A single tear dripped from his eye. It cascaded down his cheek, a rainbow trapped within. All of this happened in slow motion. As the drop fell from his face, he followed it with his eyes, watching it as it landed on his dirt-smeared white shorts. The tear left a small wet spot—the size of a popcorn cornel. From the shape, tiny cracks began to branch out from it, zigzagging in every direction; down his legs, up his torso and chest, sprawling over his neck and face, like a blow to stone from a hammer and chisel. Soon he was covered in a thousand tiny fissures.
My screaming reached a new octave. It no longer sounded human. I shrieked Dominic’s name over and over, my voice going hoarse, the inside of my throat on fire. No matter how hard I kicked and begged to exist, I remained invisible, unable to conjure a body to go to him. I stretched and pulled, summoning strength I didn’t know I had, until finally two small hands shot up into sight. They were just arms and hands, but I would take them if they would bring me to Dominic. He was less than fifteen feet away from me. I couldn’t feel anything else under me; couldn’t see anything but hands. I floated toward him, propelled by an all-consuming passion for the one I loved most. His eyes found me, looking into the face only visible to him. In that instant I saw the anguish—his eyes pleading and desperate—before he let his eyes fall shut.
NO!!!
I threw myself forward, straining and extending my fingers until every coiling vein and white bone in my hands protruded from my skin. Shaking triumphantly, they reached his face, two hands swarming over the fine grooves cracking his skin. He opened his darkened, brackish eyes, and smiled plaintively at me. I knew I was smiling back. I felt the tears stinging my eyes, gushing wet and warm down my cheeks. I made it. I was here. I would take care of him now. I wouldn’t let anything hurt him. I was gentle with him, brushing the hair back from his forehead, but careful not to push too hard around the embrasures separating his skin like tiny puzzle pieces. I stared into his tired eyes. He smiled again, and my heart throbbed with agonized love.
“I’m here,” I whispered. “I have you.”
“I know,” he replied softly.
He made an awful gurgling noise then, and went stiff as dried cement in my arms. One piece at a time, he broke apart in my hands, shattering into a thousand pieces, leaving nothing but a pile of chalky dust where he’d once knelt.
He was gone.
I woke screaming. It was a horrible sound; though all I needed to do to make it stop was close my mouth. I couldn’t seem to do it. At some point, before I was completely coherent, I had sat up in my bed. My arms were stretched out in front me, exactly as they were in the last seconds I’d been holding Dominic, right before he . . . when he . . .
It wasn’t real. It was just a dream.
I soothed myself, my screams waning until they dissolved into soft whimpers. Coherency returning, I wondered if I had awoken my parents. I listened, but heard no footsteps, and concluded that my mom must be sleeping with earplugs. Shivering and sweating profusely, I couldn’t be sure whether I was hot or cold. A tremor had a firm grip on me, hard fingers digging into the flesh at my knees, neck, and shoulders. My teeth chattered. Ragged breaths, like the first taken after nearly drowning, pummeled through my throat.
“He’s okay,” I said aloud. “Dominic is safe.”
The sound of my voice was a small reassurance. Thick clumps of hair clung to my face and neck in sticky knots. Sweat beaded around my hairline, dripping down my temples. I wiped at it with the sheets and rubbed my eyes, feeling the bulky weight of tears on my wet lashes. I felt nauseous and decided lying back down might be best. I leaned back, laying my head against the damp pillow and pulled the covers up past the bridge of my nose defensively.
I was awake, but I didn’t feel safe just yet.
The dream was still much too fresh, the edges of it blurring with reality. Silently, I recited my whereabouts, telling myself that I was in my bed, in my house. Rhoda’s steady snores were a veritable proof. Still, I pulled a shaky arm out of the covers, reaching out to stroke her silky fur, comforting myself with a physical indication that I truly was here. She was warm and her glossy black coat glowed a pale silver-blue in the moonlight shining in from the window. I closed my eyes as I stroked her, concentrating on regulating my breathing, feeling the satiny texture of Rhoda’s fur slip between my fingers.
