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The stress was starting to eat away at me. I could really imagine myself getting taken away in handcuffs, not to mention the very real horrifying fate if I’d just witnessed a person dive to their death.
Just when I was sure it was time to alert someone, consequences be damned, he heaved himself back up onto the dock and splayed out, gulping in huge breaths, his wide chest rising and falling. I imagined how hard his heart was pounding in his chest, a kick drum against his ribs.
He looked spent.
I didn’t realize it then. Only after weeks of watching his midnight swims have I come to understand that moment is precisely why he does it. The feeling he gets at the end of his swim, that utter exhaustion is his goal. He lies there on the wooden dock, his face toward the sky, and he seems for once at peace, calmed by exertion. It’s the same thing I strive for during my late-night walks. I like to think we’re the same that way. Twin souls. The midnight wanderers.
Chapter Five
Emmett
“Do you regularly sneak around in the library?” I ask her, standing one aisle over, giving her enough space that I hope it will keep her from running again.
She doesn’t answer.
In fact, she doesn’t even look remotely compelled to answer my question.
I’ve never met anyone like her. Her ability to stare someone down without uttering a single word is so intriguing to me. Half these kids at St. John’s never shut up. There’s always something to brag about, some trip they just took or some celebrity they’re supposedly friends with. Who cares. None of it’s real. Not like this.
“Do you not like that question?” I ask her, gentling my tone as I lean in. “What about another? Who gave you those eyes?”
Her dark eyebrows furrow as if she has to really think to come up with the answer.
“They’re a shade of green I’ve never seen before,” I add, hoping to get her to lower her guard.
She looks shyly down to the floor and then back up with conviction in her gaze.
“My dad.”
Her voice is so delicate and light.
“Do they make me look scary?” she asks, sounding so sad at the prospect.
I have a sudden urge to reach out and brush the side of her cheek with the back of my finger like my mother used to do when I was little. I wish I could reassure her that every cruelty she’s ever had to endure will only make her stronger in the end, but that’s a lie. Some people get the short end of the stick, and Lainey Davenport is one of those people.
My back is starting to ache from crouching down to her eye level, so I prop my elbow up on the shelf before I reply, “No offense. I’m not sure if you were hoping to lean into the whole mysterious persona, but you just look like a little kid. Nothing scary about you, eyes and all.”
Her delicate chin rises in defiance. “I’m not a kid.”
“You’re twelve,” I say, sounding less than convinced.
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen,” I amend.
“I’m not that young,” she insists.
Oh right. I’m not that young, says the diminutive girl with rounded cheeks and trembling shoulders.
“I don’t know why you’re trying to shirk off youth. I’m young, you’re young—big fucking deal. We have years to make mistakes and learn from them and grow up.”
Her mouth flattens in a discontented line, but she doesn’t argue.
It strikes me suddenly that I’ve been granted something very few kids at St. John’s have experienced—an interview with Lainey Davenport. Anne Rice wishes she were in my shoes.
I barely know what to ask first. I want to know it all.
I start with, “Why did you seem sad when your grandmother was here earlier?”
She rears back in shock and shakes her head. I don’t know if she’s surprised I noticed her or if she’s surprised she wasn’t doing as good of an acting job as she thought during the picnic luncheon.
She looks away like she’s considering her exit strategies, and I realize too late that I might have delved too deep too soon. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want her to ask me why I noticed her looking sad. The fact is, Lainey is hard to miss. The swell of rumors that surround her act as a buffer between her and the rest of the student body. She walks around with a black cloud hanging over her head. Even if there were no whispers, I think she’d always stand out with her contrasting features, such dark hair and such light eyes. I suppose I’m simply intrigued by the girl who’s intrigued the whole school.
After taking a moment to compose herself, she looks back at me and steps closer to the shelf, closer than she’s dared this whole time, and instead of replying to my question, she fires one back at me with one brow raised tauntingly.
