“So why are you here?” he asked, pushing his hair off his forehead. I stared at him for a moment, taking in all the parts of him. His green eyes, the first thing that I had really noticed about him. His light brown hair that fell in a haphazard disarray across his forehead.
The scars, thin and shiny, crisscrossing along the length of his neck. They were brutal and violent. And when Elian was nervous, he rubbed his fingers over the slightly raised skin as though trying to wipe them away. I wondered about the scars. I wondered about his false smiles.
I wondered about Elian Beyer and his many, many secrets.
The air felt hot. Constricting. It squeezed and pressed uncomfortably against thirsty skin. Brecken Forest had been experiencing an unseasonable drought. There hadn’t been any rain in over two months. The flowers were dying. The leaves were falling before they were ready. The earth looked parched. Desperate.
The brown blades of once green grass were sharp beneath my palm. Dry and brittle, breaking off under my fingers. Once alive but now dead and dusted.
“To see you of course,” I told him honestly, wondering how he’d take the words I had just handed him.
Elian swallowed audibly and there was a hint of blush on his cheeks. I knew that Elian wasn’t the blushing sort. He had unknowingly handed me all of the control.
“Is that okay?” I asked, dropping my hand onto the blanket so that it lay between us, only inches from his leg. I bent my fingers, scrunching them, and then laying them flat. Restless things itching to move and touch.
Elian gave me a small smile but didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
We sat together listening to the musicians play loud, obnoxious music. The vibrations of the bass shook my bones and I wished it would stop. People stood in front of us, obstructing our view of the band.
“Do you want to move closer? So we can see the stage?” Elian asked, craning his neck to try to see. I knew that his group of friends, including the territorial Margie, were nearby watching us.
“Okay,” I agreed, getting to my feet. Elian looked surprised again. His preconceived ideas of me were amusing. I would enjoy shattering them. And upholding them.
He wiped his hands on his jeans and then held his hand out. I knew he wanted me to take it. To interlace my fingers with his like children skipping down a street. Palm to palm, the heat of him infiltrating my chill.
I knew he expected me to comply in a mindless promise. Skin to skin.
I tucked my hands into the pockets of my pants.
Elian seemed embarrassed. Confused even. His dancing green eyes darkening ever slightly. “Shall we?” I asked, inclining my head toward the stage.
His eyes cleared, and the smile tinged with disingenuous mirth returned. His mask firmly in place.
I was close enough to see the thud of his pulse in his neck. Tick. Tock. Thud. Thud. Like a clock. Constant.
I didn’t want to hold his hand but I wanted to touch his skin. Right there. Where the tender, vulnerable skin thumped steadily.
“Okay,” Elian said, his hand once again by his side. The hand that had waited for mine. I followed him through the crowd, my feet shadowing his steps.
We stood in the sea of people, listening to music I didn’t like, our arms brushing against each other. He looked down at me, his tall frame towering over me. His head brushing the clouds.
Buzz..…
I reached out, fingers tiptoeing over skin, gliding, sliding until they fit into the curves and planes of his hand. Palm to Palm. Heat to chill.
Elian startled slightly, and I wondered if he could feel how cold I was. Inside.
Could he tell how hard it was for my heart to beat?
How my clock had stopped a long time ago?
“Layna, your paper was delivered to me again,” Mrs. Statham smiled, her swollen, red gums appearing above stained, yellow teeth.
“Thank you. Would you like to come in for some tea?” I asked, confident that my invitation wouldn’t be accepted. Which was the only reason it was given.