It came fast and it came hard.
I was no longer in bed, and it was no longer Rhoda’s fur I gingerly touched. In a dying wheat field, under sallow light, it was the seconds before the unspeakable had happened. Dominic’s ravaged face was tilted up at me, as I brushed his beautiful ebony hair back from his eyes.
“I’m dying,” he said.
I made an inhuman sound and abruptly took my hand back, rolling onto my side. Bright white spots flickered behind my eyes. I wretched into the pillow, and would do this all night if only I didn’t have to see Dominic’s body break apart again.
Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.
When I was breathing again, the knot in my stomach uncoiling like a wounded python, I reached over and grabbed my cell phone. There were only five numbers, which made finding Dominic’s number not difficult. Confused, I paused, wondering why the phone was vibrating, but no call was coming through. I followed the quivering up my arms, realizing it was still me. The more I fought to subdue the convulsing, the stronger it fought back. My body seemed to be trying to protect itself—shaking the nightmare away like an insect trying to bite.
For as long as I could remember, nightmares hunted me. I’d experienced drowning, falling out of a plane without a parachute, and a wide variety of public scorn and ridicule. They were never pleasant, but I knew for certain that the one I had just woken from—real or not—was the most terrifyingly awful thing I had ever lived through.
After many failed attempts, I finished texting Dominic. When a buzz came through a few seconds later, I was surprised. It was very late—or early, rather—just a few minutes past three thirty a.m. I hadn’t expected to hear back for a few more hours, but the drenching relief I felt as I held the proof in my hands that he was okay—that he was in one perfect piece—brought tears to my eyes. I read through my blurry eyes, hoping I hadn’t alarmed him.
Before leaving tonight, Dominic asked if he could pick me up for school, since I was no longer required to be there early to make up missed exams. And even though I physically ached to touch him, to know for absolutely certain he was in fact whole, I didn’t trust myself around him. More specifically, I didn’t trust my face. And right now, I couldn’t afford to be careless.
Tonight, two things became known to me; one of which, if I was being honest, I had known for quite some time. The other, however, had come as a complete shock. For my sake—always for my sake—Dominic wore a smile while he spoke of our date this Friday night. Looking into his eyes, I understood the confliction, and did not begrudge him the opposing emotions he battled. It would be wonderful because we would finally be able to move forward, but to do so, Dominic would have to go backward; something I knew was far worse than salt in a wound. I had assumed that the fear he carried was solely in having to revisit a painful memory or moment. So when I discovered that he feared defection as a result of disclosing his secrets, I couldn’t reassure him quickly enough. It had helped very little, if at all. The discussion ended there promptly, on his request to not “lose sight of the good, by focusing on the difficult.” I hadn’t wanted to let him leave; not until I could make him see that it made no difference to me. I wanted him—all of him—and would take the broken parts, too.
This nightmare was a splinter. It clearly depicted how scared I truly was. Dominic would see this and it would most certainly deflate the little confidence I may have succeeded in giving him. I couldn’t let that happen. I needed more time to shake off the macabre dream. And even it was only an hour, it was an hour more I would have to practice not appearing terrified or relived when I saw him later this morning.
I reread the tex
t for the second time, searching for any signs of suspicion.
Okay . . . I’ll be waiting for you. Call me if you change your mind.
To him, I had texted: There’s something I need to do in the morning. I’ll meet you at our spot before first period. I had very intentionally stayed away from phrases such as: everything’s fine and don’t worry, knowing this would only serve to arouse the worries I hoped to avoid.
It was the second thing, the one I already knew, that I thought about as I curled into a ball and brought the soft sheet just below my nose. Only, merely thinking about it was very unsatisfying; I needed to do more than simply think it. So I decided to say it aloud, even if only Rhoda and the moon would hear me.
