by Ramona Wray
Ever since he first showed up at Rosemound High, Ryder had never been short of female attention, mine included. But there’s a diff erence between having a thing for someone and falling for him all the way. I had no idea exactly when my crush had become a full-scale attachment, but one thing was certain: it wasn’t recent. Maybe I’d only let myself consider it during the past weeks, but the boo-boo had been there all along. Something about him blew through my defenses. Probably the same something that proved very eff ective at keeping me awake for the rest of the night. After all, how could I sleep when there were so many available things to obsess about?
First, it was the clothes; all of a sudden my wardrobe seemed sadder than a rainy day. How could I possibly go back to school dressed in any of that? Every last shred of clothing I owned was a clear statement about how incredibly gender-confused I was.
By four thirty a.m., though, the outfit-dilemma had dropped significantly on the list of things driving me crazy. What did he mean by my having second thoughts about “something as innocent as a kiss”? Because after replaying the conversation in my head, oh, about a million times, I realized that his phrasing was very suspicious. Basically it said that a kiss wouldn’t be a big deal for him, which begged the question, what would? Alright, so maybe he wasn’t the holding-hands-watching-the-sunset-together type, but did that mean he was a let’s-get-crazy-between-the-sheets-on-our-first-date kind of guy? On second thought, very possibly. He did live alone. Maybe the reason he never paid any attention to anyone in school was because he was dating older women, the kind that didn’t have an issue with the whole first-date-tumble-in-the-sheets thing. Come to think of it, he hadn’t even said that he liked me; the verb he’d used was “want.”That made me very nervous.
And then there was that blowing hot and cold thing he did. The times when he smiled and watched me like he was so into me, and the times he gave me bored faces and just enough interest to make the Arctic ice caps seem warm by comparison. Not to mention the attitude! There was something almost scary about the way he looked at me sometimes, as if intent on frightening me, on ensuring that I kept my distance. And what about Lucian Bell? After the scene in class, I was sure that, for some reason, he didn’t want Lucian anywhere near me, and yet when I asked for answers in the woods, he offered to tell me what he could. If he was referring to Lucian, it almost sounded like he was trying to protect him, or whatever secrets surrounded him and their relationship. If that was consistent with any form of rational behavior, then someone should’ve stamped “idiot” on my forehead because I just didn’t see it.
Around six a.m., exhausted from having my head spinning with all kinds of unanswered questions, I collapsed, nearly landing on poor Raisin and crushing her in the process. I must have fallen asleep within seconds. It sure felt like seconds when, less than two hours later, Mom swooped in with her chirpy, “Morning, sunshine. Time to get up.”
I dragged myself into the shower, unsteady on my feet and still dog-tired. The emotional roller-coaster I’d put myself on had wrenched all my energy out. The cold water helped a lot, though. In fact, by the time I stood in front of the mirror, my face revealed nothing of how I’d spent the night torturing myself. My eyes were clear, my face not much paler than usual; I looked just as fresh as the plate of pancakes Mom had left for me downstairs.
As it turned out, I spent only minutes pulling on some jeans and a roomy cotton shirt; how could I have wasted hours last night worrying about what to wear? Now, it seemed positively ridiculous. Adidas sneakers, a zip-front hoodie, and I was finally ready to attack my breakfast. That, I did, with the appetite of a blue whale. Okay, so maybe I didn’t exactly devour eight tons of krill in one sitting — which, by the way, yuck — but I gulped down the stack of pancakes before Raisin had time to meow twice and complain about my not sharing enough.
I was about to leave the house when the phone rang. That’d be the home line, since Rosemound wasn’t exactly the best spot in the world for cell reception. Frowning because it was so late, I stalked back into the kitchen in a huff.
“Hello?” I managed to convey volumes in that one word.
“Whoa, bite my head off, why don’t you?”
Blushing so violently that my cheeks were sure to bear scorch marks, I stammered, “R-Ryder?”
“Indeed, it is I, my fair ‘n’ feisty.”
