Page 48 of Was I Ever Here

“What are we doing here?” I finally ask.

“Watching the sunrise.”

“Oh.”

I don’t know what else to say so I say nothing. Quite a regular occurrence between us. We sit in silence for a while as I try to pick out the first hints of pink in the horizon but only the navy blue stares back at me.

My gaze drifts near a patch of flowers on the outskirts of the field, wondering what kind they are, but then a thought suddenly pops into my head.

“Windflower,” I blurt out.

“What?” Byzantine turns his head over to look at me.

“You called me windflower the other day. Why?”

I catch the guilt in his eyes before he turns away, back to the non-existent sunrise. After a long beat he finally answers.

“It’s my favorite flower.”

I can’t hold back my shock and bark out a laugh. “You have a favorite flower? I don’t even thinkIhave a favorite.”

Byzantine keeps his gaze straight ahead. “Why? Because I’m a man I’m not allowed to have a favorite flower?” he says plainly.

I drop the smile. “Well no, it’s not because you’re a man—that’s besides the point. It’s just…have you met yourself? You just don’t really strike me as someone who has a favorite flower, that's all.” I fall back in my seat a little unnerved. “Sorry if I offended you or whatever,” I grumble.

He peers over with his boyish grin that makes me want to kiss him—or punch him, I’m never too sure.

“I’m full of surprises aren’t I, little sun.”

Realizing quickly that he’s alluding to what happened earlier in his office, I roll my eyes.

“You’re an ass.”

His laughter rolls over me, warmth enveloping me as I watch his eyes glint with mirth. My heart pinches into a tight squeeze and it makes me look away.

We stay like this in now comfortable silence, for a change, until finally the first rays of the sun yawns into existence. Purple bleeds into pink into orange and I’m lost in the simple beauty of the moment.

Then, Byzantine’s voice floats over to me, it’s barely a whisper but it slices into me nonetheless. “Will you ever tell me why you have that scar on your wrist?”

The sunrise blurs as I blink back the tears his words are evoking, unable or unwilling to even acknowledge his question. I breathe in a heavy sigh and watch the sun illuminate the field instead. The rays bounce off the early morning dew collecting on petals and grass as they gently sway against the breeze.

Eventually, I feel Byzantine move beside me. His hand slowly wraps around my wrist, his thumb gently pressing against my scar, stroking my skin in small circles round and round and round.

My body implores for him to never stop touching me, while it also yearns to run as far away as possible.

“I wish you would stop asking,” I finally whisper back, letting one single tear fall down my cheek and over my lips, my tongue darting out and catching it so as to hide it from Byzantine.

He leans over and with his free hand, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch, so light I can barely feel it. His hand lingers there, tracing the wet path of my one fallen tear until his hand falls back on his lap. I glance over to him then, the sun reflecting back the yellow in his eyes. He studies me, his features so serious. So sullen.

“I don’t think I can do that,” he whispers.

Suddenly, I realize I’ve never seen his face so open—so raw. I let out a small sigh, trying to memorize what I’m witnessing inside his soulful eyes. They seem boundless, endless, a sea of overlapping emotions that would take me lifetimes to decipher. I choke back the sob traveling up my throat, my eyes burning from the effort.

I can tell he knows that I’m seeing a part of him that I’ve never been privy to before. And a part of me feels oddly honored. The same pang of nostalgia I’ve felt before, whenever I’m in Byzantine’s presence, slices me deep. He sighs and blinks and suddenly the veil is back and all I see is myself reflected back.

My hand nearly flies up to his face, desperate for him not to disappear behind the mask I’m now becoming so familiar with. I should know, I wear a similar one anytime he’s near. And with that he finally lets go of my wrist, settles into his seat, turns the key in the ignition and drives us back into the city.

I haven’t slept yet. It didn’t take long after Byzantine dropped me off to traipse back out and head to the beach. I count the strokes one after the next until my lungs burn, then turn on my back, the waves only a weak push and pull—just enough to rock me back and forth as I catch my breath, bobbing on the surface of the ocean.

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