I snort, and a little wine goes up my nose. I laugh until I’m rolling on the floor, and then I snort again.
By the time I’ve clawed my way back to sitting, using Gowan’s shirt as a rope, he’s grinning at me with his eyebrows up. His eyes say, Oh, yeah?
“You,” I say, taking back the bottle and waving it at him, “are not insane.”
The wine s s s s l l l o s h h h h e s s s s.
“How would you know?”
He means it a certain way, playfully maybe, but it comes out like: You don’t know me.
It stops me, that. I’ve been telling him as much for weeks and he’s never said it back. But it’s true. I don’t. Except, I do. I know how kind he is. I know he has anger, like me. I know he has a wound. I do know him.
My heart cries—danger. I buy time by drinking, and ridiculous hiccups ensue.
“I’d know crazy if I saw it.” I fear it.
And he laughs. And I laugh. And we laugh and laugh together. Gowan’s laughs turn into coughs, and when I go to take another sip from the bottle, I find it empty.
We giggle and open another bottle.
This is nice. So nice.
It feels almost normal. I’ve forgotten all about—
[DARK
CREEPING
TREES
MOVING]
… well, almost.
“My turn,” I say. “Would you rather kill yourself or kill someone else?”
His face changes, cheeks pale. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, and I think: Oh, no. What did I say? For ages, I think he won’t answer. Then, quietly, he says: “Myself.”
He gets up, and I think he is going to leave, so I get up, too. This was too good to be true to begin with. But then he spins and grabs me and holds me firmly against his body and he is trembling and my arms are going around him and my heart is racing and I want him to let go
hold me forever
and then I have kissed him and I am kissing him and he is kissing me back. This first kiss. My first kiss ever. Something at the core of me, something that is hard and porous and dry, begins to fill in and soften and I feel my heart yelling: DANGER! DANGER! even louder, but I don’t care. For this tiny moment, with the wine still swimming in my head and my inhibitions down, I don’t care about anything else in the world.
I can’t breathe, and he’s not doing much better himself, and he is pulling me toward him and my whole body is one giant blush and I feel like I am going to pass out and I want to be here forever.
His hands explore me and mine explore him, and I don’t want this to go further, but I do— Gowan pulls away, steps back, clenching his fists at his sides and panting. His lips are flushed and red and I want to kiss him again—always—but he is shaking his head and saying, “I can’t I can’t I can’t” over and over and I realize that he thinks this was one huge mistake and I am mortified.
I fold my arms around my torso and look away from him, my heart still thudding in my ears, and when I look up again, he is staring at me with this blazing expression and I almost step toward him again. But he steps back. Steps away. Says, “Sorry… I can’t do this,” and then he leaves me all alone again and I feel the rage returning, but I don’t want it anymore. I want him.
I am alone then, in a book-lined room of shadows.
Some time later, my father’s voice floats down the stairs, meeting me where I can’t escape a drunken nightmare.
SILLA DANIELS’S GUIDE TO NOT FALLING IN LOVE
1. Don’t think about him.
2. Don’t notice.
3. Remember the rejection.
4. Harden the stone.
5. Realize that something is wrong with you.
He finds me curled into the window seat, the curtains closed against the night.
“Silla?” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
My head is killing me, and I see no reason to answer.
And that’s when he leans forward and puts his forehead on my arm. “Please, Silla… I’m so sorry. I wish… so many things.”
His eyes are closed.
And his lips keep murmuring, “Sorry. So sorry.”
And I hate seeing him like this. And I hate his stupid apologies.
So I take his head and hug it to me, and kiss the top of it. He smells like apples, but it doesn’t make me sick this time. I breathe him in, and I tell him I’m sorry, too. But inside I’m thinking, You left again. You left me again.
“Silla…” he says, and I know what’s coming.
I’ll follow him anywhere.
Except… I can’t.
“I can’t,” I say.
His jaw clenches as he gets to his feet. He turns away and I notice his hands are fists. Like rock. Like stone.
Stone-hearted girl.
This is it, now. He’ll leave again. He’ll go and leave me here, trapped by the trees and… and what?
“This isn’t a haven, Presilla. It’s a cage. Your aunt is crazy, in the attic. You have no food. Your garden is dead—why won’t you come? Why won’t you save yourself? Why won’t you leave?”
“I have to stay. For Nori.”
He takes my face in his hands. “Please. Come with me. Be with me.”
“Gowan…” He doesn’t understand. “It’s Nori.…”
He shakes his head, and his eyes are an overcast evening in winter.