“What was that about?” Amber asks, looking at me with a mixture of amusement and confusion.
“A random act of kindness,” I say, grabbing the sodas. “Shall we?”
Eli offers Amber his arm, which she takes with a shy smile. Maisie skips ahead, clutching her bucket of popcorn like it’s a pot of gold.
This is going to be an interesting night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Amber
The theater is dark,the only light coming from the massive screen where a Night Fury is diving through a sea of clouds, its scales shimmering with bioluminescence. The orchestral music swells, vibrating through the floorboards and into the soles of my boots.
To my left, Maisie is perched on the edge of her seat, completely mesmerized. But she isn’t whispering to me. She’s whispering to Fallon.
I can’t hear every word over the soundtrack, but I catch snippets.
“…look at the teeth, they’re like knives…”
“…no way, that one breathes fire, not ice…”
Fallon, the intimidating mountain of a man covered in tattoos, is leaning down with his elbows on his knees, listening to her with rapt attention. He points at the screen, nodding solemnly at her observations, occasionally popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth.
It’s a strange and wonderful sight—my nine-year-old daughter and a butcher bonded over animated dragons.
I shift in my seat, turning my head slightly to the right.
Eli is already looking at me.
He isn’t watching the movie. He isn’t watching the dragon or the vikings. He’s watching me, the blue light from the screen reflecting in his glasses, softening the lines of his face.
He smiles, a small, private curve of his lips that feels like a secret shared just between the two of us.
“Hey,” he mouths, not making a sound.
I feel a flush rise up my neck. I gesture with my chin toward Maisie and Fallon. “I didn’t want to interrupt guys’ night,” I whisper back.
Eli shakes his head slightly, shifting his arm so that his hand rests on the armrest between us, his pinky finger brushing against my thigh.
“I’m happy to have you here,” he whispers.
My heart does a complicated little flip. I reach into the bucket on my lap and grab a handful of popcorn, stuffing it into my mouth to hide the goofy smile that threatens to break out.
I chew slowly, trying to focus on the movie, but I’m acutely aware of his presence. The heat radiating from his arm. The scent of sugar and soap that seems to follow him everywhere.
Slowly, tentatively, I move my hand on the armrest.
My pinky brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his hand over, palm up, an open invitation.
I slide my hand into his.
His fingers close around mine, squeezing gently. We sit like that for a few minutes, hands clasped in the dark, watching a boy and his dragon learn to trust each other.
It’s such a small, simple thing, holding hands. I’ve done it a thousand times. But with Eli, it feels monumental. It feels like an anchor.
Suddenly, Maisie gasps loudly, pointing at the screen. “Mom! Did you see that? He almost fell!”
I startle, guiltily snatching my hand away from Eli’s as if I’ve been burned. I whip my head around to look at my daughter.
