I stared at him for a second too long, appreciating things I hadn’t previously noticed. The curl of his dark lashes, the shape of his eyes beneath their spread.
A gentle smile crossed my face, as he surprised me again by appearing at my side.
“I’m sorry you hurt.” I extended my offer of friendship with words, hoping they’d bring a little comfort, even if a medical remedy couldn’t.
And my sympathy cracked him to his bones.
I stared up at his passive face. His eyes met mine, sterling disks of gray, and even with the coldness of their color, they became thermal.
“Thank you.” He gazed down at me, and I was almost sure he saw me differently, too, his eyes spending a second longer than he intended on my lips. He pulled back, hand to his throat again, as he said, “Goodnight, Jolie.”
“Sweet dreams.” I returned back, placing a gentle touch upon his skinny arm. He didn’t jump back; he didn’t return my affection. He stood frozen to the spot, without movement, enjoying the feel of contact.
The second I slipped out, the door closed. I heard a sound that almost sounded like his weight falling against the door. The sound of stress levels stealing his balance. A noise I’d heard many times before, after my father tucked me into bed. He’d been a good parent, always hiding his burdens and the mourning of my mother.
I didn’t head to bed. I listened to the silence of the house—the distant noises and the people that made them. Woodrow’s parents were both in their room, tucked into bed, sharing bedtime whispers. It would have been cute, if I posited his father as trustworthy.
I sidled through the umbra, led only by the stars twinkling their lights beyond the many windows.
The creaky stairs threatened to alert the household of my wandering, but I wasn’t a tagged convict; I was no longer a prisoner. Freedom to wander was granted, and it felt nice.
I turned on a light in the kitchen, and I moved to the refrigerator. Checking for the date on a half-empty carton of chocolate milk. I was relieved to see it was fresh.
But my nose still crinkled at the smell from this morning, still present, still strong.
I ignored it, dismissing it as waste from the land outside, where many animals probably roamed. . . not that I’d seen anything but fish.
I moved around the cupboards, still unsure of where everything was stored as I searched for a small glass. A high cupboard in the corner was where the cups and tumblers lived. I opted to pull out two, placing them on a small tray on the countertop, along with a fresh bottle of water, also retrieved from a chilly shelf within the refrigerator.
I tried to be quieter traipsing the staircase, just in case Wynter and Ville had decided to put an end to their conversations.
I left the tray on the floor outside Woodrow’s room; it sat like a doormat in front of his door, with its perfect rectangular shape.
Pat, pat, pat. My gentle knuckles brushed the wood, and I moved off, leaving behind my extended offering of friendship, along with a note I’d written on a piece of an old envelope that I’d found in the kitchen, that read:
I wasn’t sure of your favorite.
Feel better soon.
I hope, in some way, you’ve had a nice birthday.
Love, Jolie.
I wasn’t sure he’d feel better soon, or even, ever. But I wanted him to know my wish for him. Comfort for him, to know I cared, and for me, it was good to not feel selfish, to use one of my wishes on someone else.
But as I neared my room, I had no idea how stupid that was.
I should have kept my wishes for myself.
Because I needed them all.
No number of wishes could keep me safe, but maybe they could keep me alive. . . or grant me the mercy of dying quickly.
I definitely should have kept them for myself.
Chapter 4
Jolie—present day
