“So adding clumsy on top of stubborn and amazingly talented.” He sighs, falling to his side so he’s off me and lying next to me instead.
“Gavin?” I quirk a brow.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He turns to me.
“Thank you for talking to me.” I reach for his hand. When our fingers connect, he doesn’t pull away. He watches me thread my fingers with his and squeeze. He doesn’t fight it, but he doesn’t squeeze back. “I have the urge to pick up a pencil now.” I scoff with a smile.
We lock eyes as the air around us buzzes.
Does he feel it too?
“You know, I used to have a passion, just like you. An outlet. Something that gives me life and excitement.” His blue eyes light up differently as he shares. “But after my injury,” he sighs sadly, “I quit. I quit everything that once made me happy until I foundsomething that inspired me again. Something that gave me hope to at leasttry.”
I quirk a brow, wanting to know so badly what his ray of hope was.
Depression is like that sometimes for me.
When I feel like I’m lost in the dark, I search so badly for something to remind me of the woman I’m meant to be. I cling to it like an anchor in a deep, chaotic ocean. Watch it like a shooting star in the night sky. Cherish it like the only sunflower in a badland.
“What was that thing for you?” I ask, getting closer. “What gave you hope again?”
He smiles, tucking a hair strand behind my ear.
“You know, Coraline, you should be afraid of me. Everyone in this town is.”
I hesitate, my brows furrowing for a moment, then I relax.
“I’m not.” I frown.
Why does he think that about himself? I want to ask a dozen questions, but I want to hold onto this rare moment more.
“I’m afraid ofyou.” He holds my hand tighter when I try to retract. My heart begins to pound harder, louder.
Can he hear it?
“Why?” I ask, fighting back the curve of my lips.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?” I ask, confused.
“Not yet,” he parrots calmly.
With the way he’s staring at me, I get the hint that there’s a deeper meaning behind those two words. He doesn’t want to talk; he just wants to savor the moment and be in the present.
I smile, wondering what his past holds. I want to know all about it and his injury. I want to keep asking him questions just so I can hear his voice, full of hope, but I don’t want to push it. I like watching him open up to me. It feels freeing to be here in the wilderness with him.
He looks everywhere—my eyes, my face, my nose, my cheeks, my hair.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“I’m looking at you, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
