I like his eyes.
His pupils have contracted in the morning glow, shades of blue now rendered with greater subtlety, lighter irises circled by a ring of dark. His lashes are long and thick and when he turns away from me I study the outline of his profile, the contained power in his body. He shifts his weight. He’s wearing a faded denim jacket with a fleece collar. There’s a bright, kite-shaped pin on the pocket.
“What are you thinking,” he says, looking away from me, “when you get quiet like that?”
“Nothing.”
He exhales a harsh laugh. “Sure. Okay.”
“Why is there a kite-shaped pin on your pocket?”
He turns to face me immediately, surprise coloring his expression. “You’re askingmea question?”
Heat, that familiar, horrible heat: I feel it burning on the crests of my cheeks. “No.”
“No?”
“No,” I say, this time with forced indifference. “I’m withdrawing my question.”
“No way,” he says, smiling now. “You’ve already spoken it into the world. You can’t take it back.”
“You don’t make the rules.”
“How about a deal?” he says. “If you start answering more of my questions, maybe I’ll answer some of yours.”
I shake my head, panic threatening.
I already have to live with the enormous mistake I made the other day, exposing myself and my inspection of him in a childish burst of anger. I’d been unbalanced by the sheer force of James’s attention, his easy smiles and laughter. No one but Clara ever smiles at me with sincerity. I’d been subjected to the dizzying power of his charm for hours by that point, and I was feeling frustrated and reactive. I spoke too much without thinking.
Never again.
I force myself to break away now, to gather up my journal and clear my mind before I say or do something irreparable—when I’m suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the moss between my toes. I realize I don’t know what they did with my shoes.
“They’re outside the door,” he says.
I look up like I’ve been slapped.
“Your shoes,” he says, unprompted. “They’re outside. In a little cubby with your name on it.”
“I didn’t say anything about wanting my shoes.”
“I know,” he says.
“How did you—”
“Because,” he says. “You just looked at your feet, and then looked around. I did the math. It’s not complicated.”
I’m looking at him and coming loose again. I have a new dream: I’d like to be neatly folded,set aside in a slant of light, and allowed to collect dust.
James, I realize, makes me feel like I can rest.
It’s a hysterical, dangerous thought. As if I might ever be allowed to untie these ropes, unlock these chains.
I’m going to go home.
I’m going to go home, collect Clara, try to avoid marrying Sebastian, and spend the rest of my life withering into ash. I was trained from childhood for life as an executioner. It was what my parents wanted for me; more than that, it was the only career path I was allowed. For as long as I can remember, every psychological evaluation and aptitude test agreed: the child appears to be dead inside.
There was something wrong with me, something broken, some meaningful reason why I never laughed the way other children did, never smiled at strangers. Why I never cried when they sliced me open over and over and over again, trying to feed my mind to a machine.