Testy or not, I couldn’t possibly not smile; I was, after all, only human. Actually, I spent the next moments getting to know a certain swarm of butterflies and the freestyle routine they performed in my tummy; Ryder had the strangest effect on me. But then I remembered …
“I’m kind of —”
“Late.” He cut me off, as usual. “Yeah, you’re a slacker.”
I humphed, while still grinning, though. “Do you have to be so deprecating?”
Slapping my own forehead had never felt more appropriate. I mean, deprecating? People actually said that?
Naturally, he laughed. “Ouch, Lily. ‘Deprecating,’ really? What did you score on writing, eight hundred?”
Oh dang! I’d just hit way below the accepted coolness-factor limit. “None of your business.”
“Ouch, again. I take it you’re not a morning person, huh?”
“Ryder, what do you want?”
“For you to come outside already. I’ll be your ride to school today.”
My jaw dropped. “You’ll be my what?” Wait, did that mean…? “Where are you?”
“On your porch.”
“On my po —”
Running on pure adrenaline, I threw the phone onto a chair and whizzed over to the front door. And who should I find behind it if not Mr. Kingscott himself ? Happily toying with a sleek black cell. I could never get a signal out here; how did he do it?
“Good morning, Miss Crane.” He greeted me with that killer smile already peeking at the corners of his — sigh — still very kissable mouth.
“Um … uh-huh,” represented the whole extent of my quick-witted response. That, and an unsure nod.
Wearing distressed jeans over chunky biker boots and a white shirt under a black leather jacket, he was indeed a sight for sore, or tired, eyes. The dark aviator shades were perched on his head, leaving those silver eyes exposed to all the avid gaping my heart could possibly stand.
“Are you okay?” He’d stopped smiling and was now staring at me with a frown, most likely trying to work out if he had the right girl. My usual self was somewhat more talkative, not to mention healthier-looking. Those butterflies were really making a mess of my stomach.
I shook myself. “Fine,” I managed to articulate. “So …”
“Ride with me to school, please!”
“On your bike?”
Moronic question, obviously. I could see the aforesaid vehicle parked just at the end of our driveway. How did I not hear him arrive?
He smiled at the poorly concealed terror in my face.
“You’ll be fine. I’ll take us there slowly, although,” he glanced at his watch, “we’re going to be late if we don’t leave right now.”
My face fell. Pointlessly, a list of pros and cons still popped into my head. Pros? The closeness, topped off by another whiff of his scent, and did I mention the closeness? Cons? Real easy: we could have an accident and either die or be permanently scarred. Only, of course, we’d never get that far because the contact would make my head blow up long before that. Hmm, I mused, totally crushed. This was going to be the shortest relationship in the dating history of mankind.
“Do you have your iPod with you?” he asked.
“Why?”
His eyes twinkled. “I want us to go on our date after school.”
In a knee-jerk reaction, my eyes ran over my body, assessing the outfit I was wearing with all the objectivity allowed by my almost two hours of sleep. I was so not in suitable first-date attire! Not that there would be one, I reminded myself, tears blurring my vision already.
“You look fine,” he assured me, his expression softeni
ng in a way that led my stomach into light fluttering. I blinked away the tears. “You’ll just need your iPod,” he insisted.
“It’s in here.” I pointed to my canvas messenger bag.
“Good. Now, we really have to go,” he said, checking the time again.
And there it was, the ordinary, simple gesture a boyfriend could, and normally was even expected to do: he offered me his hand. He may as well have punched a hole through my chest, it hurt so badly. My fear, everything that had kept me awake so many nights and the reason I took so long to say yes, was all right there, made flesh and hanging between his outstretched fingers and the hand I couldn’t let him hold. Our eyes met over that small space in between and we had a moment. His face was alive with something so fierce that I tingled inside. The silver in his eyes changed to gold and swirled like soft ripples of honey. His smile never faltered, but it was sad and unusually tired. Silently, insistently, he held my gaze as if I were the only thing in the world that would ever be worth anything to him.
“You … I-I’m sorry. I can’t!”
