than the first time, if that were possible.

But that traumatizing night had still haunted him. He hadn't known one could feel such pain. That giving someone his heart meant giving her the power to tear it to pieces. And his heart remembered, insidiously tormented by the images and hurt etched in his mind. That night had haunted him, but tonight… tonight…

He smiled. She was really his. And his heart knew.

He stepped from the garage into his house. His parents had probably retired for the night. To their separate bedrooms. He shook away that thought. No. No sad thoughts tonight. Chloe. Tonight, she was all that mattered. He emerged through a set of solid mahogany doors into the expansive marble foyer. His sneakered feet were about to bound up the steps to his room, when he heard angry muffled voices from nearby.

He told himself to block it out. Nothing could touch him tonight.

Then, he heard a whimper.

His brows drew together. He dropped his bags at the base of the staircase and followed the sound. And next to a doorway was his little nephew hugging fiercely his beloved teddy bear and cowering.

"That's right, loser. I want a divorce," shouted a sharp female voice from behind those doors, "I want my money and a divorce from you. Pronto. Unless," her voice slithered, "You want me to let on what you and mommy dearest have been up to."

"Y-You think, you're sho damn shm-smart, don't you, Nicole?" his voice slurred, barely comprehensible, "Y-You never l-loved me. You-you were j-just in it for the money. You're-you're nothing but a ch-cheap whore!"

"Cheap?" she cackled, "You wish, Lucas!"

Standing outside the door, Philip ground his teeth. Damn them. Didn't they get it? Didn't they freaking get it? His eyes locked onto the eight-year-old boy, shrinking with each syllable. With little imagination, the boy's hair could've been blond instead of brown. Eyes blue instead of… Philip took a breath.

"Hey, little buddy." He knelt down before the quivering young boy. "Will, your dad and Nicole… they love you, ok?" Philip felt the bile rise in his throat at the half-lie. "But… but this is grown-up stuff. Between your dad and Nicole." It's not about you, Henderson had said. So, never you mind this, Master Philip. "They gotta work it out on their own."

Philip held out a hand. To Will. To the child, cheated out of that fragile innocence.

"Come on, buddy."

A trembling little hand placed itself in his. Those wide, tear-filled brown eyes stared up unblinkingly at him.

Gently, Philip led him out of earshot. "Hey…" he paused in mid-stride and took an exaggerated sniff of the air. "You smelling what I'm smelling?"

The child blinked, before he took a tentative sniff as well. Then, he looked toward the kitchens.

"Yep," nodded his uncle with a small smile, "I think you're right." He bent down to pick Will up, teddy bear and all. "Let's go check out what Cook is making. What do you say?"

Later, with a nephew tucked in and a bellyful of pastries and milk, an exhausted Philip crawled into bed and zonked out the moment his face hit the pillow. He didn't see the mail on his desk until the next morning.

"…And it's just fifteen minutes from the beach. Oh, Meems, it was so beautiful."

Taking in the late morning sunshine, her friend smiled. "So, it'll be me and Chloe in New York and you all the way on the West Coast, huh?"

Nearby, Shawn and Jason held a lazy pebble-skipping contest on the pond's surface. It was a beautiful Sunday morning and the gang had agreed to meet up under the weeping willow tree in Salem Park. Only a little under two weeks of school to go. Only two weeks until the Last Blast.

Belle bit her lip and fiddled absently with her doll's gold yarn hair. In actuality, the doll in her lap was a dry ear of corn dressed up as a cheerleader. "Well… I don't know yet. My mom and I are going to see UIC and UMich tomorrow."

"You know, I'm jealous," said Mimi, as she adjusted her new leprechaun hat atop her head. The plush four-leaf clover jiggled with each movement. She knew the thing looked ridiculous, but this was the first gift she'd ever gotten. From a guy. "You get to ditch school, fly on a private jet, and spend a day in Chicago and Ann Arbor."

Belle sighed. "It feels like it's all going by so fast, you know? I kinda wish I could be there, you know, at school. With you guys."

"It's only a day, Belle," Mimi assured, giving a gentle nudge with her shoulder, "Plus, we've got the whole summer. Hey," she leaned in conspiratorially, "I hear, Philip's talking about taking Chloe to some private island. What do you think? You think, maybe he'll let us tag along?"

"Hi, guys!" Just arrived, Chloe plopped down beside her friends. "How was California?"

Meanwhile, a pebble skipped a record twelve times. "So, when ya gonna tell your folks?"

Jason shrugged and sent another stone frolicking across the water. "Whenever."

"Well, sooner or later they're gonna figure it out," remarked his friend, who bent down to select another suitably flat rock. "Like when you gotta pack early for pre-season training. The green jersey's gonna kinda tip 'em off."

Jason shrugged. Whatever. He looked up. "Hey, K-Man! What's up?"

Trotting in slightly winded, Philip replied, "Hey, dudes," and exchanged some rather sloppy grunts and punches with his buddies. Then, he turned abruptly and walked over to the girls, seated on the grass. "Hey, guys. Uh, Chloe, could I talk to you for a minute?"

His girlfriend blinked at his strange tone. His expression was serious and somewhat anxious. "Um, sure." She accepted his hand and rose.

Curious, Shawn and Jason wandered over to the group, as they watched the couple walk off behind the trees. Each boy sat across from his respective girl. "What's up with them?"

The girls exchanged clueless glances and shrugged.

A moment later, a scream cut the air. They jolted, scrambling to find out what was the matter. They broke through the trees to a small clearing, where they found their friends, Philip and Chloe. With his arms bound tightly around her, Philip held her close. And spun her round and round, her feet suspended in the air. And they were laughing.

"Oh, Philip," cried Chloe with tears streaming down her cheeks, "I knew you would. I just knew it."

He chuckled and hugged her tighter. In jubilation. "Princeton. Here I come."