I walked by that night at a faster pace than I normally use. She didn’t see me as I ghosted past.
And I feltnothing.
Not one fucking thing.
Just like I feel nothing now with her sweet bubblegum scented breath minging with the vanilla jasmine scent of herskin in the air between us, her dainty hand on my arm, fingers wrapped tight as a manacle.
Her lovely, near perfectly symmetrical features draw into a hard line. Her lips go flat and her eyes spark with something just a little bit dangerous. A shiver traces up my spine and not one of disgust. I still don’t try to shake her off.
I’m frozen, my duffel strap cuts into my shoulder, my back and legs scream at me, my t-shirt, hoodie, and even the front of my jeans are soaked in sweat.
Her eyes shoot straight to my mouth and darken. It’s probably just the streetlights. The shadows. I don’t like the way the hair on my arms stands on end, or how aware of it I am.
Of her.
Of every fucking little detail from the darkened houses with cracks of light showing behind closed blinds, to the stars up in the sky, the slight breeze cool on my skin, to my own thundering pulse. It’s somehow taken up occupation in my entire body, from the soles of my feet all the way to where it should be, hammering away at my throat. I want to form it into an expression even more gruesome than it already is. I can’t make myself do it.
Not when Fawnie stares at me, so perfectly silent, looking like a piece of art, looking at meperiod.Unflinching. She sees past the scars, the walls, the mean words and black scowls. She sees so far down that my heart pounds against my ribcage, and it’s still not enough. She’s looking for more, trying to find that soul I keep telling everyone is nonexistent. She stares so long that it becomes painful, my gut curdling as it clenches, my skin on fire all over again.
“My dad never told me your real name.” She smiles at me, not dazzling or fake, and somehow not weird at all despite the situation or the long stretch of silence she just broke.
She has the tiniest gap between her two front teeth. I’ve never noticed it before.
My body heats up, but the warmth and the pain of it have nothing to do with the usual suspects. I haven’t tried on a smile in so long that I might as well be totally detached from it. It feels odd on my lips. It’s even stranger that I’m going to give it to her, just like that. No fight. No sarcasm. All while her sapphire eyes wreak havoc with my insides, plunging my normally hyper-controlled state into chaos, touching parts of me that I’m not even aware exist.
“Finn.” It’s broken because I choke it out, not from my wrecked voice.
“Finn,” she repeats, the sound of my name said in kindness rather than scorn was like a velvet caress.
Hearing her sweet voice, seeing her untouched, alive,whole, I would endure every single moment of fear, loathing, pain, loneliness, and degradation all over again.
“Please don’t leave. Don’t go because of me. Don’t go for any other reason.Please.”
If this was anyone else, I’d scoff right back in their face. I stopped listening to what people said and ceding to what they wanted me to do the day my mother looked at me as something subhuman and told me that burns were payment for sins. I don’t give a shit about manners.
Pleasenever worked on me before.
I gently remove my arm from her grasp and tuck it safely back at my side, but instead of turning around, giving her my back, and walking away from her too soft, too big, thickly lashed eyes and her gentle pleas, I find myself lowering my duffel down to the ground.
“Once a month.”Fuck. Did those words come from me? Did I truly justagreeto this?
“Once a month,” she repeats.
Her fingers unclench from around my arm, but they don’t leave me. They trickle down like rainwater, until she grasps my gloved hand. Hers is so much smaller. She has a tiny, crescent-shaped scar on the second knuckle of her right hand.
I shouldn’t want to know what happened.
I shouldn’t want to put my lips there.
When it comes to this woman, I’m fucked. I know that already. Our souls have been entwined with each other since the fire, even if that’s impossible and I don’t believe that cosmic, energy, soul shit is even real.
“Can I make my once a month happen tomorrow? Will you come over? Can I bake you cookies? Do you like cookies? If you don’t, I can make you anything.” She squeezes my hand gently, then releases it. Her eyes are glistening and her face is radiant. Not with triumph at getting her way, but with honestjoy.
My stomach clenches so hard that it’s probably going to hurt for days. People don’t exactly give me a whole lot of happy emotions on the odd chance they have to look at me.
“Sorry,” she breathes. “That’s too much. I’m excited. If you want to come over, any day this week, that would be great. If you don’t, I can come to you, or we could goanywhereand doanything.
She hasn’t realized that I’m not exactly a go anywhere and do anything kind of person.
