I surge up and grab a few thick pieces of wood. I set them on the fire. It’s a good excuse to give Wizard my back. I’m scared to turn around and face his lovely green eyes. I knowthey’re going to be full of ghosts, a haunted mirror to my own soul.
He’s standing by the loveseat when I get brave enough to turn. I hope that I’ve closed myself off enough. He hasn’t even tried to do that. His cheeks are salt stained, and his eyes are red rimmed. I don’t know how or why they light up when they see me. As if I’ve ever made one single thing better for him. He’s still so painfully, ridiculous hopeful. It absolutely kills me.
He’s brought out two square metal clamps, a loaf of bread, a small plastic container, and a jar that he balances in his other hand.
“Mountain pies?” he asks, voice catching, torn around the edges.
“I’ve never had one.”
“Mm.”
He’s got to be starving. I don’t even want to think about how violently he was sick earlier. Him wanting to eat at all is a good sign.
I paste on a smile that doesn’t feel even halfway convincing. “Show me how to make them?”
He does. He’s quick to get out a slice of bread, spread cream cheese on it, and add a thick layer of jam. He rests the utensils on the lids so they don’t get the loveseat sticky. He completes the sandwich then fits flips open the metal square and fits it inside. Another flip and it’s clamped.
“Hold it over the fire. Rotate it every so often. Count to ten, rotate, count again.”
“How do I know when it’s done?”
“Look for the coals, not the flame. You’ll start to smell it. Even if it’s a little raw, it’s still delicious.”
Maybe it’s the protective layer around the bread, but I don’t end up burning the sandwich. Wizard gets the clamp open for me and pops the perfectly browned bread out with the jam knife. It’s scalding hot, so I grab it around the edges. I sink my teeth into the crust because I can’t bring myself to wait. The jam and cheese scent is mouthwatering and I’m suddenlystarving.
Wizard makes his own. I’m good with one, but he eats three. When he’s finished, I take everything back into the cabin except the clamps.
I come back to find him adding a few more pieces of wood to the fire. He waits for them to catch.
I plop down on the loveseat automatically, thinking too late, when he starts to walk over, that I should have taken one of the chairs.
My heart is like a hummingbird as he sits down right beside me. Even with my leg pressed into the wicker arm, I’m still basically pressed right up against Wizard’s hot, hard body. Our legs touch from our hips down to our knees. My breath catches as he leans in, brushing my shoulder with his. He lifts his arm and settles it behind me, a silent invitation for me to draw close.
I’m frozen. I can’t move. My world is tilting, spinning out of control. “I hope it’s okay I got your jacket,” I blurt. And wince.
“Yeah. Of course.”
The silence feels dangerous. I don’t want to say the wrong thing, but all my words are wrong. I think about what I saw in the bathroom again, Wizard coming completely undone, in pain, falling apart. My hand finds his shoulder before I even know what I’m doing. My fingers skim the hot skin at the back of his neck and all the breath bunches up in my lungs. I find his other shoulder and apply pressure, drawing him into me.
I mean for him to rest his head against mine, or on my shoulder maybe, but he curls up and falls, letting gravity tumble him straight down into my lap. His cheek hits my knee and glides along until it finds my other one and he’s fully draped over me. Against me. I’m wearing him like I’m wearing his jacket.
I still haven’t taken a breath. I exhale loudly. I’m too rigid. I know that Wizard feels it. My nerves and thundering heart are forgotten when he shivers. He’s in a black hoodie and jeans, and since I can feel the heat he’s throwing, I know that it’s not a cold shiver. I tuck one of his curls behind his ear then smooth my hand up and down his arm. His knees nearly meet his chin, he’s curled so tight, but he draws them in another inch and sighs.
I want to say it, but it wouldn’t be right.I’ve loved you as my best friend and like a brother. You’ve been in my heart for so long. I’m sorry that it’s all wrong. I’m so sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry that all these years are gone.
I drag my hand over Wizard’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” he responds, but he sounds fragile.
“Look at me?”
He tilts his face up. His eyes are wide, a little wounded, a whole lot uncertain. The cold glimmer from the bathroom remains, a shard of ice locked in the warmest greens I know. The dream hasn’t left him. I wish I could fix this. I’m good at precious few things, and all of them the wrong ones.
“I read this quote a few days ago,” I start, voice reed thin. I brush my hand over Wizard’s soft curls again and try not to let that touch stir something all the way down inside of me. It’s comfort. Only. I have no right to offer more. Me, who has ruined everything I have ever touched. “Do you know Keats?”
Wizard snorts. “No, I don’t know Keats.”
I knock his shoulder lightly with a closed fist. “You read and stuff. You might know some poetry.” Can Wizard feel how badly I’m trembling? His head is in my lap. Why on earth did I thinkthatwas a good idea? I might be bracketed by my leggings and his jacket, the plaid swimming down to my knees, but it’s not nearly enough. “Whatever. I don’t know that much either.”
