“Yes,” I answer honestly.
“That’s what I thought,” he sighs. “It took me an hour to fall back to sleep last night after you said that. I kept going over it in my mind, trying to figure out if your idea was very good, or very bad.” He winces, probably at the poor word choices.
“You can do better than that,” I say, frowning. “You are not very sad, you are morose!” I raise a fist, adopting the call-to-action tone of voice Robin Williams used in Dead Poets Society.
A smile plays on his mouth. “Did I tell you that was one of my top five favorite movies?”
“No, but it doesn’t feel that far a leap to make.”
He stays quiet, doing that thing where he knits his brow. By now I know it means he’s thinking hard about something, and he isn’t likely to say out loud what it is.
“I was trying to figure out if your idea was excellent, or ruinous.” He smirks. “Was that better?”
I nod emphatically.
“I like how you challenge me.”
“I like to challenge you.” My chin tips up. “So, did you come to a conclusion?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing concrete. I don’t want to take advantage of you, though, I know that for sure.”
“I appreciate that, and I don’t think you would be. This is a tough week for me, but it’s nice having you here. It’s nice to have someone on my side, not that sides need to be taken. And I know my grandma would be on my side, if forced to choose.” I shrug, attempting to put into wordswhat I’m feeling. What I’m asking for. “It’s different with you. It’s almost like I have a partner. A... friend?”
Klein nods, telling me that yes, we’re friends.
It feels weird to finally call him my friend, when really that’s what we’ve been for weeks now.
Sipping the last of my coffee, I set the cup on the nightstand and throw back the covers. My nightshirt has ridden up, and my eyes are on Klein the moment he spots the tattoo at the top of my thigh. His eyes flare, his lips part.
Innocently I stand, bunching my hem in my hand and lifting it to reveal the ink. “Surprised?”
His eyes darken, his jaw tenses. There is hunger on his face, a basic instinct to devour.Me.
He remains silent. Internally, I rejoice at having stolen all the words from a wordsmith.
I drop the hem, and he asks, “What does it say? I wasn’t able to read it.”
“I guess you’ll have to find out another time. I need to get ready for hiking Old Baldy.” Through the dresser mirror I watch his eyes follow me.
Am I smug?
Oh yes.
We emergefrom the canopy of deep green leaves to find the sky overhead is dark, the clouds heavy with moisture.
“We’re almost there,” I say to Klein, on his bike beside me.
He nods and glances up at the sky, not a trace of worry in his gaze.
The first raindrops, large and heavy, fall as we’re guiding our bikes into the racks at the visitor center. We pay the fee and make a break for it, running across the grass lawn and up the handful of stairs through the wooden door and into the lighthouse.
Klein tugs a hand through his hair, shaking out the moisture. He looks around, getting his bearings. “This place was built in 1817,” he tells me studiously.
Brushing rain from my face, I say, “Someone’s been reading theirHistory of Bald Head Islandbook.”
He meanders to a wall, touching it with tentative fingers. “It was made out of red bricks, then covered in stucco and painted white.” His hand moves up and over patches that have been worn away through time to reveal the red brick beneath.
Walking to the middle of the small area, he looks up at the wood plank ceiling. In the center is a rectangle of space that goes all the way up to the very top of the lighthouse. “One hundred and eight stairs,” he says.
