“What? No.”
“Yes. Your head’s still bleeding, and you can barely walk straight.” He turns, crouching. “Climb on.”
The pain in my skull transforms into heat flooding my face. “I’m not riding you like a pony.”
“You’ve got options. My back now, or I throw you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes when you inevitably pass out.” He glances back, eyebrows raised. “Your choice.”
“Asshole.” I step forward, wrapping my arms around his neck and letting him hoist me onto his back.
“I think I need a stamp card.” His hands slide under my thighs, securing me against him as he straightens. “How many times have you called me that? Three? Four?”
“You’ll start fresh.”
The gate is only a few yards away now. Beyond it, trees stand like silent sentinels, offering cover from both the dead and the morning sun beating down on us. He kicks the gate open and walks us into the cool shade of the forest, the ground carpeted with pine needles.
“We did it,” I mumble, head lolling against his shoulder.
“Not yet, but close.” His voice sounds distant. “Keep it together a little longer.”
He carries me deeper into the woods, footsteps swift and sure on the uneven ground. I try to focus on staying conscious, but the darkness keeps pulling at me, inviting me to slip away.
“Hey.” Julien jostles me. “Stay with me. Talk to me.”
“’Bout what?”
“Anything. Tell me something.”
“Did you hate my singing? My mom hates it.”
“No.” His voice rumbles through his chest. “It was… calming.”
His voice is calming. Like it’s telling me it’s okay, that I’m safe…
The forest feels endless, trees stretching in every direction. After what feels like hours but is probably only twenty minutes, Julien slows his steps.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asks.
I manage a weak laugh. “My favorite color?”
“Start small, work our way up to the meaning of life.”
“Hmm…” Does a favorite color even matter anymore? “Blue.” The word comes out like I’m testing how it sounds. “Dark blue.”
“Like what kind of blue? Ocean blue? Sky blue? Navy?”
“Midnight blue.” I trace an invisible line across his shoulder. “The exact color right before the sky goes completely black. When you can still see a bit of color hiding behind the darkness.”
“Poetic.”
“Shut up.” I rest my cheek on his shoulder. “Your turn. Favorite color.”
He’s quiet for several steps. “Blue.”
“No poetic description?” I poke his neck. “Disappointing.”
He shifts me higher on his back, readjusting his grip on my thighs. “Like stormy skies over water.” A pause. “That color when the sky can’t decide what it wants to be.”
“That’s better. Poetic.”
