I looked past the concern in his eyes, trying to see deep into the soul that imprisoned his anguish and secrets. Beyond the electric blue irises, the whites of his eyes were a very faint dusty pink. Mine sometimes looked like this after crying. My throat felt thick suddenly. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this—it was my own tentative heart at risk—but I honestly couldn’t have stopped it, so I allowed myself a moment to hurt on his behalf. With so much going on today my thoughts were scattered and my attention divided, but even without total faculty I hadn’t expected the light-hearted teasing and softness.
“Things like that”—he pointed to my book on the floor with a look of mild indifference—“happen to everybody—not just you, Foster.” I forced myself to concentrate and be present, directing my thoughts to a waiting room where I could tend to them at a later time. “On my way to find you,” he continued—and I wasn’t completely unaffected to hear this, “I saw a guy almost fall into a trashcan because he was walking backward. He missed the trashcan . . .” he continued, one eye squinting in thoughtful consideration, “but I’m not so sure he wouldn’t have preferred it to the alternative.” Dominic smiled. “Wondering what could possibly be worse than falling into a trashcan in front of a bunch people?” he asked, echoing my thoughts perfectly. At my nod, he laughed. “How about falling on top of a pretty girl—whose boyfriend showed up in time to catch only the finale?”
I could picture the scene vividly, and felt keenly for the unlucky boy. “Was he able to explain what happened?” I asked.
“Ah, that’s a negative,” Dominic replied succinctly, face pinching toward the middle. He relaxed then, and I watched his eyes glaze with recollection, going large and round with astonishment. “So, the way they landed—he sort of toppled sideways on her,” he explained, using his hands to make an addition sign. “At first when he didn’t immediately get off of her and apologize, I thought—this kid is either an idiot or has some serious gumption. But then I noticed the weird angle of his neck and realized he wasn’t staying put by choice.” Dominic ran his tongue over the front of his teeth, wincing. “Somehow he’d gotten his braces caught, wedged somewhere near the girl’s ear. I couldn’t tell over all the laughing and her shrieking, but I’m pretty sure he was trying to explain that to her. But—and not completely unwarranted, she wasn’t so compliant at the moment or willing to listen. Just kept shoving him away and insulting him with names that make even Emily look like Mother Teresa.” Dominic closed his eyes and chuckled. “I got to them just before the boyfriend squeezed the kid’s teeth out of his head.”
“He would’ve needed reconstructive surgery if I hadn’t stopped—and the whole thing took less than a couple minutes; though . . .” he sighed histrionically, glancing down at my heinous wound. “If not for that delay I might have been able to get here before you went and trimmed your big toe,” Dominic teased, squatting down to pick up my book, while staring up at me with a look that turned my stomach like washing machine. Bracing a hand on his thigh, he rose, sharp eyes fastened on my burning cheeks.
“So like I was saying, it’s not only to you this sort of thing happens.” About to hand off my book, he smirked then drew his arm back. “But I’ll not dispute that unlikely odds do seem to have a certain fondness for you,” he said dryly. “If Murphy’s Law and Bad Luck had a child—you’d be it.”
I’d often thought something very similar, and nodded my head in complete agreement.
He searched my face and frowned. “To no fault of your own, Foster. That’s what I’m saying, you see?” he pressed, thick black eyebrows drawing together. “I bet if you took the time to actually think about each individual situation, you’d see that most of them—well . . . that most of the trouble was forced on you. The three I’m thinking of do, anyway.” I smiled, touched by what he said. While I sincerely appreciated the kindness behind which these words were prevaricated, I wasn’t comfortable with casting blame where it didn’t belong. My knack for getting in the way and causing accidents wasn’t theory—it was axiom.
“No,” he said. Softly spoken, there was still a quiet defiance evident in Dominic’s voice, carrying my gaze upward as if connected by a mechanical crane. “This wasn’t what I was referring to,” he said, with a sharp glance at the book in his hand, fingers grasped tightly around the shiny, unwrinkled binding.
