High Dive

Thanks to my editors, Hale1, Findegil (who also wrote part of this) and The Costermonger.

*****

The headlights flashed across my bedroom window, the sudden illumination waking me, making me aware that she was home. I waited for the sound of the front door and her footfall on the stairs. I peeked at the clock. It was 2:00 AM. Buckley was late, even for her.

She was my houseguest for the summer. We'd been friends since the third grade. My father worked for NASA, and we moved to San Jacinto, California, the summer between my second and third grade. Dad was putting up one of those forts built out of treated lumber in the back yard and I was "helping." I'm fairly certain my "help" extended the man-hours required to put up that fort by about half, but Dad was a very patient man.

We were putting the striped tarp roof on when I noticed a girl watching us across the back fence. I didn't much care for girls. This one had the whitest hair I'd ever seen on anyone I didn't consider "very old." I guess it would be called blonde, but it just looked white to me. Dad saw her about the same time I did.

"Go introduce yourself, son," he said. "She must be our neighbor."

I didn't want to introduce myself; I was terrified of girls, but I knew he wouldn't let it go. I climbed down out of the fort and slowly made my way back to the fence. It was chain-link, and she was easy to see through it. The second thing I noticed, after the hair, was her eyes. They were grey, pale grey, and they had bluish tints to them. I would later learn that they changed hue, depending on her mood. They looked frosty and nearly as white as her hair just then.

When I got about five feet from the fence, she backed up a step. "Hi, I'm Blake," I said. "Blake Rider."

She laughed, and the world spun on its axis. It never realigned for me. "I'm Buckley," she said. "Buckley Smythe." It sounded like Smith to me, and I never knew it wasn't until our first day of school, when I saw it written for the first time.

"Are you going to let me play on your fort?" she asked.

"Sure," I said. "When do you want to play?"

"How about now?" she said.

I glanced back at Dad. "Dad, is it all right if Buckley comes over to play?" I called.

"Sure, we need to try this thing out," he called back.

"Do you need to ask your parents or anything?" I asked her.

"Nah, they don't care." She shrugged as she said it. "They aren't home, anyway. My dad doesn't live with us and my mom stayed out last night. She hasn't come home yet."

It was two PM! She'd been alone all night and all day?

That was the beginning of our friendship, and it never changed. Her mom used drugs and was the town slut, although I had no idea what a slut was, at that time. Buckley never seemed affected by anything. She stayed with us so much people thought we were related. Most of the happy memories of my childhood have Buckley as a central player.

That ash-blonde hair never changed, nor did her eyes. By the time we were sophomores in high school, she had grown into a stunning young woman. She was tall and graceful, moving like the athlete she was. She played volleyball and softball, and when we played pick-up baseball games with the neighborhood kids, she was a coveted player. She was left-handed and played first base. She could hit with the boys, and I was as proud of her as if she had been my sister.

By the time we were in the eighth grade, my feelings for her were decidedly unbrotherly. I was in love with her. She grew full-figured. Not fat, or chunky, by any means, but she had wide hips, a very narrow waist and her breasts! They were the cause of many a hastily-suppressed erection from me, and most boys and men who saw her. She had a legendary ass, full, firm, round and muscular. Every part of her screamed sensuality in foot-high neon letters. Her face was gorgeous; framed by that light hair, those eyes were striking. Her cheekbones were high, her nose small and aquiline, sprinkled with a few freckles, and her lips were full and naturally red.

The time we spent outdoors and at the beach turned her as brown as a surfer. When she stopped growing, she was five-nine, and I shot up to six-three between my freshman and sophomore years.

I was in love, and she thought of me as her best friend. I was, but I wanted to be so much more. I was nearly insane with wanting her all through middle school and high school, but I was firmly in the friend zone. She was maddeningly close, but might as well have been on the moon. She was very physical with me; I guess she thought I was safe. We cuddled on the couch in the den, watching cheesy horror flicks on late night cable, she hugged me every time she saw me and we were together more than we were apart.

We both dated. It was always other people. Mine was the shoulder she cried on when she saw her first boyfriend at Dairy Queen with another girl. I was the one who comforted her when her mother disappeared for a week at a time, doing her drug binges and orgies.

