"I remember that day like it was yesterday,” She narrated, referring to the photograph, “Merilla had never been to the Eiffel Tower so Jace suggested that we should surprise her with a picnic there. She was so happy," She smiled, tears spilling from her eyes, "We were all so happy, especially RK."
"RK?" I asked,
"Stands for River Kennedy, which is what Jace would call him all the time, and it eventually caught on with the rest of us." She reminisced with a sad little laugh. “He’s our friend. Have you met him yet? He should be in your art class?”
“I have, but he looks so different here." I noticed he was smiling— his eyes were brighter than they were when I'd met him. So much so that it was almost as if I was looking through a window into a parallel universe. "Did you talk to him?” She asked, her eyes hopeful.
“No, not really.” I told her with a slight laugh, “He’s rather reserved.”
"Yeah, he is now, but that’snotthe same River that we knew. He and Jace were really close— so when he died last summer, it was like half of River went along with him." Keomi told me, her tone was serious.
"What are you saying— that he's like still grieving?" I asked, and she scoffed.
"That's the exact problem, Armani. River isn't grieving. He never even cried at his funeral."Keomi said with a hint of anger and frustration.
"It's okay, Keomi he probably just-"
"No, itisn'tArmani, Jace Monet was his best friend, and he's dead. River barely talks to anyone anymore, let alone eats lunch with us. He built up these walls, and no matter how hard we try, we can't break them down." Keomi disclosed, and I could feel what she felt. I could finally see what she saw, and it was heartbreaking.
"It's a shame that that's the version of him you're going to know." She sighed in disappointment, shaking her head.
"I'm sorry about Jace Keomi. I'm sure he's in a better place, a happier place." I apologized feeling obligated to do so. "Come here."
She took a seat beside me, and I pulled her into a hug. Her mind was a hurricane sweeping up everything in her path. I whispered comforting words to her, not bothering to ask any more questions. She'd been through enough. She'd had enough. I decided that I wouldn’t push her for answers anymore. Perhaps it was not my place. I wanted to focus more on being a good friend to her. I knew what it was like to just need a friend.
Night fell over St Katherine's, and my spirit was more restless than ever. I worked on my art homework and completed it within an hour or so. I opened the door ever so carefully so I wouldn't wake Keomi up, then proceeded to venture outside. I made my way off-campus, and the summer midnight air caressed my skin.
I couldn't possibly get used to walking the streets of Paris because it always felt so dreamlike. The lights made me feel less alone. There was a man by the bakery playing Baker Street on his saxophone, I tipped him, and he wiggled his eyebrows in approval. The Café was still open, and only a few people were perched outside, mainly couples enjoying each other's company with a late-night coffee.
Just as I was about the walk past the quaint little Café, I saw him, the candles reflecting in his stern, cold blue eyes as he sketched. He wore a white, almost see-through button-up shirt with a gold lock and key necklace beneath it. I stopped in my tracks and made my way through the Café doors. I was greeted by a friendly waiter to whom I lied and said my friend was already there. I stopped and thought, how dumb could I be? He obviously didn't want me around, and yet here I was anyway, chasing him. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
I drew out the chair opposite him at his table and sat down. He didn't even look up at me. He barely flinched. He acted as though my existence didn't even occur to him.
"How do you do that?" I asked out of curiosity,
"Do what?" He replied, still not looking at me.
"Act like you don't care." I clarified, and he let out a bitter chuckle before finally looking up and making eye contact with me at last, I didn't realize just how much I craved to have his attention until then, and it frustrated me. “I’ve never quite mastered the art.”
“I can tell. Your every fleeting emotion is painted on your face for everyone to see.” He revealed condescendingly.
“No it is not.” I refuted with a pout, and he gave me an incredulous look.
“It is.” He argued,
“What do you mean?” I asked, and he paused.
“Par example, right now, your eyebrows are furrowed, and you’re leaning into me with your eyes, so I know that you value my opinion.” He spoke, “Which is rather pathetic, considering we don’t know each other.”
“You think I’m pathetic?” I scoffed in offence,
"Look, I don't know you, and it's better that you don't know me." He said, his eyes burning into mine so furiously I couldn't help but look down. I got the feeling that this was what he wanted me to do, hewantedme to fear him and cower under him like everyone else, but I wasn't going to, not this time.
"You probably act like you don't care because you care more than everyone else," I told him, folding my arms.
"Wow, congratulations, you've got me all figured out. Am I that transparent?" He mocked.
"Yeah, you are." I spat back, and the pencil he was using broke when it touched the paper, and I couldn’t help but flinch slightly. “I guess I’m not the only one having trouble concealing my emotions.”