“Dominic,” I murmured, shaking my head slowly from side to side. He shrugged—a mixture of rue, cynicism, and wry resignation. Stepping forward he raised one eyebrow questioningly. I nodded and took a step back to give him room, placing the lock in his open palm. “Thank you,” I said, and swallowed, somewhat surprised when he didn’t move back after putting my book into my locker. I had to raise my chin to meet his eyes.
“My pleasure.” There was a faint smile on his lips. Then in an instant it was gone, a seriousness taking shape in the way of furrows. “I’m sorry, Foster, but you’re just going to have to do the other toe the old fashioned way, all right?”
I gave a breathy laugh, blushed, and gave a firm nod. “Yes, I think that’s probably a very wise plan.”
“Good; I’m glad we’re in agreement.” One of Dominic’s rare smiles, full and broad, opened his face like a flat map unrolled. “Also, I’m going to make a wager that the rate at which your injuries occur will reduce dramatically over the next couple of months.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Dominic blinked like a bird with all the time in the world. “I’ve decided you need a bodyguard.”
I goggled at him. “A—”
“Bodyguard, yes,” he finished helpfully.
This was when I realized his face was equally capable of saintly beauty and sinister exquisiteness. He straightened his spine, gaining another two inches, to which I was forced to tilt back my head even further.
“What do you say?”
Truthfully, it was difficult to say anything at the moment. Our proximity had my thoughts muddled like unmixed cake batter: the ingredients were all there, but they didn’t make any sense yet. Instead I was aware, keenly, of the invisible heat purling from Dominic’s skin, of his solid chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. I sensed his hand was near mine, maybe only inches away. If I’d had the courage to stretch my fingers, I could have touched him.
“Do you think you can stand having me hanging around you?” he murmured, his fiend’s smirk abandoned for something gentler.
Then he touched me, so lightly I couldn’t know whether it was intentional or merely a consequence of nearness. I felt the unmistakable tug of goose bumps requisitioning the hairs on the back of my hand. The sensation spread like singular wildfires, until my whole body was pricked with Dominic’s conflagrant touch.
“You,” I said, my voice husky. There were meant to be more words, but those had been lost in the fire, also. “I mean,” I started again, “What about you?”
A shallow furrow appeared between his brows. “Me?”
Hoping to use logic as a gateway to coherency, I said, “Yes, well, if you’re spending a great deal of time protecting my body”—funny how identical words, rearranged, gained a completely new meaning—“then won’t you end up with injuries of your own?”
“Hm. I see your point,” he reasoned, kindly ignoring the color of my skin. “I should probably start stocking up on Band-Aids and Neosporin.”
A smile tried to form on my mouth; with effort I swallowed it back. I don’t know what moved me to play along, but this was actually quite fun. “Well, I wouldn’t limit yourself to first aid supplies,” I suggested in tones of earnestness.
“No?” Dominic cupped his chin like a great thinker, shook his head once.
That tiny gesture almost did me in. “Oh, no,” I demurred. “You’ll want to map out emergency exit strategies and false alarm codes.”
Dominic nodded emphatically. “Yes, very good! Maybe I should be writing all of this down. Life vests, toothpaste, and extra socks?”
“Perhaps,” I agreed,
and if I hadn’t looked away, casting my eyes to the floor, the game would have ended right then and there. “If you’re really serious about doing this, you may want to look into purchasing a portable defibrillator and possibly changing health insurance carriers.”
“I’ll make some calls immediately.”
“Do that,” I concurred, daring to meet his stoic gaze. “Oh, and be sure to contact the embassy. I’ll give you that number—I have the ambassador on speed dial.”
The joy of watching him crack was unparalleled. There, in the right corner of his mouth, a tiny twitch, the proof I was doing well. Weirdly—or maybe not—I had a random thought: if Emily didn’t loathe Dominic she might like him.
“Thank you. You never can be too prepared, that’s what I always say.” Dominic’s eyes glittered; it was the only physical indication belying his well-governed exterior.
“Yes, well, anything I can do to help,” I said gravely. “I know looks can be deceiving, but I’m liable to really hurt you.”
