I almost forget about the last sketch waiting at the back of the notebook. Until his fingers turn the page, andheis staring up from the paper.
Oak blinks. And my heart stops beating.
I tip back from him, swallowing, trying to think of what to say.
But he speaks first.
“Is this how you see me?”
I nod, but I don’t think he notices. He is quiet, unmoving beside me.
“It’s not finished yet,” I say, worried he sees something in the image that he doesn’t like. Worried he sees all my thoughts hidden in each pencil stroke. All the ways my heart has been unraveling onto this page. Worried it’s not himself he sees, butme. The truth of what I feel when I look at him. “I know it’s not…” I shake my head. “I mean, I don’t usually show anyone my sketches. So you probably think it’s… it’s not really…” I don’t know what I’m trying to say, but I feel suddenly anxious, fidgety, with his eyes staring down at the sketch. I feelvulnerable, certain he can see all the things I’ve been trying to hide. The ache in my chest when I think of him. The perfect slant of his eyes, his lips. I drew him how I see him in my dreams.
And now he can see it too.
I clear my throat, about to stand up, when he finally lifts his eyesand turns to look at me. But it’s not disgust or disapproval I see in his face. It’s something else—a thing that’s hard to describe.
“Lark…” His voice falls away, becomes part of the wind and the storm.
I can’t breathe.
I want to inch closer until there’s no air between us. Until the beating of his heart drowns out my own.
I wish for things I would never say aloud.
But beyond the trees, the light is beginning to change. The sunrise approaching.
He breathes, and I watch every flicker of thought slipping past his eyes. I see the air held in his lungs; I see all the reasons why we shouldn’t be this close. Why time feels unbending, immeasurable when we’re together.
But above us, the stars begin to melt away.
The night ending.
And through the soft rush of the wind, I hear footsteps from inside the house.
Then the slamming of a door.
Archer is awake—probably crossing from his room to the bathroom. It’s only a matter of time until my brother wanders into the kitchen, looking for caffeine. Only a matter of time until he discovers me on the porch, with a boy, looking like I’ve ensnared him. Like I’ve cast a Goode spell, making him mine.
But Oak doesn’t pull his eyes away, and it feels like we’re suspended in that gentle state between sleep and wake—like I could slip back into this dream with him, or rise and be reminded of who I really am.
But when I hear another door close, and the sky turns pale and yellowing with the first hint of sunlight, I can’t deny that the dream is over.
“I should get back inside,” I say.
Oak nods, but neither of us stands.
Neither of us wants this to end.
“Thank you…,” I say as the stars fade from the sky. “Thanks for staying up with me.”
I feel weightless as I force my legs to stand. He holds out the sketchbook, and I press it to my chest, never taking my eyes off him.
“Can I take you somewhere…?” he asks. “Tonight, after sunset?”
I hesitate, looking to the front door. I feel the conflict inside me—the part of me that knows I should be on a train today. I shouldn’t waste any more time with this boy. But my heart is a pendulum in my chest, knocking against my ribs whenever his eyes settle on me, and it’s a feeling I can’t ignore. No matter how hard I try.
And right now,honestly, I don’t want to ignore it.
