This time he sighs, his chest shuddering up and down as he produces a lighter from his pocket. He throws the stick in his mouth and lights it up with a flick of his finger. He takes a drag and then lets the smoke seep out. His eyes fall shut at the ecstasy of that first pull. He might’ve even groaned. I would have.
Watching him fight his impulse to smoke was exhausting. I feel both sad and happy that he gave in. I wonder what I would’ve done in the same situation. Kara’s face comes to mind, her saying I need to work on restraining myself.
I know the smoke coming out of his mouth is virgin, not a drop of marijuana in there, but I want it in my mouth too. I so want it.
Abruptly, he stops and shoots up from his seat, pocketing the lighter. This guy is tall, maybe 6’3” or something. I have to crane my neck to look at him even though I’m standing far away. He skips on his feet, takes one last drag, flicks the cigarette on the ground, crushes it, pulls the hoodie over, and takes off jogging.
I come unglued from the tree, run to the bench, and look in the direction where he vanished -- nothing but darkness and frosty air. I might as well have conjured him up, like a child makes up an imaginary friend to feel less lonely. Sighing, I sit where he sat. The place is cold as ever, as if he never sat there.
My exhaustion is taking its toll and I close my eyes. I breathe in the lingering smell of cigarette and maybe even something chocolatey. I curl up on the bench, my cheek pressing into the cold wood. I hate winter, but I can’t fall asleep in my warm bed. It’s one of those ironies people laugh about.
Drifting into sleep, I pray that the color of the stranger’s eyes isn’t green.
I live in a tower.
It’s the tallest building around the area of PenBrook University, where I’ve been banished to go to school. I’m on the top floor in a two-bedroom apartment overlooking the university park. In fact, I can see the entire campus from my balcony—the umbrella of trees, red rooftops of squatting houses, spiked buildings. I like to sit up on my balcony and throw water balloons at people down on the street. When they look up, outraged, I duck behind the stone railing, but in those five seconds, I feel acknowledged. They knew someone was up there, throwing things at them. I like that.
The lower floors will be rented out in a few months, but currently I’m the only person living in this posh, luxurious, tower-like building. Henry Cox, my current stepdad, is the owner, hence the early access. My mom thought living in a dorm would make me more susceptible to drugs and alcohol. As if I can’t score here if I want to.
Since my heart is lonely today, I decide to go to the bookstore and get the books on my course list. Might as well since classes begin tomorrow.
I throw on some sweatpants and a large hoodie, then cover myself up with my favorite purple fur coat, a scarf, and a hat. My dark hair falls around my face for extra protection from the cold.
Ten minutes later, I’m at the campus bookstore, pulling up the list of books on my phone. One by one, I collect the required texts in the nook of my arm. I’m sad that it took only a few minutes and now I’ll have to go back to my tower.
Then I get an idea. I walk toward the literature section of the store. Rows and rows of books with beautiful calligraphy surround me in shoulder-height wooden bookshelves. There’s a smell here that I can get used to, warm and sharp. Heaven must smell like this.
Unlike Caleb, I’m not much of a reader. He’s a great lover of books and art.
With Lana crooning in my ears about “Dark Paradise,” I run my fingers over the edges of the books, trying to decide how best to mess things up. My lonely heart perks up. It flips in my chest, telling me how much it appreciates my efforts to fill this giant, gaping hole.
Don’t mention it.
Then I get to work. I trade books on the G shelf with the ones on the F. I laugh to myself, cackling as I imagine people getting confused. It calls for a little twerking so I move my ass—only a little, mind you—to the sensual beats of the song.
As I turn around, my movements halt. The book in my hand remains suspended in the air and all thoughts vanish from my head.
He is here.
Him.
The dark smoker from last night.
He stands tall and intimidating with a book of his own in his hands. Like last night, he is frowning at the object. Maybe it pissed him off somehow, offended him with its existence. If not for the ferocity of his displeasure, I never would’ve recognized him under the industrial light of the bookstore.
He looks different in the light. More real. More angry. More dangerous.
His dark hair gleams, the strands made of wet, black silk. The night muted their beauty, their fluidity. I was right about his face though.
It is a web of square planes and valleys, sharp and harsh, but regal and proud. Nothing is soft about him except his lips, which are currently pursed. I picture the cigarette sitting in his full, plump mouth.
Then, like last night, he sighs, and the violence in his frown melts a little. He hates the book, but he wants it. I think he hates how much he wants it.
But why? If he wants it so much, he should just take it.
My heart has forgotten its loneliness and is invested in this dark stranger now. I study him from top to bottom. A leather jacket hangs from his forearm. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt and blue jeans and…
Oh my God! He’s wearing a white shirt and blue jeans.
He’s dressed like my favorite song, “Blue Jeans” by Lana Del Rey.
My heart starts to beat faster. Faster. Faster. I need him to look up. I need to see his eyes. I will him to do just that, but he doesn’t get my vibes. I’m just about to go up to him when a girl skips into my vision.
He looks up then. In fact, he whips his eyes up, irritated.
They are blue—a brilliant blue, a fiery blue, like the hottest part of a flame, or like the water that puts out that flame.
“Um, hi,” the girl says as her blonde ponytail swishes across her back.
He doesn’t reply but watches her through his dark, thick lashes.
“I was wondering if you could help me get a few books from over there.” She points to the tall wooden shelf across the room that almost touches the roof. A couple of girls are standing by it. They giggle among themselves when he looks over.
Really? That’s so cliché, hitting on a guy like that at a bookstore.
Well, who am I to judge? I’ve done things like that multiple times with Caleb, playing the damsel in distress just so he’ll come save me.
The girl is waiting for him to say something. He’s been holding his silence for the past few seconds, and I begin to feel embarrassed for her. Silence is the worst response when trying to get someone to notice you.
Then he breaks his tight pose and shrugs. “I’d love to help you, but I forgot my ladder at home today.”
Low and guttural—his voice. It’s a growl, really, and it makes me shiver.