And at that ridiculous statement I could contain myself no longer. I covered my eyes, expecting my laughter to be met with the sound of Dominic’s. When it wasn’t, I stopped and looked up. In his face resided firm corroboration, reminding me to forever leave humor and wit in Emily’s capable hands.
Dominic had never looked less amused. His expression was like an old bruise. I turned my eyes away and found my big toe the same color, puce and angry.
“Sorry,” I said through a laugh. “Jake has this phrase he says to people, when someone’s taken a joke too far. He says, ‘Way to go and kill it,’ and then everyone always laughs again.” I had no idea why I was telling Dominic this, other than having this concrete feeling I needed to say something to try and explain myself.
As usual I was wrong.
An unhurried movement claimed my attention. Dominic was staring at me, all traces of humor vanished. So when he touched me, put his palm around my cheek so tenderly, with a conviction I couldn’t deny, I was more frightened and more confused than ever. A shiver starting at the base of my spine rolled up the back of my shirt and crashed around my shoulders; there it waited, until Dominic smiled and once more released the shiver, in reverse. I didn’t know if my heart could stand much more of this.
“Foster, I believe you,” he whispered. “There is no one who can hurt me more than you can. Still, I think I’ll take my chances . . . if that’s all right with you.”
~
Dominic and I walked toward the cafeteria in silence. There was plenty of noise around us to fill in the gaps. The bell had rung a little over five minutes ago and there were still many who were just exiting classrooms, exploding through doors with cheers of freedom. Between the jubilantly frenetic atmosphere lunchtime could always be counted on to provide, and the not-at-all subtle stares of those taking an interest in Dominic—and unavoidably in me, also—it was not an entirely terrible distraction from the very near future rapidly approaching.
“So.” His voice was tentative and low, a trace of laughter running beneath it. “How was History?”
“Oh,” I said, sidling past a cluster of girls ogling Dominic. His bare arm brushed against me. Fuzzily, I plucked through my brain, unable to remember whether or not I had figured out if I was supposed to know about his appearance in my class. Better to keep it simple until I could be certain. “History was good, thank you.”
“Good.” He paused, then, “Anything, um, interesting happen?” Though I didn’t venture a glance, I was pretty sure I detected a leading tone. Still, if I was wrong, it would be a lot harder to wade through damage control.
“Yes, actually. Would you like to hear about it?”
“Of course I would,” he replied, repositioning our backpacks on the shoulder opposite of me. Definitely, I thought to myself. There was definitely something buried there, something lurking beneath the innocuously answered words.
“We studied heroines,” I told him in preamble. “About the roles women played in the seventeenth century. Primarily about those who were born and residing in the United States at that time. For the most part, due to biases and gender discrimination, the expectations required of them were mainly reduced to the bearing of children and general upkeep of the home. This was a noble and crucial role for many women. Some, with extenuating circumstances, such as infertility issues or those forced to say goodbye to their solider husbands, were unsatisfied by their contribution and decided to pave a heroic and unprecedented path.”
I took a breath when I came to the end of the introduction to the Heroism: Women and War paper I had to write, memorize, and lastly present to the class last month. Okay . . . so none of this had much to do with what we had learned today, I thought, not able to repress feeling of culpability. But besides having very little idea about what that was exactly, I made no mention or implication that what I was sharing was from today’s lecture. I paused only briefly, afraid my guilt might show if I lingered too long in silence, and did what I could to make myself sound less like a stuffy orator and more like someone casually relaying the highlights from the book I’d founded my report on, First Generations: Women in Colonial History.
A minute later and I had recited—verbatim—nearly my entire paper.
I cleared my throat. “Did you know that Margaret Cochran Corbin was the first woman to fight as a solider for the War at Liberty and assist her husband in the American Revolutionary War?” I asked, glancing up at him, awash with regret. The relapse into half-truth territory had required hardly any effort at all. This bothered me and I imagined my face said so, though Dominic’s return expression gave no indication he doubted the authenticity. This, of course, made me feel even more like a terrible human being.
