I can’t help it, my own mouth pulls into a grin, then I drop my eyes to the ground, careful not to let our stares linger for too long. But just like before—he seems unflustered by the scent of my skin, the lingering sway of my gaze. His hands are sunk into his jean pockets, his shoulders drawn down. No part of him is beckoned closer to me. No nagging in his chest, no flicker in his eyes reworking itself into desire. He stays right where he is.
“I wasn’t sure…” I pause. Now that I’m here, this doesn’t seem like the kind of place where he would spend his time. A noisy, crowded drive-in. “You came all the way here from Favorville?”
He straightens up from the corner of the ticket booth, and I flinch, ready to back away if he starts moving closer.
“It wasn’t far,” he answers vaguely. “I came to watch a movie.”
“No one comes here to see the movie.”
“Then why do they come?”
I flash a look to the crowd; the reasons are obvious: to press themselves close to the one they desire, to do whatever they want without any rules.
“How did you even hear about it?” I try. “No one outside of Cutwater knows about this place.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Word gets around.”
I can tell he’s hiding something—an icy, indescribable edge to each word.
A cheer erupts from the crowd—applause and hoots of excitement. Across the lawn, the old, weathered theater screen is flickering with an image, black-and-white lettering flaring across the screen:CASABLANCA. More shouts of excitement, then a speaker perched on the roof of a blue Honda near the front of the lawn belts outthe opening music for the movie, the volume turned up too loud, rattling the speakers. Someone shouts to turn it down, but no one does, and the movie now shows an image of a crowded marketplace. I cringe at the tinny, crackling audio and realize that Oak is now standing closer to me, looking up at the theater screen.
Secretly, I try to capture every curve and slope of his face—the tension along his jaw, the sturdiness of his features, the river-dark hair. Gazing at his eyes, I notice a fleck of brown, an imperfection in his left eye. A notch of hazel in the rim of green. A boy whose eyes are unlike any I’ve ever drawn before.
I should pull my gaze away, not let my eyes sink into his, not risk letting his heart begin to pump too quickly, his mind turning soft with thoughts of me. But I can’t. My eyes want only to peer into him, absorb every outline and shape. Possess it, coil it around my fingertips so I can sketch it later from my pencil onto paper.This boy I want to remember.
“Do they always play black-and-white films?” he asks, all soft, languid vowels tangled up in a cool winter breeze.
It occurs to me how strange it is to stand this close to him—to have a conversation that is so ordinary and commonplace, a thing I’ve rarely experienced—and it makes my chest feel like bubble gum, light and airy, about to pop. “Always,” I answer, my traitorous voice a little breathless.
He keeps his gaze on the film as it sputters to life across the oversized screen.
“At least, that’s what I’ve heard,” I add. “I’ve never actually seen a film here.”
He shifts his weight, settles a little on his right foot, and his skinseems darker than I remember: amber and tree bark, skin that is pulled from the page of a fable, a boy whose origin is unknown, descended from old gothic tales, from mystery novels. I imagine a past for him that is part fiction and part truth. A boy who has surely seen the world beyond our county line. “Then why’d you come tonight?” he asks.
I flick my eyes away, unsure what to say. “My birthday,” I answer. This isn’t a lie—Archer and I will be eighteen tomorrow. But it’s not a day we normally celebrate. It sits on the calendar as a reminder of the day we were forced into this cursed life. I don’t know why I reveal this to Oak, why these words fell from my lips.
“Happy birthday,” he says, his bottle-green eyes dipping into my skin. “And…” His gaze sweeps over the crowd, the theater screen showing a commotion in the marketplace, music screeching from the speakers. “You’re here with friends?”
A short, uncomfortable laugh escapes my throat. “No.”I don’t have any friends; no one would dare spend longer than a few minutes with me.
His shoulders settle, or maybe they tense, and the light that was in his eyes dims just a little. A distance spreading between us that can’t be measured in feet, but in breaths held in tight lungs.
I feel a strange, dagger-sharp prick inside me.
The thudding of something that has no name. Indefinable.
His eyes flick away, blunt and quick, as if he’s suddenly uncomfortable. He’s been here too long. Stood too close to Lark Goode—although he shows no signs of lovesickness taking root in his veins. And thisindifferenceonly makes me want to edge closer to him—perplexed, fascinated—wanting to know what thoughts are resting behind his impossible eyes.
I want to speak, to ask him the truth about who he is, but the air in my throat feels like feathers tangled together, like I’ve swallowed a bird.
I peer at him, beneath the moonlight, sensing a storm of thoughts thundering across the unknowable landscape of his mind.
A few yards away someone shrieks—a girl with blond cascades of hair who’s seated on a blanket at the edge of the lawn, two other girls beside her. She jumps up, a beer spilled down her T-shirt, and she stomps away as one of the other girls, with cotton candy–pink lipstick, runs after her.
I swallow, pulling my focus back to Oak….
But he’sgone.