I was the one she told about giving her virginity to some douche-bag who dumped her a week later for some new conquest, and I held her as she cried. My heart was shattered. So was Greg Jordan's ego and nose by the time I got through with him.

I never told her how I felt. Her friendship was the most precious thing I had; how could I risk it? I waited, staying close, cherishing every minute she spent with me, and there were plenty.

She set me up with her girlfriends, and I never lacked a date. I could have got them on my own; I was the captain of our baseball team and all state for three years at basketball, but I dated some beauties because of her.

My parents loved her as if she was their second child, and when we graduated, they sent us on a weeklong trip to Spain. We had a great time during the day, and at night I suffered in silence as I heard her groans of passion with whatever Casanova she had picked up.

I had a scholarship to UC Santa Barbara and she went to junior college. We drifted apart during the school year, only reconnecting during the summers until she transferred to UCLA. When we graduated from college, I had an undergraduate degree in biochemistry and she had one in hotel/restaurant management. I went to Cal Poly to get my masters and PhD, and she went to work. We still got together when I came home from school and her busy work schedule allowed.

She was becoming a big deal with a large hotel chain; I went to work for Dapco Chemical. In two years, I was the head of my department and the only way up was to relocate. The headquarters was in Tampa, Florida, and they offered me a position that would set me up for life.

I went home and talked to Mom and Dad. Dad had long since retired, and Mom had retired from teaching. They were very supportive, and the only thing left to do was talk to Buckley.

I called her and she invited me over for dinner. I drove down and when she opened the door, she was even more stunning than the last time I had seen her. She had on torn jeans and a t-shirt with the tail tied up, leaving her navel bare. She also had a tiny little diamond stud in one nostril. That was new. She hugged me tightly and just snuggled in for a long time. She was obviously not wearing a bra, and the feel of those amazing breasts against my chest was very nearly embarrassing. Luckily, she moved away just as my pants were beginning to tent.

She had made these lettuce roll-ups with spicy chicken and beef to go in them. We sat on her couch in the living room and put our feet up as we ate. The years melted away and it was as if we were 10 again, sitting in the den in my parents' basement.

I told her that I had accepted a position in Florida and that I'd be leaving in two weeks. Those eyes went icy blue and filled with tears. "God, Blake, I can't believe this," she said, her voice breaking. "You're leaving me? What am I going to do?"

"You're going to do just what you've always done," I told her. "What have you done every year for the last ten? I was at one place and you were at another. You were just fine."

"Yes, but I always knew where you were," she was sobbing, now. "I always knew that you were coming back! You've been the rock in my life, Blake. I always knew that if I needed you, you would come, or I could go to you and everything would be okay."

"It will still be like that," I said. "I'll still come home to visit. Mom and Dad still live here. Maybe you could even come and see me. We can call, text, Skype, whatever. We'll stay in touch."

"But it's freaking Florida!" She was upset, and my heart was breaking, but it was time. I knew, at this point, that all we were ever going to be was best friends, and I needed to move on with my life, as she always had.

We had quite the tearful farewell, and two weeks later, I was in Tampa. I threw myself into the work and got up to speed with the things I needed to learn. Six months later, I bought a house. I was making more money than I ever dreamed possible, and when we finished our research on a new blood pressure medication, my bonus was high six figures.

I found the place I wanted. It was brick, with those tall white pillars in the front, on ten acres. It had six bedrooms, eight bathrooms and an Olympic size pool. That may seem like quite a bit of overkill for a single guy, but I wanted Dad and Mom to stay with me if they visited, and my parties had lots of sleepovers. There was even a high dive platform! I swam every day and had become a pretty good diver. I entertained constantly and had my share of beauties sunning themselves around the pool every weekend.

I flew back to California about every six months and Buckley and I always found a day or two to spend together. She was seriously dating some hotel tycoon whom I hated, of course. She'd always gone through boyfriends like a revolving door, but this seemed like more of a deal. He was as jealous as hell and seemed to think there could be no way that Buckley and I could be just friends.

