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Am I ready for the heat?
"What's the matter?" he asks. He has a small package is in his hand, wrapped in a green and red striped paper with a small bow on top. My heart rate speeds up, until I can feel the thumping in my ears and his voice sounds like it's coming from down a tube. "Luna." Roman gives me a small shake.
I shake my head clear of the fog. "Hmmm?" His fingers grip my bare biceps, his fingertips rough from playing his guitar as they press into my smooth skin.
"Are you all right?" His fingers give another squeeze of my arms.
"I'm fine. Are you?" I ask, sensing his own nervousness.
"I'm good." He releases me, stepping back and toeing off his boots. He shoves them with his black sock-covered foot up against the wall near my window. Walking over to my bed, he sits down on the edge. The springs creak and groan from his weight as he moves to take off his coat, tossing it on top of my pillow.
"Thanks." I chuckle.
He shrugs. "Do you want to open your present yet?"
"You should open yours first." I feel nervous again, large butterflies flapping against the cage of my belly, their wings tormenting me as they fly about. I walk to my nightstand and pick up his gift and extend my hand toward him. "Here."
"You should open yours first." He hands me my gift, and I shake my head.
"No, open yours first."
He grunts. "Always a pain in my ass." He takes the small box from my hand, his hand dwarfing the tiny box underneath his large fingers. He's grown so much over the years. He went from being my size, maybe a little smaller, to being one of the tallest guys in his grade. He is easily six feet tall, his chest trim but the muscles in his arms are strong. He looks more like a man than a boy, even with him only being in ninth grade.
He cracks the box open, displaying the pick I spent all day staring at. Hoping and praying and wishing that he'll love his gift as much as I do. He stares at the pick a minute, then pulls it out and drops the box. It tumbles, knocking against his knee before falling to the ground.
The pick sits pinched between his thumb and forefinger, the tips of his fingers turning white from the pressure in which he holds it. He flips it over, then flips it over again. When he looks up at me, his eyes are shining with such awe and adoration that I nearly crumble to my knees.
"This…" he snakes his free hand out, wrapping it around my waist and pulling me close. "I will play with this forever. Until the letters are faded, and the edges are worn, I'll use this. I’ll keep playing with it even then and after. This is perfect. I love it. Thank you, Luna." He squeezes me tight, his arm slightly trembling from emotion.
"You'll use it when you're big and famous, and that way you can always remember the little neighbor girl from Wisconsin."
His eyebrows drop, nearly covering his eyes with a scowl. "Little? You'll be bigger and more famous than me as you reach for the stars and dance in the most famous ballets. I'll be singing shitty lyrics and playing cover music while you're dancing at Julliard Academy in New York with the best dancers in the world. You are so much more than just the little neighbor girl from Wisconsin." He palms his pick and hides it from sight while he grabs the little box from on top of my comforter and hands it to me. "Now open yours."
I take it with shaky hands, feeling the smooth surface beneath my palm. I feel for the little tape flap, bringing my finger beneath the crease and ripping it open with care. I grab the small box, very similar to my own present, and pull it out of the wrap.
"You didn't wrap this yourself, did you?" I ask. The wrapping job is too perfect, no way were his large hands able to manage this by himself.
He smiles sheepishly. "Just open the damn gift, Luna."
I do as I'm told. Opening the small box, my eyes instantly burn with unshed tears as I see what's hiding underneath the top.
"Wow," I whisper, my eyes filling with tears. I run my finger over the gold chain. It's dainty and small, feminine. The chain of the necklace is gold and lightweight as I pick it up. In the center is a tiny pair of ballet slippers. There is detail with the ribbons, fluttering to the point they look real even though they are also solid gold. The wrinkles carved into the tiny slippers are so beautiful, so realistic, a tear flows down my cheek slowly, the same speed my finger runs across the slippers. "This is… is it real?"
He rolls his eyes. "Of course, it is."
"It's too much." My voice comes out clogged, too full of emotion.
"No, it's not. Turn around, let me put it on you." He lifts the box from my hand, grabs my shoulder and spins me until my back is facing him. I can hear him as he takes the chain out of the box. Soon enough, his hand lifts my hair and brings it over my left shoulder. His hands come around me, the shiny gold chain glittering in my darkened room, the only light in this darkness. He clasps the chain, and the ballet slippers weigh heavy but light against my neck, right between my collarbones. I lift it up, feeling its texture and heaviness between my fingers before placing it back against my chest. His hand comes down, and he grabs it himself. He lifts it, inspects it, and drops it against my chest. His hand goes down, and he presses it against me, as if he wants it to mold against my skin.
Feeling my voice echo through my chest and against his hand, I whisper, "I'll wear this every time I dance. With every bruise and ache in my bones, I'll think of you. Every time I bow at the end of a show, I'll think of you. Every time I lace my slippers around my own feet, tying my bows with perfect precision, it'll be you I think about."
His hand leaves my chest, and I'm spun around again, this time facing him. We're close, closer than I've ever been to him. I can feel his breath against my face and breathe it in, loving the thought of taking something of his. Anything. I breathe in as he exhales, and I watch his own chest expand as I exhale. "I have one more gift. Well, more of a question, actually."
I look up at him, his eyes dark and swirling. My own eyes watery with emotion. "What is it?"
He takes a breath so large it grazes my face. The breath he puffs out blows the black hair from my cheeks, a blast of wind drying my eyes. "Will you be my girlfriend?"
Another wave of tears hits my eyes, and they're quick to spill, running down my face in quick motions that even I can't contain. He brings a hand up, brushing his palms against my cheeks as he tries to stop the flow. I can't stop, and his tenderness only makes me cry harder. A sob rips from my chest, and I'm not even sure where it comes from.
