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And he’s pale, like he hasn’t spent much time in the sun. It’s currently cast in a sort of dusky shade of violet, compliments of the ocean and storm grays.
Despite his current state, there’s a notable air of superiority to him. A refinedness that I’m well acquainted with, having married into such.
I know his kind.
“Get back to your room, kid,” I say gruffly, shaking my head, about to turn away.
“I’m not a kid.” The words come out gritted, his voice raspy.
I pause. Cocking my head, I duck my gaze just enough to peer back at him from the corners of my eyes.
He stands taller, firmer. “I’m eighteen.” His expression is grave, like it’s something terminal. And I suppose it is. Becoming an adult. Next stop upisa grave.
Ignoring the itchy feeling at the pit of my stomach, I arch him an unimpressed brow.
He huffs, glaring at me. It doesn’t last though. Maybe a second at most before he’s diverting his attention to some unseen spot on the ground.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask again, exhaustion softening some of the natural harshness in my voice.
He shrugs. “Needed air. Figured I’d go for a walk. Maybe a swim.”
I blink. “A swim,” I repeat skeptically.
Again, I find my gaze following up the path toward the distant, shadowed jut of the cliff. If he was already up there, I don’t think I’d be able to see him from down here.
“It’s storming,” I say blankly.
“It’s already passing.”
I narrow my eyes, returning my sights to him.
He’s not…wrong. The rain is starting to slow, and time between flashes of light and thunder seem to be increasing by the second.
He tips his chin up at me, jaw clenched, neck tendons straining. There’s a challenge in his eyes, but it doesn’t feel directed at me.
Sighing, I gesture at the sign between us. “You’re not supposed to go up there. It’s dangerous,” I say tiredly.
His brow furrows and he glances down, staring at the chain dividing us—the wooden sign flapping in the breeze. He studies it like he’s never seen such a thing before.
“Oh,” he whispers so faintly that I see it more than hear it—the syllable pursing his rain-damp lips.
He’s a good-looking kid. I can’t not notice that. But not so much because of his soft, nearly perfect symmetrical features that I imagine most models would envy, but rather the way he wears them.
There’s a sort of careless ease to him, to the way he stands and carries himself, and turns his nose up at me like I’m less than. He looks clean, polished, and privileged as fuck, and those kind of people are almost always inhumanly pretty. Man, woman, everyone.
My old man used to joke about how the wealthy spike their morning coffees with the elixir of beauty. Money gets you everywhere, but beauty makes you stand out—it makes you feel like you belong, he’d told me. What’s wealth matter if you’re alone at the end of the day? Even youth has nothing on beauty. Beauty can withstand anything, even aging. Even if it is just at face-value.
Movement has my attention shifting to the kid’s hands. They still hang at his sides, but no longer in fists. He taps his fingers together—thumb to pointer, then thumb to middle finger, then his ring finger, then his pinkie. And then he does it all again. Over and over and over again like some nervous tic.
Something twinges in my chest, spreading a tightness up my throat.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like this.
I came out here to be alone, and now here’s this kid invading my space, having what looks like some kind of silent temper tantrum. I can only hope after today, should he choose to wander out to this hidden cove, it’s when I’m not here.
At least when I’m alone, I can almost pretend I’m back home in the backwoods of Vermont, surrounded by endless evergreens and sprawling mountains. With miles separating me from the next neighbor, and no one but bears to sneak up on me.