The third time I went back he called and asked to meet me for lunch. Evidently, he got my phone number from Buckley. Our conversation didn't go well. The prick actually had the nerve to threaten me. He had a couple of goons there for muscle and I guess he thought I was as big a coward as he was. He may have read me right when it came to telling Buckley how I felt, but he didn't intimidate me at all.

"I want you to stay away from Buckley," he told me.

"I would think that would be up to her," I said.

"No one gives a damn what you think," he snarled. "I'm telling you to go back to your hole in the swamp and stay there. She's got a man in her life, and she doesn't need some loser like you hanging around."

I walked away, with him and his posse following along, cursing at me the whole way to the car. I was supposed to meet Buckley that night for dinner, but I just got on a flight and went home, two days early.

She must have called while we were in the air because I had two messages from her when I turned my phone back on in the airport. The first was concerned, wondering if I was okay. The second was the pissed off version. I could imagine her eyes getting that green flame in them that came up when she was angry.

"Okay, Blake, there had better be a damn good reason you stood me up and didn't even bother to call. Call me when you get this. I don't give a damn what time it is. Call me!"

I was no fool, and I wasn't about to risk my ears on a phone call. I sent her a text, coward that I was. "Ask your boyfriend."

I didn't hear from her for two days. It was Friday, and at two AM, my doorbell rang. I pulled my pillow over my head and went back to sleep. The damn bell kept ringing and that went on for thirty minutes, interspersed with pounding on the door. I groaned, rolled out of bed and put on my robe. I stumbled downstairs and peered out. I couldn't see a thing. I turned on the porch light and peered out again through the peephole. It was Buckley. She looked pissed!

I opened the door. "What..." was all I managed to get out before she stepped forward and slapped the shit out of me. Damn, she could hit!

"You bastard!" she yelled. I managed to catch her arm before she could get Biblical on me with the other cheek, and pulled her up against me, holding her tightly so she couldn't get an arm free to beat on me. She struggled fiercely for a minute, and then she burst out into tears.

"Twenty years, Blake! Twenty fucking years you've been my best friend. I've loved you for twenty fucking years!" She was yelling up into my face. "Now you stand me up for dinner, run away like a fucking little boy and don't even call me. You sent me a Goddamn text, telling me to ask my 'boyfriend' why you left! Don't you think you owe me an explanation in person? Not a fucking text, not a Goddamn phone call! You don't get to just throw me away! You... you... Asshole!" She began to struggle again.

I felt lower than worm shit. "I'm sorry, Buckley, okay? I'm sorry. I know I should have... I know, okay? I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I was so pissed off, I just lost my cool. The bastard threatened me! Told me to stay away from you. I thought... hell, I don't know what I thought. I mean, I didn't like him, but if you did, I wasn't going to ... Oh, hell. I'm sorry."

She was just sobbing. "I know what happened," she burrowed her face into my chest. "I had to beat it out of him. I never told him to do that, Blake. I would never... How could you think..." She just kept crying.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. "Why didn't you just call?"

"Because I'm not a fucking coward!" Her eyes were flashing that green again. "I quit my job, dumped that asshole and I'm moving out here. I can't stand this, Blake. I need you. I've got money saved. I'm taking the summer off, and then I'm going to take the Florida hotel industry by storm!"

I was dumbstruck, to say the least. She was moving? To Florida? What the hell? I looked and saw two suitcases on the porch. She was serious!

"Buckley, are you staying with me?" I asked her.

"Yes, if that's okay," she said. "Can I stay with you, Blake?"

"God yes," I managed to stammer. "Let's get your suitcases."

Buckley became my houseguest, which is where I started this story. It was driving me crazy. She was a party animal. There was a revolving door of men, in and out of her life and my house. We went out two or three nights a week and she would find someone she was interested in, I would find someone, or not, and she'd show up in the wee hours of the morning. She might be alone, she might not. Threesomes with another woman didn't seem to bother her a bit. That was new. I'd never known she was bi. Sometimes her chosen companion of the night would be some beautiful woman, sometimes some playboy. She was the consummate hedonist.

