“Or… maybe I have more free will than you give me credit for,” he suggests, lifting an eyebrow, his hand so close that he could lay it atop mine, his eyes so close that he could peer inside me and see all my secrets. And when he looks at me like this, it makes me feel like I’ve known him for lifetimes, like I’ve always known him, like we grew up next door to each other and we’ve spent countless summer nights together just like this. When his eyes blink slowly, lidded, when his mouth forms a barely there smile that I could almost mistake for sadness, I feel like I could stay here beside him for a hundred years. Like we are the oldest of friends, like we could tip into something deeper if we’re not careful. Something dizzying and weightless and risky.
Something we are destined for.
But his mouth drives into an almost-serious line. “I’m here because I want to be here,” he says. “I could leave at any time.” He stands from the porch swing, shoulders broad, and takes a step toward the edge of the porch. “I could walk away right now, all the way home, if I wanted.” He takes another step. “I’m serious. You better tell me to stay. Otherwise, I’m leaving. I’ll really do it.”
I watch him, trying not to smirk.
“Last chance, Lark,” he warns, glancing over his shoulder as he descends the porch steps. “I’m going to walk home… in the dark… and the cold.”
A short laugh falls from my lips. “You said you like walking in the dark,” I point out. “And it’s summer, it’s not even cold.”
He tilts his head at me. “The wolves, then, the wolves will surely get me. Imagine what a horrible death.”
“Okay,” I say, unable to contain the grin taking up most of my face. “Stay.”
But he raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you really mean it. It feels like you’re just saying that to be nice.” He steps over the creek, pushing his hands into his pockets, like he’s preparing to make the long, dangerous trek back to Favorville. He looks at me one last time, forlorn and desperate, and when I don’t say anything, he starts walking.
But I sit up straight. “Oak,” I call, still grinning. “I want you to stay…. Please stay.”
He swivels back to me. “You’re sure? You’re not just saying that?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I don’t want you to leave…. I need you to stay.”
He smiles, holding up his hands. “Fine, fine, I will if you want me to that badly.”
I scowl at him, and when he climbs back up the steps, settling onto the porch swing, I shove him in the shoulder.
“I didn’t know you were so desperate for me to stay,” he says, shooting me a half smile, looking far too handsome in the filtered moonlight.
“You’re lucky I’m not a real witch like everyone thinks I am,” I tease. “Otherwise, I’d hex you and turn you into something awful.”
“Even if you were a witch, I’d still stick around.”
Our eyes meet, and it feels like gravity has untethered me from the earth. I let my eyes trace every detail of his face. I don’t look away.Of my own free will.Because maybe I am a witch and he’s a wolf and we have nothing to lose. Maybe this moment is all there is, and I want to feel the closeness of someone who isn’t afraid of me.
I pull my knees up to my chest, and he leans back against the porch swing, causing it to tip slightly—enough to allow the sketchbook resting beside me on the swing to slide off the edge, landing with a thud on the porch.
Oak leans forward, retrieving it for me. But it’s fallen open, and as he lifts it up, the pages flutter, revealing the sketches inside. “Did you draw these?”
I barely nod, a twitch of unease tugging at my chest.
“Wow… Lark. They’re really good.”
I try to force a smile.
“Are they real people?”
The pages have stalled on a sketch of Mr. Andrews, our postman. A portly man with reddish hair and a bent nose, like he was punched in the face at one time. “Yeah.”
Oak turns to me. “Sorry, I should have asked. You probably don’t want me looking at them.” He starts to close the sketchbook.
But I smile. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Because strangely, the nerves in my stomach have settled. I trust him—a feeling I’ve rarely known, a feeling I hardly recognize. He flips forward through the book, past the faces of my classmates, my teachers, my school bus driver, and I tell him the names of the people in the images. Their stories. The pieces of their lives I’ve witnessed from afar.
The passage of time loses all meaning. His shoulder grazes mine, but he doesn’t inch closer. Tonight is not like in the pond, when I felt desperate to touch him—to lay my fingers against his shoulders. Tonight I feel calm, the ease of our conversation, our laughter, soothing my usually guarded mind. As if we’ve done this a hundred timesbefore, sat on the porch swing and talked like old friends. Like two people tipping toward something slowly, carefully, without much effort.
Tonight I let myself be here with him. I let myself feel safe. And unafraid.