Clearly, he didn’t know me as well as he claimed to. I had hoped that he was aware, and maybe even okay with it. I should have known better. Now, for the fun part ... letting the cat out of the bag. Telling him how, when I touched people, their whole lives — secrets, regrets, things buried so deep that sometimes not even they remembered them — simply poured into me. Telling him how the pain knocked me out if I held on for longer than ten seconds. Followed, no doubt, by saying good-bye to him, right after. I mean, who’d want that for a girlfriend, right?
His eyes flayed me alive. Wispy gray clouds and drizzling lavender sparkles fixed on my face, stripping off layers of skin. And fear. My bravery. And all the pretense in between.
“Take my hand, Lily.” He sighed. “There won’t be any pain, I promise. I wouldn’t offer it otherwise.”
Frowning deeply and shaken up by his statement, I looked at his fingers like they were alien artifacts. Or little time bombs, set to go off if touched. By me. Past experience contradicted his words, but still I trembled with something that felt a lot like hope. Could he be right?
In my opinion, it took about eight or nine hundred years until slowly, one finger at a time, I slipped my hand into his, still very much expecting to be pummeled by images, sounds, glimpses of his past, and maybe even flashes of his future. In a word, waiting to have his life’s “hard drive” instantly downloaded into my consciousness. But there was nothing! Other than the actual contact, firm but not crushing, and warm, I deconstructed it reflexively, there was nothing but silence. And peace. The kind of peace I’d never known from touching another human being. Soothing, so soothing it brought me to tears.
My eyelids fluttered closed. Sweet angels in heaven, it was so good to touch someone without being torn to shreds by his mind!
“How…? Who … what are you?” I whispered incoherently.
He gripped my hand hard and my eyes flew open.
With a soul-shattering sadness painting his face solemn, he said, “You know who I am. You know me.”
I didn’t pretend to understand what he was talking about. But he was right, in a way; there was something very familiar about the way my hand fit in his, which was simply crazy. Holding hands had always been a big no-no for me, since I was rather fond of my head being attached to my neck and didn’t want to see it exploding like a can of beans in the microwave. Other than the quick hugs I rarely gave my parents and J, whose minds I already knew, which lessened the pain a notch, I tried not to touch anyone on purpose. Sometimes, when a life-and-death issue, like a serious sickness, was involved, I was forced to do it in order to find out if and how I could help. But I always kept it majorly short. Holding hands? Uh-uh, big no-can-do for me. So why did holding Ryder’s feel like a memory, like something I’d defi nitely done before?
“This is very weird,” I decided out loud.
Light amusement welled over the sadness in his eyes.
“I bet you’re sorry now for brushing me off for weeks,” he teased, with a smile full of mischief.
Then, fairly unceremoniously, I was dragged to the bike, our hands still entwined. I had reasons, valid reasons, not to get on that thing, but I couldn’t remember a single one. Within seconds, I was wearing a helmet and was perched behind him with my arms securely looped around his waist. And, boy, had I been right! It felt so good my toes curled.
“Comfortable?”
“Very.”
The shiny death trap roared to life and off we went.
Here’s the thing: no matter what anyone says, being a teen ain’t easy. There’s everyday studying, pimples, social status issues, your whole system crumbling into complete and utter anarchy when you fall in love, so it’s often hard to get a clear sense of what’s what. But as I rode that bike, clamped to the most gorgeous boy I had ever laid eyes on, I thought: Every seventeen-year-old should try this at least once.
Okay, so maybe it was the unexpected freedom of being able to get up-close and personal with him without having every inch of me quivering in pain that was doing the talking, but still. I couldn’t remember ever experiencing freedom like this before: the warm sun, the caressing wind, his body warm and solid beneath my arms, a perfect blue sky above us. Clichéd? Maybe, but guess what? Also about as close to perfection as anyone can hope to get. Happiness can be so absurdly simple sometimes.
Chapter: Six
I was afraid the euphoria would fade once we reached the parking lot, but it didn’t happen. Long after he killed the engine, I was still walking on sunshine. In fact, my state of mind ranked somewhere in the region of onebunny-suit-away from the suitable-for-psychiatric-treatment area. I was just so unreasonably giddy!
