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I don’t know what to say.
What I want to do is askwhy? But that question has a strong probability of leading to an answer I’m not 100 percent ready to deal with at this moment. Me. Dax. All the consequences that come if we take another step. Instead, I walk on.
“Good,” I call over my shoulder. “Glad we straightened all of that out. Let’s go.”
We make it half a block before either one of us attempts to start a conversation.
It’s Dax who does it. While we’re stopped at a crosswalk, standing so close that I can smell the sandalwood-and-vanilla hand lotion they put in the bathrooms at the Victoria.
“Tell me something,” he asks, less like a question and more like a command.
“What do you want to know?”
He thinks for a moment. “Something personal. Favorite color? Pet peeve? Have you ever been in love?”
The crosswalk signal switches from the little red hand to the white walking person.
“Mint green, people who use the wordwhilst,and I thought I was once, but the longer I think about it and the better perspective I get, I’m learning I wasn’t even close. What about you?” I poke him in the arm. “You can’t throw out a question like that and not expect it back.”
He grabs my poking finger and holds it. “Banana yellow. Lines of any nature. And no, I’ve never come close.”
I think the Dax in my timeline might answer this question the exact same way. Funnily enough, it’s not one either of us has asked before.
“Standards too high?” I guess.
He shrugs. “That could be it. I keep telling myself I’m just a late bloomer.”
My response is a hiccup. It’s not even a cute hiccup. It’s a loud and borderline obnoxious one, and it’s followed by two more in rapid succession.
“You are drunk,” he says to me, laughing.
“I am very drunk, and you’re still holding my finger.”
We both look down and stare at his hand, which has somehow weaved its way through all five of my fingers.
“People make bad decisions when they’re drunk.”
He probably means it as a joke. A throwaway statement. But he’s right. My track record in the intoxicated-life-choices department isn’t exactly stellar. Case in point: agreeing to an ancient ritual that managed to flip my entire life upside down.
“And now you look like you’re thinking about something again.” Dax squeezes the hand he’s yet to let go of.
“Just recalling my last bad drunk decision.”
Dax finally drops my hand but doesn’t step away. “Did you kill a man?”
I don’t know if it’s the raspy timbre of his voice or the way his eyes lock on mine and don’t look away, or maybe it’s just some invisible signal he’s giving off. Still, I get this feeling that Dax wants me at this moment.
And I…I don’t know how I feel. The tiny part of my brain not bogged down with beer is screaming,Think about the consequences.The rest of me has been lulled into a dreamy haze by the deepness of his voice and the smell of the damn lotion. Every cell of my body feels like it’s tuned to the highest frequency.
I stop walking.
To catch my breath. Or steady my mind. Or stop my body from vibrating. I don’t know.
He stops too, then takes his time walking back until his toes are inches from mine, and I can feel the heat of his breath, and he can probably hear the beat of my heart, which is launching itself against my rib cage.
“You about to confess to murder there, Gems?”
He’s calling me Gems. Yet it feels so different in that damn voice.