It was deja vu all over again, as if we were back in high school. I lived on a roller coaster. On the one hand, Buckley lived with me and I saw her every day. On the other hand, there was the agony of seeing her and knowing she was beyond my reach. I felt manic, all the time. She had all her stuff shipped, and I was helping her find a place for it all. I noticed our senior yearbook. She kept everything. I looked inside the front page and there I saw what she had written, her block letters oddly formed, as always. "Buckley&Blake: For life." My eyes got misty and she was behind me, running her fingers over the letters, pressed against my back.

"That's us," she said. "The BB's."

I chuckled at that childhood name she'd given us. It still had a ring.

"What are we doing tonight?" she asked.

"I don't know what you're doing," I said. "I'm planning a quiet dinner, a good book and early bed."

Her lips made a cute little pout. "Blake is an old man," she giggled. "Sounds good, but I'm going to liven that up a little."

Her idea of livening it up was two bottles of wine with dinner. I was buzzed pretty good, reading my book with her curled up against me watching something mindless on Netflix. I went to bed while she was still watching.

I got up for a drink and a visit to the bathroom at some point in the night. The curtains of my bedroom were open, soft lights reflected from the pool through the sheer panel, shimmering in the moonlight. I saw movement and peered out. It was Buckley, dancing in the moonlight on the high dive platform, her earphones on, naked in the night. She was some sylph or dryad out of legend. She'd been in the water and her body glistened. It was beautiful, spectacular. I stood, watching her for nearly half an hour. She was dancing, but it was to someone else's song. It always had been. I sighed and went back to bed. Sleep was a long time coming.

Two weeks later, I awakened to those headlights illuminating the room. The door never made a sound and I got up to look outside. She was there by the pool, her hair silver in the moonlight. This time she wasn't alone. There was some Greek god looking guy with her. She was lying back on a chaise with the Adonis between her thighs, her head thrown back, and a look of ecstasy on her face as his was hidden by those eternally long legs. I didn't want to watch. I didn't want to invade her privacy, for one thing, and the idea of her being with someone else broke my heart. Again. I couldn't go on like this. I knew I was going to have to do something.

I built the tension in myself for another week, composing speeches, memorizing them and discarding them before I finished memorizing them. It was another of those nights. She curled up against me, making my blood sing and my heart ache.

When I went to bed I lay there, cursing myself for my inaction and watching the shadows move. I realized one of them was moving rhythmically. It was Buckley, up there on that platform with her earphones on. Flashbacks filled my mind of the times we'd danced together, teaching each other not to step on our partner's feet and laughing hysterically every time we tripped. I thought about holding her in my arms on prom night before she went back to her date for the evening. I couldn't take any more.

I pulled on a pair of shorts and walked downstairs, out the open sliding door and stood there, watching her. Those flashbacks came again, almost there, almost touching in my mind. The nights I stood at the window, waiting for her to come home. The stars were out, a million fires burning, and there she was, dancing naked with her headphones on the high dive platform. Dancing to someone else's song. I don't know how long I stood there before she saw me. Her headphones came down and her arms crossed over her breasts.

"Blake, what are you doing?" Her voice was liquid in the darkness.

"Come down, Buckley," I said.

"No," she shook her head.

"Come down or I'm coming up," I said.

"No!" There was a hint of anxiety in her voice. "What's wrong? I'll come down. Throw me a towel."

I walked over to the wicker basket that held the towels. They were neatly rolled, and I threw one up to her. She wrapped it around herself and came hesitantly down the ladder.

She looked at me with some alarm in those pale eyes, and I took her hand, pulling her to me until we were face to face.

"Blake?" Her voice was timorous. "You're kind of worrying me here. Are you okay?"

I found my voice. "No, Buckley, I'm not okay," I said. I scooped her up in my arms and started carrying her back into the house. She was heavy, all that softness and heat in my arms, and she put her arms around my neck, holding on to me.

"Blake?"

I said nothing, carrying her into the house, up the stairs into my bedroom. She began to tense up, her arms trembling. "What are you doing?"

I put her on the bed and took away her towel. She gasped and crossed her arms over her breasts again. "Blake?"

"Don't say a word," I told her. "Just listen. One of two things is going to happen tonight. One: In about five minutes, you're going to get up, go to your room and try to get some sleep. In the morning, I'm going to rent a truck. We're going to pack your things and you're moving out. I don't care where you move, as long as it's at least two hours away from here. We'll still be friends."