Blond hair. Long.
Pale face.
A hoop through her nose.
Eyeliner, a white hoodie.
She blinks up at me and I don’t know why we haven’t let go of each other. Her fingers are still splayed over my chest, and I’m still gripping her wrist. In the crisp October night, I inhale her scent.
She smells like incense. Catholic mass. I’ve only gone once, to my uncle’s funeral last year.
It brings me back, but she’s entirely different from a corpse in a jeweled casket.
Her eyes are wide, the whites vivid under the arena’s lights.
Then I hear,“Neve, I’m going to fucking find you.”
And it doesn’t sound like a playful taunt.
My fingers grip her wrists tighter and a small breath escapes her lips.
But then she jerks away and reluctantly, I let her go.
“I…” She speaks, her voice low and soft. There’s an accent I can’t place with the single word. She looks over her shoulder, and I watch her long, straight blond hair hit nearly to her waist. Jeans, black Uggs. The most comfortable, basic wardrobe in the world but it fits her slender frame well.
She’s tall, though.
Not as tall as me, but I’d say five nine?
“Neve!” A man’s voice. Definitely angry.
She spins to face me, and for a moment, it looks like she’s silently pleading. But then she narrows her gaze, and without another word, she sprints behind me, disappearing when I turn to track her, somewhere in the parking lot around the building, back by the player’s entrance.
I want to chase after her for one wild, reckless second. But before I can pull myself the fuck together, I hear heavy breathing, and when I turn again, a man is screeching to stop in front of me, puffs of cold leaving his parted lips as his eyes widen at the sight of me.
He’s wearing flannel, jeans, a Drayton Dragon’s hat, red and black with Drewie the Dragon on it.
Fuck. A fan.
He lifts up his palms, but I can see it still, the cloudiness of his expression. He isn’t fully sober.
He glances past me, like he’s looking for her.
Neve?
The only time I’ve heard that name is fromScream.
Neve Campbell. She was—is—gorgeous. Canadian, too. The girl looked nothing like her, and with that accent, she’s definitely not from Canada.
“You’re Darling… Shit. Faust Darling.” The man gasps out, panting now, like he’s chased her a long ways.
I tilt my head and stare down at him, the way his jaw is slack, his eyes bugged out.
I hate this part, the gawking, and I don’t say anything.
Was he in the locker room?
But that wouldn’t make sense. He doesn’t look like staff. He must have come from the front of the arena, likeshedid.
