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“Really?” he tilts his head up, as if getting more comfortable, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Walters, right?”
I nod.
“I remember him. He was a good ball player. He filled in for varsity a few times. Holy shit…” He rolls his head to the side and faces my stomach, grabbing my hand to make sure I don’t stop stroking his hair. “I totally remember him now. He was a good kid.”
“Don’t do that,” I mumble.
“Do what?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.
“It’s just annoying for me to have to listen to people who didn’t really know him talk as if they do and drop lines like, ‘he was a good kid’ and ‘he was gone way too soon’ and ‘he was really going places.’”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” I cut in. “It’s nothing personal against you. It’s just annoying, you know? Like you didn’t know him, would’ve probably never thought about him again if it weren’t for me and now you remember him but your memories are generic and mine aren’t and it’s just frustrating. That’s all.”
He rolls onto his back again. “That’s completely valid, Riley.”
“Thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me?”
“Because you understand my frustration. My mom says—”
“Do me a favor. Don’t talk to me about your mom anymore.”
I press my lips tight.
He sighs and places his hands on his chest. “What else did you see?”
“Just your caption. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s confusing.”
“What was it again?”
“‘A man of many words.’ It just doesn’t make sense.”
He smiles. Not out of humor, but the kind of childish innocent smile his mother would’ve loved had she been around to see it. It’s a side of him I hadn’t seen before now and something I’m completely fascinated with. Something I’m drawn to. Like the flashes of color in his eyes after every blink. The way his nostrils flare with each exhale. The way his lip curves slightly higher on the right than the left. I want to ask him what he’s thinking—what it is about this moment that has him smiling the way he is. But I don’t. I stay silent. So silent I can hear every single one of his breaths. He adjusts his head on my lap so he’s more comfortable, then he looks up at me, his lips curving higher, shifting the tiny strands of hair along his jaw. I run the back of my finger across them, feeling the heat of his cheek against my skin. He bites down on his bottom lip and my hand moves, as if on its own, until I’m millimeters away from his mouth and when his eyes drift shut and he inhales deeply, I blink and come back to reality—a reality I wish didn’t exist.
“Go back to my hair,” he whispers, his eyes still closed.
I do what he asks, feeling his neck muscles relax against my leg as soon as my fingers weave through his hair.
“So good,” he murmurs. “I could fall asleep like this.”
I let myself smile because I know he can’t see it. “You can’t use sleep as an excuse to avoid my question.”
His body shakes with his silent chuckle. Then he licks his lips and I curse myself for pulling my hand away instead of touching them like I really wanted to do. As if reluctant, he slowly opens his eyes—eyes that instantly meet mine. They stay on me as he sits up and leans his back against the wall. “Try it,” he says.
Something’s happening to my heart… like the butterflies in my stomach. Constant, hectic movements that have me struggling for breath. “Try what?”
He pats his lap; that same perfect innocent smile taking over his handsome face.
I lie on my back, hesitating a second, before settling my head on his lap. He removes my hair from its knot and places the band on my stomach. His fingers are rough, just like I remember, but they’re warm and gentle. He runs the tips of his fingers from my eyebrows and up to my hairline and when they comb through my hair for the first time, my eyes drift shut, but not before I see his smile form into a frown. I don’t open my eyes because I don’t want to see his face anymore. I don’t want to see the sadness. I want to go back to a few minutes ago when his smile released my butterflies.
I focus on his touch, the sounds of our breaths, the feeling of weightlessness. Then he places one hand on my stomach, the other continuing with my hair. “I’m not really much for talking,” he says, and for a moment I’m confused, then I remember what I’d said earlier. I’d already given up on his response, like so many of the unanswered questions I’d asked before. “Unless it’s with you for some reason.”
Finally, I open my eyes and look up at him. He’s smiling again, his fingers now working a rhythm.
“Sometimes I feel like it’s just easier to keep my mouth shut. Saves a lot of arguments.”
“Like talking about my mom?” I ask, only half joking.
He arches his eyebrows. “Exactly like your mom.” Now his hand on my stomach is moving, matching the strokes in my hair. “I guess it’s kind of something I got from my dad,” he says with a shrug. “And I think that you can tell more from people’s actions than their words.”
“Like what?”
His gaze shifts, so does his smile. He stares off at nothing in front of him. Both of his hands have stopped, but they’re still touching me. “Like when you’re at college and you ask the girl you love—the sole reason you’re there—if she’s happy you followed her path rather than take your own… and when she looks at you, there’s a second’s pause, a moment’s hesitation, right before she says ‘yes.’ That split second of silence gave me the truth, right before she spoke the lie.”
