“Well done,” he compliments genuinely yet simply, totally contrasting the complex darkness in his eyes.
My already-racing heart speeds up, no longer the result of my act, or the applause. It’s now solely because of the further praise he holds prisoner through translucent bars. I can’t be imagining the sheen of adoration in his rapt stare. Dare I say he seems almost mesmerized?
“I thought you might need these.”
He hands me a bottle of water, then lifts a small towel with his other hand and begins to dab at my dewy skin. His touch is gentle as it skims down my neck, across my shoulders, and over the top of my chest that’s left uncovered by my costume.
“Better?” he asks huskily, before quickly clearing his throat.
“Yes, thank you,” I whisper. I don’t ask his thoughts on my performance. I already know.
And much like a huge zit on yearbook-picture day, Clay shows up to ruin the moment—one unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
“You killed it, Echo!” Ironic choice of words. He lifts me up and swings me around in a circle, my body stiffening against the onslaught. “Let’s go celebrate!”
“Put me down!” I slap his arm and struggle to find my own footing, but soften my tone when he sets me on my feet. While I don’t ever want to find myself spinning in his arms again, I also have no reason to be mean about accepting a compliment. “Thank you. But you know I can’t just leave. I need to go change and help clean up. Then I’ll celebrate with my family and the rest of the performers at the dinner table, like we always do.” I lift a brow, curious how he’s forgotten what he’s watched happen for years. “You’ll be joining us, right?”
I ask Clay the question but look at Kingston, who nods.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Clay replies as he edges closer to me and also looks at Kingston.
“Awesome!” I chirp out the word I rarely use, fidgeting under the strain of the mysterious dynamic between the two of them that I still don’t completely understand. But something tells me I don’t want to.
Because if my suspicion is right, and I’m not just flattering myself, I wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it anyway.
Chapter 11
On Monday morning, I find myself ripping off my clothes and jumping in the shower like I’m going for the gold at an Olympic race. I crank the nozzle as far right as it’ll go—the hotter the better, for the steam to build quickly.
A prelude.
More than I want a cleansing, I want the hidden message—our secret exchange of thoughts, belonging to only us—to appear.
But as the shower glass fogs, no words emerge. And the depth of my disappointment is irrational; there should not be the sting of tears in my eyes right now.
Kingston is forbidden fruit in so many ways: He’s our exchange student, my father has already warned him against me…and his departure date is set, and inevitable. So my anticipation of these messages is not only foolish, but self-destructive. Because the more attached I get, the worse it will hurt when they’re no longer even a possibility.
I hurry through my now-mundane shower with a heavy lump of disenchanted sensibility in my gut.
But when I turn off the water and step out, every thought I’d just told myself made sense is replaced with a swell of immeasurable bliss.
Guess what else fogs up in a steamy bathroom? The mirror. And on it is his message to me—the best one yet.
There was something in her movements that made you think she never walked but always danced.
I’m instantly aware—this is bad, because once you think something’s gone and it comes back better than ever, your craving for it reaches a whole new, dangerous level. You only fully realize the depth of want and need immediately after experiencing loss.
Too many emotions to name surge inside me, my head the good kind of hazy while the muscles around my heart cinch tighter. I know Kingston and I are just friends, albeit becoming better ones with every effortless interaction. We’re just housemates who’ve found a clever, entertaining way to match wits.
But if it was, if it could be, more…he’d be damn good at it.
I now understand how he’s able to bewitch girls by the droves. It’s not just his strikingly good looks, or enticing accent…it’s him. Those girls are such simpletons, so spellbound by the outside package, that they don’t even realize the entirety of his allure.
But I do. I see his invisible, inherent charm; the sheer seductiveness that emits from his every smile and move; and his keen mind.
Shaking off the silly, romantic musings that have no place in my life, I hustle to get ready for school.
But once I’m in the parking lot, ignoring the bell warning me I’m about to be late, I throw caution—and my better judgment—to the wind, and type out a text.
Me: You’ve read Anne of Green Gables?
The second bell rings as I wait for a response, but for some inexplicable reason, I simply don’t care. Then a different ding sounds—and with it, my heart thrums an anxious beat.