The circular fingernails she never left unbitten.
The rosy shade of her neck when she blushed.
The easy curve of her mouth when she smiled.
I’d pictured this moment, of course I had, playing pretend when I had nothing else. My imagination, however, had failed me dramatically. I tried to memorize the slide of her warm, smooth fingers through mine, feeling clumsy beside her confidence. I didn’t know how to do this.
Eva bit her lip, softly teasing a strand of hair at my nape between her fingers. The skim of her nails sent a frisson down my spine. Was it supposed to feel like this—so good that it almost hurt?
Then her smile dimmed. She dropped a gentle touch to the scar on my inner forearm. “How did you get this?”
I drew back, shame chasing the sunshine away. “What?”
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it.” Her thumb drew a bridge over the long-healed wound, her voice turning rough. “I just want to know you.”
Her touch felt like fire, but the heat was good. Painfully good. I didn’t deserve that.
“It doesn’t matter,” I whispered.
The world had every reason to hurt me. I was the poison under its skin, killing and killing with every touch. But it wasn’t the world that had taken a knife to my skin and tried to carve the badness out.
That had been me.
The monster soothed a touch to the center of my chest, easing the ache in my heart.“No more.”
I swallowed hard, hoping it was right. I never wanted to be that Arthur again.
Eva’s gentle touch pleased the monster. She was soft as feathers.
“And so alive,”it breathed. It didn’t reach to touch her, but I searched her eyes anyway, looking for some sign of death, some form of desiccation or decay.
I saw only blue.
And slowly, my disbelief sprouted into wonder.
I wasn’t supposed to be able to do this. I couldn’t touch anyone, but here I was, touching Eva Moreau, with no consequences whatsoever.
Eva set her palm on my chest.
“What are you doing?” I might have pulled back, run away, if she hadn’t all but pinned me against the table: a butterfly, dead and spread for examination.
“Dad taught me this trick,” Eva said. “Sometimes, when I start to feel very panicky, I close my eyes and picture a sky full of storm clouds, slowly clearing.”
It was hard to think about storms when I looked at her.
“I think… sometimes it helps to remember thatyouare not the storm, you know?” Eva said, absentmindedly moving her thumb across my shirt. Our gazes clicked and held. “You’re the whole sky,” she said, softer now.
I swallowed hard. “Why are you telling me this?”
Something I couldn’t name passed over her expression. “You’re like me,” Eva said as she leaned closer, until I was certain she had to feel my heart racing beneath her palm.
I was staring at her mouth. I couldn’t stop. It was round and full and slightly swollen, as though she’d been chewing her lip.
“I want you to feel safe here, Arthur.”
The words were so earnest, and it hurt to realize how much I wanted that too. To be safe at the cottage. To be safe with her.
“I know, bee girl,” I whispered.