“I love you, Dominic.”
~
Hattie screeched and moaned, her wheel stiff in my hands as I guided her into a parking spot between two large trucks. She collapsed with a grateful jerk as I shifted her into park, humming loudly before I turned the engine off.
A smattering of kids trickled in and out of swinging doors, or stood on the steps of the entrance to Shorecliffs. I had been parked less than a minute when I saw Dominic walking toward my car—a smile and a furrow in competition with one another. I couldn’t be sure if the sun was responsible. Emily and Jake waved from underneath our usual meeting spot, but didn’t follow him. Fumbling, I turned the key, pulling down the visor to check my face in the mirror for the umpteenth time.
Having neglected to solidify the excuse for not wanting to ride with Dominic this morning, I chose the five-minute drive to school to revisit the possibilities. Choosing one, I believed I had managed to come up with truth and believability, all in the same explanation. I was nervous, but felt better than I had all morning. Which was fortunate for me, I thought, seeing that Dominic was less than three feet away now and closing in fast.
I smiled at him, watching his hand slip under the door handle. My eyes darted to the lock. Then my door was being pulled open, the cool morning air rushing into the warm space. My confidence seemed to rush out with the warmth. He squatted down, one hand steadying himself using the frame of the car, the other resting on his jeaned thigh. He peered up at me, worry clearly etched between his brows, but said, “Good morning,” evenly enough to feign calm.
Seeing him take the eerily similar position—an almost kneel—was way too close for comfort. I felt the color drain from my face, and my mouth part into an open grimace.
His jaw clenched. “What is it? Did something happen? Are you hurt?”
“Nothing. Yes—I mean no.” Flustered, I rushed to answer him.
His face was grave, not at all reassured by my abstruse utterings. “Which is it?”
“I—um—I . . .” I took a deep breath, fiddling with the steering wheel, debating whether or not my cover was blown, or if I might still have a chance.
“Foster.”
It was more plea than growl, but it was clear he wanted an answer immediately.
“I’m okay,” I said softly, turning in my seat and reaching for the hand wrapped around the doorframe. I touched the fingers stiff and white, coaxing them into a less rigid grip. “I just—I had a bad dream last night, that’s all.” I infused my voice with laughter, hoping my face was up to the task.
“A bad dream?” he repeated back to me, making no effort to conceal the extensive reconnoitering. The tense lines around his eyes dissipated slightly. He continued processing, deciding whether he should be worried or not. “A bad dream.” This time as he said it, it was not a question, but a rhetorical acknowledgement.
“I know, it sounds silly, but—”
“No. Not at all,” he interrupted and sighed through his nose. “Nightmares are awful. I have them all the time.”
“You do?” I asked, both curiously and cautiously.
Holding my eyes, he nodded once, but said nothing more.
“Are you upset with me?” I asked.
“Upset with you? Why would I be upset with you?” he questioned, something like angry disbelief saturating his satin voice. His eyes were soft, though, blue pools of sympathy and concern. He reached out to brush a finger along my cheek.
The ball of strangled hysteria, the one I had been ignoring since very early this morning, bobbed in my throat. A series of vivid flashbacks speared my mind. I winced, trying to fight them off, convincing myself there was nothing real about them; real was kneeling in front of me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Because I worried you.”
“You did, yes,” he replied dryly. He shifted positions, bending the other knee and moving the opposite foot below him. “Why didn’t you call me, Foster? Ask me to come over? I could have been there in two minutes.” He asked this not with accusation, but with honest incredulity.
“I know . . . I probably should have.” Though I never would have, I knew. “I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it, but not for not calling. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I promise I was trying to do the opposite of worrying you.”
He gave me a wry look. “By sending me a text at two thirty in the morning, saying that you no longer wanted me to drive you to school? Next time please just call me.”
I nodded, rueful.
