The words echoed around the park and as they repeated continuously, the world slowed to a stop. Birds hovered in the air, people froze mid-conversation and I saw a complete rainbow of light frozen inside the droplets of water hanging over the fountain like diamonds. Somewhere between a daze and a trance, I let the vine curl around my wrist and along my arm. My fingers tingled and a warm, powerful sensation built in my bones until …
‘You know what they say about Spanish moss, right?’
A new voice snapped me out of the in-between space.
Either I let go of the vine or the vine let go of me, I wasn’t sure which, and I stumbled forward into the old oak tree.
It was him. The boy I’d seen from my window the night before.
‘What do they say about Spanish moss?’ I asked, palms pressed against the tree, the vine wafting innocently on the breeze.
One corner of his mouth turned upwards and I felt my already unsteady knees weaken.
‘It ain’t Spanish and it ain’t moss.’
He looked at me and I looked at him and all of Savannah could have gone up in flames without me noticing. There was nothing in this world except for us. The stranger pushed his wavy ash-coloured hair back and his uneven half-smile grew until it took over his whole face. It was his eyes that pinned me to the spot. When his gaze crossed mine, it was like some invisible force held me in place and I never wanted to move again. I’d read about piercing eyes before but I’d never truly seen them until now. Bright, beautiful and intense, fringed with thick golden lashes, his irises were ever-changing, somehow grey and green and brown at the same time. Sparks of something glittered in the air between us and I simply could not speak. Did he recognize me? I backed away from the tree trunk and pulled myself up straight, only vaguely aware of the tiny splinters of bark stabbing into my skin.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, those indescribable eyes filled with concern as they flickered down to my hands. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ I rubbed my palms clean against the back of my jeans then held them up so he could see. No harm done. ‘Falling over nothing is a gift of mine.’
‘Hey, it’s an underrated skill. If it was easy, everyone would do it.’
He kept his eyes on me and no matter how hard I tried to fight it, I knew I was blushing. Where Jackson was polished and practised, this boy looked a little more lived in. His blue jeans were soft from wear, with real tears at the threadbare knees rather than carefully placed slashes put there by designers, and his equally well-worn T-shirt was snug around his shoulders and biceps, revealing a sliver of skin at his waist every time he moved.
‘I’m Wyn,’ he said. ‘Wyn Evans.’
‘Wyn.’ His name rolled effortlessly off my tongue. I took hold of the hand he held out to me – it was warm and strong and I did not want to let go. ‘Emily James,’ I added when I remembered I was supposed to introduce myself next. ‘Or Em. Most people call me Em.’
He held my gaze even when he released my hand. ‘All right, Emily or Em. You sure you’re doing OK? That was a pretty good spill.’
A single lock of wavy hair slipped over his eyes, dancing tantalizingly back and forth across one high cheekbone, and my mouth was suddenly very dry.
‘Totally fine,’ I struggled to say, my tongue three times bigger than it had been a moment ago. ‘I was just checking the moss, I thought I … saw something.’
‘In the moss? You gotta be careful, if it’s close enough to the ground there could be chiggers in there.’ He flicked carelessly at the vines, his T-shirt creeping up even higher. Oh no. There were abs under that shirt. I started to sweat.
‘I’ll keep my distance. Wait, I thought you said it wasn’t moss?’
Wyn twirled one tendril around his finger and it was embarrassing how jealous I was of a plant. ‘Looks like moss, actslike moss, not moss. “Bromeliad” doesn’t have quite the same romantic ring to it.’
‘Not the catchiest name ever,’ I agreed. ‘I can see how Spanish moss won out at the marketing meeting.’ I tucked my hands into my back pockets and searched for something else to say, anything to keep the conversation going, anything that would keep him next to me for even a minute longer. ‘You know a lot about … plants?’
Better than nothing but only just.
‘My grandpa is a nature nut,’ he explained, unravelling the moss from around his hand. ‘I don’t think there’s a plant on this planet he doesn’t know about and Spanish moss is one of his favourites. Believe it or not, this thing belongs to the same family as pineapples.’
When I pulled a face, he laughed and I almost fell over again. It was a good laugh. Rich and warm and I wanted to hear it always.
‘Probably not as tasty as a pineapple,’ he admitted. ‘But it is kind of amazing. Doesn’t have any roots, just floats around on the wind looking for something to hold on to before anchoring itself to a tree like this live oak here.’
Huh. An oddly relatable bromeliad.
I craned my neck backwards to take in the whole tree, draped in moss from the top branch to the bottom. ‘So it just wafts around, looking for a tree to hang out with, then they live together forever?’
‘Happily ever after,’ Wyn said. ‘As long as the moss doesn’t get too full of itself and I do mean that literally. If the vine grows too big, it can block out the sun which will eventually kill the tree. If it sucks up all the moisture from the air, it gets too heavy for the tree to support it and snaps off branches. It’s a delicate balance. Spanish moss sure does love Savannah though. This place has everything it needs to thrive.’
‘I’ve never seen it before,’ I said, clasping my hands behind my back as Wyn poked at a dried-out bundle on the ground with the toe of his boot. ‘It’s pretty.’
