‘I got you something,’ Luke says, twisting his body and leaning over the side of the bed. While he’s reaching, his shirt lifts and I can see the bottom of his back. I swallow lumps.
I’m supposed to protest, I know that for sure, because I see it happen all the time on TV. Though I’m not sure why anyone would want to object to a present. That’s a thing I’d like to figure out, but my brain is too busy inspecting the sliver of exposed flesh. Luke has freckles. I’ve never been close enough to his skin to see freckles before.
‘Check it out.’ Luke lies back, and my stare charges towards the ceiling. He hands me a book. Not a book. A journal. The cover is coated in pictures. It’s shiny. Silky smooth. My fingers skate idly over an image of the Arc de Triomphe, the Latona Fountain, the Eiffel Tower, and half a dozen other famous structures in France.
‘It’s like a journal,’ Luke tells me, opening it to the first page. ‘But it has a travel planner in the back.’ He flips through more lined light blue pages, stops at a group of white sheets coated in plastic. ‘You can keep photographs in this part. Or maybe postcards. And then this section here is a directory, with every number you could ever need.’ I watch him flip through the rest of the journal. The excitement in his smile is immeasurable. ‘I thought you could use it when you go to school in France.’
‘I love it,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you so much.’
I do love it. Really, I do, which is why I can’t understand the bolt of hostility that shoots through me when he says France. He’s so thoughtful, and I’m super-grateful, but my mind is unsettled.
Luke talks about Paris, about art, about maybe dumping his no-travel policy for a week to visit the Louvre and see the Mona Lisa. My head spins. He keeps asking me what I think. Asking me if I’ve ever seen this online? Or that online? Seen them online? Seen it online? Seen her online? Or him online? In conclusion, my life is all about things that can be found on the web, and yes is the only word I can contribute to this conversation.
The sound of Luke breathing beside me is melodic. I copy the rhythm, force my lungs to slow down.
He’s just talking. Dreaming. Dreaming for both of us. I smile to myself, squash hostility with happy. Reclaim the normal night we’re having.
The warmth of my room mixed with the low light makes me sleepy.
My eyes are getting heavy when Luke’s pinkie brushes against the side of my hand. I stiffen. At first I think it’s a mistake, but then I feel it a second time.
‘Is this okay?’ The bed shifts, he turns his head, and I turn to meet his face. He’s drenched in starlight, practically sparkling. There’s only inches between us. I can smell spearmint on his breath. My body bursts into flames.
We’re not wearing matching sweaters or strolling through a fall landscape, but I imagine kissing him now would be perfect. I look at his lips. They’re parted, just a little. It would be so easy to tighten the gap between us and press my mouth against his.
Except: petri dishes, full of little alien life forms that live on the human tongue. Then this morning, I was flicking through my Hub feed, and this one guy from Cardinal was talking about having glandular fever. Viruses spread like wildfire in schools. Their school. His school. As much as I want to, I can’t forget that.
His pinkie meets my hand now, draws circles on the side. Pins and needles explode in the pit of my stomach, and shivers, good shivers, the kind you get when something exciting happens, shoot up and down my spine. I can’t pull away.
‘Norah.’ I like the shape his lips make when he says my name. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’
Blink-blink. ‘What?’
He smiles. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’ I float up and up and up, get lost in the makeshift galaxy on my ceiling. My heart feels like it’s trying to box its way beyond my ribcage.
Yes. I think it so loud it’s a wonder he doesn’t hear it.
But this is me. Nothing is ever easy. I guess every story needs a villain, and never one to be outdone by something as silly as a heartbeat, my brain kicks back, harder. I come crashing down to earth.
And just like that, my bed becomes bottomless. I’m sinking through the floor, Luke’s dreams and aspirations fall from the starry sky and slam into my chest.
I’ve been searching for an opening to talk to him all week. The idea that he should have been somewhere else tonight plagues me.
‘Answer me something honestly first?’ I say, sitting up on my elbow. He frowns at me. I’d frown at me too. I’m brutally massacring his romantic moment. I don’t mean to, don’t want to, but practicality is pressing. There are questions in my head and the threat of gnawed fingernails is fast approaching.
‘Do you miss kissing?’ Granted, I’m kind of going in from an obscure angle, but I figure missing out on a concert/movie/trip to the circus/whatever is small fry, easy to dismiss in comparison to a kiss. He might be able to catch a concert/movie/trip to the circus/whatever next time. He’s not going to be able to catch another girl’s lips so easily.
‘Where did that come from?’ he says.