That’s the only other time he’s ever touched me.
“Are you forgetting last night?”Sammie’s ghost asks, reminding me of when he told me to behave.
The shock is just as acute as I’d expect. I’m not a touchy-feely person. It just doesn’t come naturally to me.
But this isn’t the unease or surprise of the actual act.
It’s electrical. Warming my insides, the pins and needles taking on a different tone to the haywire nerves I usually feel.
I want him to touch me.
There’s always been a curiosity inside me. From the moment I met the Ghost. I wanted to know him.
Eyes blazing, he forces me to stop moving, to look him in the face.
“You know at some point you are going to have to let someone in.”
A defensive mechanism rises in me. “Says the guy who hid behind a mask for how long?”
“Masks aren’t always made out of latex,” he replies, unruffled by the dig. “You’re hiding from something.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I never once took you for a liar.”
I recoil at his disappointment.
He catches my hesitation, taking a deep breath. “Tell me what’s going on in that mind of yours, Matheson.”
I shake my head.
“One thing, Matheson,” he says.
He’s so close, but he’s not lurking in the dark. He’s not towering over a victim. There’s a subtle, powerful wave of. . . meditation? That doesn’t make sense. He’s upset with me, butfor some reason I want to tuck myself into his side and let him anchor me.
“Tell me one real, honest thought in your mind.” He gently squeezes my arm, pulling me toward him.
I laugh, thanks to the confusion and sense of irony. “I didn’t think you liked my monologue on slime.”
He brushes a strand of my hair back, my heart leaping into my throat.
“I didn’t,” he admits, but before my chest fully crushes, he continues. “I’ll listen to you prattle on all day in that accent of yours. But you’re stronger than a string of babbled words.”
“It’s not babbled words.”
Sammie and my mom used to tell me I could be annoying because I went on too many tangents. Talked about too many things without letting others talk about themselves.
My friends must think I’m ridiculous. That I send too many texts in the group chat.
“Then what is it?” Tristan asks.
“They’re my thoughts. My feelings.”
“SummarizingLove Islandis not feelings.”
I try to tug my arm away, but he merely squeezes harder. It’s not painful, but he won’t let up.
All-consuming. That’s what he is.
