Page 26 of Xavier

I just smile as I listen to her talking, her voice high with excitement, her elbow occasionally bumping up against mine as she waves her arms around, describing her dream.

"What do you think?" She stops chattering for a moment to ask me.

"Oh. Um. I don't know much about art."

"You don't have to, just tell me what you think.” Her smile is so warm; as unsure as I feel about giving my opinion about something I know nothing about, I know I can’t refuse her anything.

"Well, I think you should stop worrying about re-creating it and just create. That dream came from you, those images are inside of you. So maybe stop thinking so much, and just trust your instinct. I bet you’ll make something that elicits the same feeling you had in your dream."

She doesn't say anything and for a moment I'm worried I've offended her. Then she just sighs and slides her hand into mine, swinging it between us as we arrive, too soon, at the wall.

Then, without needing to talk, we fall into a routine. She gets to work on her mural as I find my spot against the wall, where I can read my books and watch her without reserve.

Her hands work, cutting and pasting shapes onto the wall, her face running the range of expressions, from a furrowed brow in concentration, to excitement at a new idea, to contentment at a square of color placed just right.

Her hair untangles from the elastic holding it up on her head, and the fading sun catches the tips as they whip around her face from a passing breeze. I watch as she absentmindedly runs a finger along the curve of her cheek, pulling at a hair stuck to her lips. Every move she makes entrances me.

I don't know if it's all the years of dance training that has her body moving in shapes and angles designed to capture your attention, or if it's just instinctive to her.

To command every ounce of my attention.

I catch myself holding my breath as I watch her.

She curses at something on the wall and it reminds me to stop staring, at least for a moment and I force my gaze down to the open textbook in my lap. I tell myself to count to ten before I let myself look up but only get to eight before I'm watching her again.

Two hours later she slides down only the ground next to me, pulling her knees in close to her chest, lines of goosebumps jumping up from her arms due to the plummeting temperature.

I take my jacket off and throw it around her. She gives me a look of thanks, pulling it tight around her and then lays her head on my shoulder. It takes everything I have to not lay a kiss on her forehead.

“Thank you,” she whispers after a few minutes as a pink hue starts to bleed all over the horizon. And I’m the only one there to hear it.

I don’t say “you’re welcome” because what I really mean to say is “my pleasure.”

"I better be going home,” she says once the moon and sun are almost equally visible in the sky, and I’m glad to hear she’s as sad about it as I am. “I didn't realize how late it was getting.”

I nod and gather my things. "Do you need me to walk you home?" I ask, hoping for an answer I probably shouldn’t be hoping for. I'm not sure what this all means to her. Us. Not that I really care, as long as I get to keep spending time with her

"No, I should be alright, it’s not too far,” she says, fiddling with the zipper of my jacket and pulling it closed all the way up to her throat. "Or, hey, do you need me to walk you home?" she teases, nudging me with her shoulder.

"Yes! There's a VERY vicious family of squirrels just around the corner from here. If you hear of an attack on the news tonight, you’ll know it’s because you made me walk home alone." I pout and she laughs and it sounds like every clichéd lovestruck description you’ve ever heard.

We get to our feet, brushing the dirt from our hands and clothes.

"See you here tomorrow? I have Sundays free,” she asks, sliding her arms into the backpack straps.

I nod, "Sure, sounds good."

"What time?"

I bite back the urge to say the earlier the better. "9 a.m.?"

"'K." Then she leans over, and presses a kiss to my cheek before pivoting on her foot and skipping away. She's halfway across the basketball court before I can react, and even then, it's just to press a hand to my face.

***

My father left us almost two years ago, to the day.

He didn't die, he didn't pass away, he wasn’t on a sabbatical to find himself.