All of it a way to remind myself that she isn’t mine. And won’t be.
She’s from another world. A world I can view but never enter. If that weren’t enough, she’s leaving soon. College. A future with rich boys who quote philosophers between lacrosse practice and legacy luncheons.
Greek life. Secret societies. Generational wealth.
And me? I’ll go back to the kitchen. Side jobs. Looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next man in a suit to tell me I don’t belong.
She’s a Danforth. I am the help.
But when she reads, none of that matters. Not for a moment. Not to me.
“Heathcliff doesn’t actually love Catherine.” She flips a page. The sound echoes through the glass, ricocheting straight into my ribs. “He loves the idea of her and what she means to him. The obsession becomes more important than the person.”
“That’s the tragedy,” I reply instantly, faster than I mean to, masking the hit that line just delivered. “And the warning.”
Her eyes stay on the page, but I feel them. Like a spotlight cutting straight to the parts of me I avoid.
“Yeah,” she whispers, voice soft, dangerous.
My breath leaves my body. She tilts her head, slow, searching, and then looks right at me.
Like she knows exactly what I am. And dares me to be different.
I shouldn’t care. Not about her. Not about her metaphors, her mouth, her thoughts, her voice.
But she makes caring feel like inevitability. A gravity that I’m stupid enough to think I can fight.
She reads for another minute or two, then stops abruptly. She closes the book halfway, thumb marking her place.
Her eyes lift. They find mine and hold my gaze.
“You’re staring.” Her voice is soft but laced with warmth.
“So?” I answer, stepping closer.
“It’s distracting,” she whispers, lips curling into a challenge.
“Stop being interesting, then.”
Her grin is immediate. Dangerous. “Stop being dramatic.”
“Impossible.” I lean in just slightly. “I read Brontë now.”
She shoves my arm with a laugh, and I let her. I always let her.
The worst part? She makes all of this feel real.
The connection. The ease of it. The possibility we could be more.
It doesn’t matter that her father looks at me like I’m a stray dog they’re debating calling animal control on. It doesn’t matter that her world is stitched together with money and privilege while mine is duct tape and survival.
When she’s happy, it feels like a rebellion. One I’m desperate to partake in.
This whole thing feels like a secret.
The air shifts. Thickens. I rise from the bench, and she follows. Slowly, almost nervously. Walks toward me. One step. Another.
Her breath catches when we end up inches apart. I can smell spearmint on her lips. I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat. Her fingers twitch at her side—like she’s fighting the urge to touch me.