“You should know that last night I had my finger on the call button about a hundred times,” he told me. “I wanted to hear your voice. I wanted to know for certain you were okay. But I convinced myself I was being paranoid and that you were probably already asleep. This weird feeling, though . . . it gnawed on me all night, and for the rest of the morning.” He spoke in a rush, and I sensed he was releasing the pent up anxiety I’d caused him. I made no move to interrupt, understanding he needed to say all of this aloud. “At one point I almost came over. I was already thinking of ways I could climb up onto your balcony without waking your parents or freaking you out.”
As romantic as that sounded in theory, I was glad he hadn’t. I don’t think my heart could have handled it when he popped over the ledge, like a creature of the night.
“Then I thought,” he paused, chuckling humorlessly, “with my luck, someone would see me and have the police called to arrest the stalker outside the Kelly residence.” He pulled his hand through his hair, grabbing a fistful. “I trust that if something had really been wrong, you would have called me,” he stated with unequivocal implication in his voice, “but for some reason I just couldn’t ignore the feeling that something horrible might have happened to you.” His voice broke as he glanced down at the pavement, the lines of tension back around his eyes. “Hearing myself talk like this, I sound like a crazy person.”
“No,” I said quickly. “You don’t. I would have been thinking all the same things.” And because I sensed he needed it as much as me, I leaned forward and folded myself into his arms.
He wasn’t expecting it, but adjusted adeptly to incur the extra weight, wrapping an arm around my back. Pitched forward, my cardigan lifted, and his smallest finger rested against my bare skin. He left it there for a moment, then pulling the end of it down, he resituated the rest of his hand over the soft cotton.
“I don’t need to know, Foster.” He spoke into my neck, his breath warm and sending a tickle down the back of my shirt. “But don’t think for one second I don’t want to know.” He pulled back, stared at me sagaciously. “The dream—it scared you. I could see it in your face. If you want to talk about it . . .” He left the offer suspended between us, giving me plenty opportunity to catch it.
“I know,” I said gratefully. “Thank you.” A few dense seconds passed as he read my expression, determining what I was saying. Then, with a quick breath through the nose, he nodded, and with that his face changed.
He rose to his feet and pulled me from the car with a smirk set perfectly on his lips. “Look, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.” He took my arms, placed them around his slim torso, and did the same with his own around me.
I smiled, having no objections, and settled my hands between his shoulder blades. I pressed my cheek ag
ainst the soft, light-weight material, and sighed pleasurably. The moment was spoiled when I caught the incredulous glances of passing students. Even after two weeks, the expressions were clearly still shock and awe—and not the good kind of awe.
I shut both eyes and kept my cheek pressed in the space between shoulder and chest. I could still feel the glares and stares, but it was easier to pretend they weren’t there now that I couldn’t see them. I raised my hands, laced them behind his neck, and began twirling the ends of his soft hair, savoring his proprietary hold on me.
“Your hair is soft,” he murmured, nuzzling into the crown of my head.
A rush of warmth spread over my cheeks. “Thank you. I was thinking the same of yours, actually.” I rubbed a silken lock between my thumb and index finger.
I felt his lips spread into a smile against my tendrils. “Yeah? Were you thinking it smells like strawberries, too?”
Laughing, I replied, “I wasn’t, no. Should I have been?”
“Definitely not,” he said derisively. He paused, then added with a dignified austerity, “It should smell like apricots.”
I laughed again, and was about to reply when we were interrupted.
“Seriously?” she said, and without seeing Emily’s face I couldn’t tell if she was more amused than irritated—or the other way around. “Are you rehearsing a scene from Romeo and Juliet? What is going on? You two have been over here for like fifteen minutes,” she complained.
Dominic released me, but kept one arm around me so we were joined at the hip. I was glad to see Emily smiling, if even a little haughtily. As usual, she was glistening and golden, her hair drawn up on her head in an exquisitely thoughtless bun. Her muscular legs spilled out of diminutive jeans shorts, and her tanned arms looked even darker against the neon-yellow tank top.
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