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“Flirts with anything that has a pulse.”
I wink at him. “That’s the one.”
He scratches a hand through his damp hair. “You’re running with him?”
“Thought it’d be fun.”
“You never run. You hate running.”
“Something new,” I amend.
Silvery eyes clash with mine, confused. “It’ll be breakfast when you get back.” What about our time on the turret?
What about the three weeks more I’m supposed to have?
“We can do it later, maybe.”
The bolt of pain crossing his face is satisfying. It’s petty of me. I can’t help it.
If it doesn’t hurt . . .?
He schools his emotion. Something he’s well-practiced at, with his dad.
Pain ricochets from him to me, slicing through muscle and bone, deeper.
He doesn’t school his emotions with me. Not with me.
His dimpled grin is the final stab. We’ve swivelled in opposite directions on the fork in the road. “Have fun with Ford.”
He uses the car he lent Cress and moves his few boxes out on Monday. Early. So there’s no question whether or not we’ll have a moment before breakfast. When I roll out of bed, I meet him about to jog down the stairs. His hair is a mess like he hasn’t slept, or showered. Like he just needs to get out.
His bulky hiking pack is slung over one shoulder and he jumps a little to redistribute the weight. Or for something to do as I cross the last few feet.
“So this is goodbye?” My voice cracks from sleep. From waking to this new reality.
His eyes are shiny, his mouth is downturned, his cheeks are pale. A glossy line runs from the corner of one eye, forks at his cheekbone and trails toward his ear, his jaw.
He looks at me like he has a million things to say. He only says one. “Not goodbye. I’ll see you later.”
Not bye. Later. Byes are too final.
When his footsteps fade from the stairs, I stand in his emptied room. There’s nothing in his drawers, wardrobe. His desk has been cleared. His bed is neatly made, the pillow still smells of him. The air feels thick with an indescribable quality he’s left behind.
He’d only have to breathe out once, and I would know he was nearby.
How do I stop listening for that?
Ford calls my name, and I roll hurriedly off Ethan’s bed. I make it to the window before he catches me in the room.
I open the window wide, waving a hand before my face. “Needs airing.”
Ford simply grins. “How do you feel about going out for breakfast?”
“Out?”
“Yeah, you and me. Cress is still asleep. So?”
I just want to get out of Ethan’s room. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Ideas! Hardly. All I want is for you to sit across from me at a café, and give me kind smiles and maybe a few coy looks, maybe a bite of whatever you order, and talk. Share your thoughts, be interested in mine. I want you to want to know more about me, and try to convince me to get another coffee so that we can extend our conversation, and feel sad when it’s all over. Nothing else.”
It stirs a laugh out of me as I pass him at the door. “You’re all innocence.”
He snickers.
“Just breakfast,” I call over my shoulder.
Ethan watches me with Ford.
We’re ranking the books on the shelves that line one wall of the billiard room. A little table is between us; we’re stacking the books we’ve both read, from least enjoyable to most.
Behind us, Ethan and Cress are playing pool.
“Austen?” Ford says, sounding humorously outraged. “Better than Dickens?”
“The audiobook blew me away.”
“Audiobooks don’t count.”
“Why not? It’s reading the story.”
“There’s a whole other interpretation of the story from the narrator that isn’t necessarily your own.”
The book I set down wobbles under my fingers and slides off the pile.
A ball smacks against the others and they bang about the pool table.
“Have you read Orwell?” Ford continues, pinching it out of the shelf.
Only listened to the audiobooks. “He’s a great storyteller.”
“You have good taste.”
“Still not as good as Austen.”
“You have terrible taste.”
Mrs Norris jumps onto our table, then springs atop our waist-high pile of books before Ford can settle his on top. When he tries to slither it under her, she hisses at him and raises a warning paw.
I catch Ethan chalking the end of his cue, grinning—just—and drop my own grin to Mrs Norris.
“Oh, what’s this?” Ford says to the cat. He fans his hand behind her ears and pulls out a flower made of folded pages. Mrs Norris immediately swipes for it, and Ford teases her, shifting it out of reach.
“What did you do to the books?” I say, aghast.
He smirks. “No books were harmed in the making of this.” He reaches behind my ear and pulls out another flower. “Or this.” He taps my nose with it.
It’s all very smooth.
He’s expecting a smile, a blush, a gleeful shriek.
