I narrow my eyes, assessing the situation for a few seconds longer before eventually doing exactly as he asked and returning my knife to the leather sheath attached to the belt of my jeans. “I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this, but” —I lift my arm, pointing my hand out beside me— “lead the way.”
I stay a few steps behind the guy, keeping my eyes on his back and watching for any sudden movement. At least if he does try to kill me, I’ll have some space between the both of us. I don’t even know this guy’s name and I’m following him deeper into the graveyard. Further away from the exit, and my car.
“You gonna tell me your name, Cape Fear? Or am I going to have to guess it?”
He barks out a laugh, looking at me over his shoulder as we walk. “Cape Fear, that’s a good one. Great movie, too.”
“You’ve seen it?” I fight the smirk of excitement on my face.
“One of my favourites.” He nods, slowing down his pace slightly. “De Niro was brilliant as Max Cady.”
“Right!?” I fully release my grin now. “The way he gave his character so much depth, and how he brought sinister to a whole new vibe. I swear to god he was really able to bring so much terror to that movie, and—”
There’s three things I realise in this moment. One, I’m babbling, but that’s nothing new when it comes to talking about movies. Two, I’m now walking side by side with Creepy McCreeperson, and three… he’s looking down at me with a broad smile on his face. But there’s something behind it. something… sad.
“What?” I ask, completely ignoring the fact this guy could possibly kill me at any point.
He gently shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Sorry. I get overly excited when it comes to that movie. Well, any movie really. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t, but… it’s Ricky. You?”
“Uh, Heather… Delaney.”
“Martin.” He tells me his surname, and I gasp. Immediately stopping in my tracks, grasping his upper arm so he stops walking and I turn him to face me. I can almost hear the inaudible groan he releases when he drops his head back and looks towards the sky. His breath turning white in the cold night air.
This time it’s me who bursts into fits of laughter. “Your parents named you Ricky Martin?”
“It was before the singer became famous.” He sighs, closing his eyes and dropping his shoulders in defeat.
I bark out another loud laugh. “Oh. My. God. I can see it now.” I hold up my hands in front of me and slide them away from each other. “Killer Ricky Martin, called in for questioning. He really was ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’.”
My laugh becomes even more brazen now, echoing into the night like a morally black villain, and it’s been a significant amount of time since I’ve laughed this hard. The muscles in my face slowly begin to ache, my stomach too, and even though this probably isn’t funny to anyone else, it is to me.
When my eyes find his, he’s staring down at me from his gigantic height with warmth and colour to his once-pale cheeks, and the sight alone is… beautiful. One that can make you mimic the action just by looking at it. I don’t understand why he’s staring at me the way he is… because no man ever has.
“I’m going to tag you back for laughing at my name, you know that, right?”
“Whatever, dude.” I continue chuckling with every step I take. “Your name is Ricky Martin; I don’t think you have a leg to stand on right about now.” I snort playfully as I softly begin to hum Livin’ La Vida Loca by the man himself.
That laugh.
So infectious. So… perfect. And every single time I hear it, I’m taken back to the very first day I heard it during those winter months. Heather was crossing the street with a couple friends of hers, guffawing at something one of them said at the time, and all I wanted to do was follow them so I could hear more of it.
She didn’t know who I was back then, but I told myself she would. I swore that one way or another, Heather Delaney would know who I was, and she would bemine.
I’ve waited so long to hear her delightful laugh once more, and just like the first time… I’m still just as captivated by it. I love listening to the sound of the tiny snort she makes through her nose when she finds something truly funny. Just like the one she’s making right now as she doubles over with hilarity at my name, and now that I’ve gotten the chance to hear it once more, I’m not sure I’m ready to give it up.
It’s a delicate sound filled with so much happiness I can’t help but respond to it with a smile of my own. It reminds me of a child running around the yard with the puppy she got for Christmas.Not only that, but it’s a very distinctive sound. Contagious, enjoyable to be part of, and not like a braying donkey.
It was a laugh you could hear from across a crowded room ten years later and still be drawn to it in a way you didn’t understand. Nostalgic, and calming. Alluring, yet soft. Almost ethereal in a way.
Like a song you hadn’t heard played on the radio in so long, you didn’t realise how much you missed the melody until you heard it again. A laugh that just by hearing it, could instantly make you join in—even if you had no idea what was so funny.
My enjoyment of the sounds she made didn’t just come from the sweetness of it as it flowed up from her chest and out into the cold night air, no, it was from the look on her face. How the corners of her desirable lips curved up, the way her tongue bobbed up and down inside her mouth, and those tiny creases at the corners of her eyes, showing me it was genuine. That she found something truly funny.
As the warmth of her hysterics crashed over the entirety of my being—igniting goosebumps in its wake, I truly realised my love for her.
