Page 25 of Lovefool

That storm-born gaze she wears on a regular basis—pupils backlit by a determination that even the heavens fear—melts into something softer, like she’s subconsciously aware that her fight mode is always cranked to a ten.

“I really like you,” she corrects, nuzzling her face into my palm.

In that split second of time, Lake somehow reverse engineers all my anxiety into something productive.

“And the fact that you’re here right now, trying to understand my passion, means a lot more to me than you think. I know this is the last place you want to be. It’s…a lot, especially if you haven’t done hours of research on the ethics of animal testing.”

I shake my shaggy hair. “I want to be here because you want to be here. This is important to you. Don’t downplay your interests because you think you need to act a certain way around me. All of this is really inspiring. Seeing people come together to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves—it restores some of my faith in humanity.”

Lake glances at the tidal pool of protestors who spent the better half of some chilly afternoon creating a motley of signage, sharing their indignation with their neighbors, and organizing a movement that’s loud enough to garner the attention of local law enforcement.

Pride buttresses me, and I lower my hand from the soft swell of her cheek.

“You didn’t strike me as a cynic the first time we talked,” she says.

I parse over her words. “I didn’t always used to be. I guess—I don’t know, I started holding this one-sided grudge against the public for taking my dad away so much. He wouldn’t always have to be on call if reckless campers weren’t forgetting to stomp out their fires, or a smoker actually practiced how to stub out a cigarette, or a person remembered to blow out their candles before leaving their house for three hours. Most of the times, those fires are man-made. And I’m, God, I’m sick thinking about the fact that my dad’s life could be ripped away from him because of a careless mistake.”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain anything to me. I get it, and your anger is valid. Protesting reminds me that there’s good in people too. College tends to be a cesspool for the self-inflated.”

She’s not wrong. A certain ex-boyfriend comes to mind, and I wouldn’t be opposed to locking him in a dog cage like some of the brave militants are doing up ahead as a part of a theatrical demonstration.

You’re the good in this world, Lake.

We’re so close. Should I kiss her right now? Fuck, I really want to kiss her right now. I’m not well-versed in reading women. I sure as hell haven’t met anyone in years who’s (unknowingly) threatened to deactivate the firewall around my heart.

I don’t realize I’ve been staring deeply into her eyes like a creep until she pipes up.

“Careful, you might complicate our work-life balance,” she jests.

I avert my gaze immediately, feeling a pressure-release of epinephrine assail my body, warmth swarming to my cheeks and negating the cool relief of the late winter air. “Shit, sorry. I—that wasn’t…I swear I’m not thinking about⁠—”

“Relax, Big Guy. I’m pulling your leg.” Humor coils around her words.

Jesus, I really need an Ativan.

I open my mouth to play off my blunder, coming up with the lamest excuse in the book as to why I was practically eye-fucking my protest buddy without her permission, but a miracle—using the term loosely here—halts me from my inevitable word vomit.

A mountainous mass of a man collides into Lake’s back, sending her flying into my chest, and he doesn’t so much as acknowledge her while he thrusts his sign into the air with a vigor that’s more reflective of fighting violence with violence instead of educating those who need it.

He’s one of those small-headed dudes with muscles that occupy every conversation, tendon tears responsible for bulges that a mere paper cut would succeed against. He’s a few inches shorter than me, but I’m guessing he has a lot more rage.

Lake glowers but doesn’t say anything.

“Dude, watch where you’re going,” I growl, cradling my girl (who’s not my girl) protectively against my chest.

The testosterone is palpable. There is no gradual build up. It’s not like black mold hiding around tepid corners, tarnishing drywall in a slow and unseen death before blooming into Rorschach blots.

“Fuck off,” he barks, cudgeling any chance of reparations. It’s like he’s purposefully hackling away his sensibility just to make this whole interaction painfully annoying.

I step into him, shepherding Lake behind me so she can turn and run if things get ugly. “If you ram into anyone here like that again, you’re gonna be drinking out of a straw for the next five months.”

I don’t want to resort to violence, but maybe this dipshit should think twice about installing some rearview mirrors before he ixnays the self-awareness.

He puffs up his chest in a false display of confidence, right before recognition sets into his disproportionately tiny features. Beady eyes, nonexistent lips, a dotty patch of pubic hair on his chin.

I have no idea what happens next, but he lowers his hackles, backs away like a condemned dog, and mumbles out a slightly sincere apology.

I blink. Lake blinks. We both blink at each other.