I sat there every evening, picking through songs I barely remembered, letting the notes braid with the sounds of horses and tractors and Harlow’s laugh bellowing from the kitchen.
Today, though, every note sounded warped. Like I’d been tuned wrong on purpose. Maybe I had. I kept tripping over the same bar in "Blackbird," my fingers slippery and stupid, my brain short-circuiting every time I tried to focus. The reason was obvious, even to me: my left hand wouldn’t stop going to the new weight on my right wrist.
The bracelet was thicker than I’d expected, the leather tight and unyielding, almost warm against my skin. I turned it over and over, the edges already softening from my constant fussing.
On the inside, burned into the band with a steady hand and way too much precision, was his name: "Quiad." The letters were deep enough to catch on the tips of my fingers, like tiny road bumps. On the outside, there was nothing. It looked almost likeone of those medical alert bands, only for emergencies of the heart.
I must’ve stared at it for a solid hour after we got back from the creek. Quiad had peeled off to his apartment above the shop, probably to reattach whatever part of himself I’d managed to blow off with my pathetic attempt at making out.
I came straight here, flopped onto my bed, and watched the light shift across the ceiling until it caught the bracelet in a sliver of gold. Each time the sun hit just right, the letters flickered up at me like a secret code.
His code.
I pressed my thumb into the grain, pushing hard enough to leave a little red crescent on my palm. The memory of his voice—low and steady, like river rocks underfoot—played on a loop in my head:You’re mine now.
He’d said it so matter-of-fact, like it was already true and I was the last person to get the memo.
I tried to play another chord, but my hand slipped, the note coming out all wrong. I laughed, which only made it worse, and collapsed backwards until my head thumped the wall. My breath came fast, and my face felt like I’d been sunburned.
I bit my lip and replayed the creek again—how he’d pressed his thumb to my jaw, how he didn’t even flinch when I nearly missed his mouth and kissed his cheek instead, how he’d waited for me to find my rhythm before taking over.
I’d been kissed before. Sloppy, desperate, forgettable. This was different. I felt it everywhere, like the first shot of whiskey after a year of bad hangovers. It buzzed in my bones, setting everything in me to a kind of fever pitch. My body didn’t know whether to run or to curl up around the feeling and keep it safe forever.
You’re mine now.
I probably should’ve been freaked out by how much I liked it. But all I wanted was to hear it again, see if the words would melt me the same way twice.
I ran my finger along the edge of the band, feeling where his calloused hands had stitched it together. I wondered if he’d worn gloves when he made it, or if the smell of wood glue and tobacco clung to the leather the same way it clung to his shirts.
I brought my wrist close to my nose and breathed in—yeah, there it was, subtle but there, like the way the air in the shop stayed a little smoky even after he’d aired it out.
I went back to my guitar, but now I was too distracted to even pretend. I set it down and rolled onto my stomach, the bracelet pressed to my lips. I’d heard about imprinting, the duckling kind, where you glom onto the first thing that shows you even a shred of warmth. I used to think that was for idiots. But maybe there was something to it, because every cell in my body was suddenly sure that if I let this feeling go, I’d never find another.
I closed my eyes and let the late-afternoon sun warm my face. If I listened hard enough, I could hear the echo of his heartbeat from earlier, the way it thudded through his chest when I leaned in. He’d tried to hide it, but I’d felt the twitch of his arm around my back, pulling me closer.
I could’ve stayed there forever, the two of us tangled on the blanket, the smell of river water and damp grass clinging to our clothes.
You’re mine now.
God. I was so far gone.
I stretched my arm out, twisting the bracelet so the inside faced up. I mouthed his name, once, then again, feeling the syllables catch in my throat. I wondered if it’d always be like this, if just the idea of belonging to someone would scramble my entire nervous system.
The door creaked open behind me, and I jolted upright, nearly choking myself with my own wrist. Bodean stuck his head in, hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted.
“Dude. You coming to dinner or what?” He grinned, eyes immediately going to the bracelet. “Nice bling.”
I tucked my hand under the pillow, like maybe I could hide the evidence. “Shut up,” I mumbled, but I could tell by the look on his face that the whole house already knew.
Bodean wiggled his eyebrows. “You finally let him reel you in, huh?”
I flushed so hard I thought my ears might catch fire. “Can you, like, not?”
He laughed, but it wasn’t mean. “Welcome to the family,” he said, then ducked out, leaving the door half open.
I stared at the ceiling, bracelet pinned against my heart, and let myself laugh, too. Not the bitter kind I used to do when things got too weird, but something lighter, easier. It was like all the jagged edges inside me had sanded down, just a little.
I’d spent seventeen years trying to figure out who I was supposed to be. Then two years unlearning everything my DNA and stepmom had tried to hammer into me. Now, it turned out, I was just a guy who liked having a name on his wrist and a pair of arms to fall asleep in.