“You ready?” he asked, helping me off the bike.
“Ready for what?”
He offered me his hand again, smiling, looking every inch like someone who belonged to teen superstardom. I wondered if he’d be cool with me purring just then. Yep, I was completely off my rocker.
“Feeding the rumor mill.”
My stomach churned at the thought, but I wouldn’t let it show. “I think we’re both used to people talking behind our backs. Only difference is that now they’ll talk about us, um, you know, together.”
Hesitation be damned! “Us, together” in a sentence was definitely a milestone and a very bold thing for me to utter. I fl ushed violently and grabbed his hand with embarrassingly shaky fingers. Then, after closing my eyes for a second and breathing in deeply, I spent a moment refl ecting on the actual magnitude of the moment. Because it was really happening. I was arriving at school with a boy and we held hands while walking across the parking lot. It was official: I, Lillian Marie Crane, had a boyfriend. Lightning bolts, thunderclaps, earth shattering would soon follow, no doubt. I wanted to chant it, squeak it, dance it, put it on my darn forehead in glitter: I had a boyfriend! Yippee!
“Breathe, Lily, breathe,” he told me softly, his fingers gently kneading the inside of my palm.
Sure, normally I would’ve shot back some smarty-pants reply, except he had a point. The lack of oxygen was becoming an issue. I tried even breaths while musing on how, no matter what biting remark I produced, he’d see right through it. His claim about knowing me didn’t seem so naïve anymore, though the very idea was more ridiculous than some celebrity baby names. Honestly, Fifi Trixibelle? Moxie CrimeFighter?
It didn’t make sense; how could Ryder know me? But, inexplicably, I could have sworn he did; I sensed it. And my brain didn’t explode when I touched him, either. It was strange, unexpected, and just as intoxicating as a whiff of Dad’s well-aged whiskey. My body ached with how happy I was, but it also tightened at the thought of asking questions, any questions, because what if I messed it up? Poking at whatever was happening could kill the magic behind it. And then ... what then? I couldn’t risk it.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked quietly.
It was probably best if I lied. “Just that we’r
e so late.”
He glanced at me sideways and I blushed conspicuously because it was as if he knew I wasn’t being honest. “Don’t worry,” he drawled. “Mrs. Flint is a nice lady, she’ll let it slide.”
The hallway was just as empty as the parking lot had been and our footsteps echoed loudly on the concrete floor. Anxiety spiked; well, mine did, anyway.
He instructed, “Just let me do the talking.”
I happily agreed and then we were inside the classroom, holding hands no more, with people staring from all sides. Ah, the joy of it! While he glided to our history teacher’s desk with a lion-esque stride, I was left alone by the door, praying that the floor would open and swallow me up. We’d made everyone’s day with our entrance. It was a really good time to be into gossip, I sensed unhappily.
Strangely, though, there were only two pairs of eyes that caught my attention. One pair belonged to J, who was beaming from ear to ear, which suited her pastel makeup to an almost disturbing perfection. Her black curls were tucked under a vintage white scarf and she looked properly attired to ride in a convertible. The second person was Lucian Bell, who had somehow asserted ownership of the chair behind mine, usually filled by Mike Carter. He wasn’t just distinctly not smiling; his eyes actually glimmered like spheres of blue ice.
Ryder must have worked his magic on Mrs. Flint because she motioned us both to proceed to our desks. I slipped into my chair, feeling as grateful as a Bedouin finally coming upon an oasis after days of drifting through the desert. In all the relief, a couple of moments stole by before I realized that Ryder was lingering by my side. That sparked a whole conversation that we carried on with only our eyes. It went something like this:
Me, with brow furrowed: What are you still doing here?
Him, eyes flickering to my desk, almost angrily: Look!
When “heeling” as instructed what should I discover but a perfect red rose innocently lying on my beat-up desk. Not just a random one, but an exquisite Cara Mia rose, ideally happening to be at that precise moment in time when a flower turns from a bud into a blossom, deep red on the outside, just peeking scarlet at the center.