He protests, but I shake my head. “No, I know you do. And that’s fine. Because I still talk to Finn, Dare. I still pretend he’s with me. A sane person wouldn’t do that.”
Dare swallows and holds my hand, and doesn’t hesitate.
“They would if it helps,” he tells me firmly. “You suffered a great loss, Calla. More than the average person could understand. If it helps you to pretend that Finn is here, then do it. As long as you know you’re pretending.”
I nod, because I do know, most of the time, at least where Finn is concerned.
But there’s something else….something I won’t mention.
The strange man in the hoodie.
Because I don’t want to know if he’s real.
“It’s not fair to expect you to be with me when I’m in such an unbalanced state,” I murmur, and everything in me wants him to argue, to protest, to pull me close.
But to my surprise, he doesn’t.
He just nods. “I don’t want to rush you,” he says quietly. “When you’re ready, you’ll know.”
His words graze my heart, but I brush them away.
This is what I asked for.
“Are you still drawing here?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
He nods. “Of course.”
We keep walking, out of the gardens and down the path. The moon shines overhead, illuminating our steps.
“May I see your drawings?”
Dare smiles. “Of course. Would you like a new one?”
I remember posing for him.
When he drew me, painted me,
those feelings were so intimate and familiar, I can’t say no.
I nod. “Yes.”
“I’ll go get my sketch pad,” he tells me. “Meet me in the library.”
He leaves me at the door, and I curl up in the library and wait.
I wait in a window seat, bathed in the moonlight.
With my head pressed to the glass, I stare outside, out at the stables, at the trails, at the moors.
Something moves in the dark, and I focus, peering close.
The hoodie stands out in the night, the boy inside of it stealthy.
He steps out onto the trails and stares up at me, But still I can’t see his face.
I breathe and count,
One,
Two,
Three,
Four.
When I look again, he’s gone.
He’s not real.
Clearly.
“Are you ready?”
Dare stands behind me, his pad under his arm, a chair in his hand.
I try to settle my trembling lungs, and I nod.
“Yes.”
Because this is real.
Dare is real.
My feelings for Dare are real.
“Tuck your legs beneath you,” he whispers, moving to help me pose. His fingers are slender and strong, cool against my skin. “Hold your hand here,” he shows me, moving my fingers to frame my cheek. “There. You’re perfect.”
I smile and he tells me to look into the distance, to look toward the stars outside.
I do, and I force myself to not look down, Because I don’t want to see anyone standing there.
The energy between Dare and I is thick. It snaps with tension, with unspoken words. I close my eyes and feel it, gliding over my skin like his pencils on the page.
I listen to the charcoal skimming the paper, I hear Dare’s shallow breaths as he concentrates.
Glancing at him, I watch as he shoves his hair out of his eyes with an impatient hand, Rushing to get back to my picture.
He draws my leg,
He draws my eye,
He draws my lips.
And when he draws my lips, I get up from my seat, and I kneel in front of him.
I touch his with shaking fingers.
He closes his eyes, but then captures my hand with his own.
“Not ‘til you’re ready, Calla,” he says, his words firm. “I can’t… just not until you’re ready.”
I have to accept that because it’s fair.
I can’t waffle back and forth, I can’t play games, even if it’s with myself.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Cal,” he tells me. “Just be ready soon. Please.”
I have to smile at that, and I examine his picture.
I look sad, haunted, almost like a ghost as I perch in the window staring at the sky.
“Do I really look like that?” I ask dubiously and a bit disappointed.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me and he believes it.
I rest my cheek against his knee.