My intentions to amend this snag in my character were pure, but I was finding it much easier said than done. I was also wrestling with the conviction that this situation merited extreme and cautious measures. My relationship with Dominic was precarious at best, shifting and surprising me non-stop. It seemed the smallest thing could upset him: a misspoken word or gesture; the most harmless conversations—for example, the one from yesterday while driving to The House of Hope—turning him to stone. I couldn’t dispute that in twenty-four hours many things had in fact changed between us—good things, promising things. So didn’t that mean they could change back just as quickly? This sophistry wasn’t enough to quell the itch and burn of guilt. This was because I knew only too well that, although it oftentimes presented more obstacles in the beginning, Truth wouldn’t sneak up on you when you weren’t looking, grab you by the ankles, drag you to the ground, and happily leave you to the wolves.
Those were Lie’s tactics.
I continued to babble on insipidly, knowing I was certain to be boring him with my history lesson, but too deep now to do anything about it. “She was an incredible woman,” I said. “Even when her husband was killed, she continued to fight. Eventually she was wounded, though, by a gunshot through the upper shoulder. Supposedly it mangled her chest and lacerated her jaw. She never fully recovered from those wounds and was unable to use her left arm for the rest of her life.” I concluded.
“You’re right,” Dominic said, inhaling. “That is interesting. Did you know in addition to all of that, in 1779 the Continental Congress granted Margaret a pension? And in 1926 her remains were relocated to Old Cadet Chapel at West Point?”
I didn’t bother to hide my shock. This brief inattentiveness almost cost me my balance. I began to pitch forward, but Dominic latched onto my forearm.
“Thank you,” I said, using my smile to let him know I was once more in control of my legs. Sort of.
Dominic grinned at me, eyes alight with mirth. “You see? Nothing to worry about.”
I shook my head. “Sorry?”
“Already forgotten, have you? Remember, you were worried that being around you would naturally lead to my own misfortune.”
The smile on my face faltered as we approached the double-door. This would take us to the quad and
just beyond it, the cafeteria. Dominic rested a hand on the metal bar, preparing to push it open, but then paused.
“I’d say we did fairly well with that last one, don’t you?” Facing each other, he smiled crookedly at me. The metal bar clanged, emitting a loud, tinny sound as he positioned all of his weight onto his left arm. I nodded, feeling shy for some reason—maybe it was the mention of “we,” I didn’t know.
“So I didn’t . . . hurt you?” I was partially teasing; however, because it wasn’t entirely improbable I had actually wounded him, I commenced a quick, cursory scan. Upon finding him no worse for wear, I raised my chin, already smiling with relief. I felt the corners pull down almost immediately, though, my breath catching in my throat.
His eyes; it was like being impaled with color, or drenched with a bucket of paint—only by the richest, clearest, and loveliest shades of blue. I didn’t understand it entirely—something attributed to having the striking and expressive eyebrows as one captured in a Renoir portrait, in combination with the no less equally striking, but moderately effeminate lashes, dark as gunpowder and lush as the undulating growth stretching generously across the African plains—but all at once the looks were both searing and soothing, stirring in me a nonsensical ambivalence. It was a combination to ruin me of all coherency for the moment.
“No . . . you didn’t hurt me, Foster,” he said softly. “Not this time.” He answered the question as if I hadn’t asked it the slightest bit in jest. Everything about him was especially serious: his voice, low and smooth, his mouth, relaxed and unsmiling, the angle of his head, slightly forward and off-kilter, giving the illusion he was looking up at me. I watched, transfixed, as he blinked slowly, the way he did when sorting through thoughts, choosing carefully the privileged ones that would inherit a voice.
Like a pedestrian, having changed their mind upon seeing the red hand blinking its warning, I saw the moment Dominic made the decision not to say what he was thinking. His fingers tightened on the metal bar pressed against his hip. Then he swung the door out wide, stepping back and nodding the signal for me to go first. He followed me out, close enough that I felt the warm breath leave his mouth when a low rumble of laughter sounded near my ear.
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