by E. R. Arroyo
He rests his hand on my cheek, caressing it with his thumb. I feel my eyes glaze over, and I close them tightly. “Hey,” he says. His thumb passes over my cheek another couple of times. He says it again, even softer. “Hey.”
I open my eyes and look right into his. His hand stops for a moment before he pulls it away, letting the tips of his fingers trace the line of my jaw. His eyes drift down to my lips more than once. Then with the side of his index finger, he lifts my chin. It’s amazing to think of the strong will and volatility that I’m known for, and then find myself under complete and utter control of a single finger. I don’t say anything, and couldn’t even if I wanted to.
“What are you thinking?” he whispers. He leans a little closer.
I shake my head to clear it. “Too many things. Or maybe not enough. I’m not sure.”
“I don’t want to break our deal, but...” he says, cautiously. He bites his lip. “Can I kiss you?” He’s brave, is all I can think.
“I...” Nothing else comes out. I swallow hard.
“Talk to me,” he encourages, dropping his finger and touching my hand instead.
“I feel confused.” I pull away slightly. His request definitely violates our deal, but I’m not sure I care anymore. Not after everything that’s happened. What’s a silly deal among friends who already risk their lives for each other? Why do the arms that hold me at night need boundaries and rules in the day?
He nods, and his shoulders droop along with his confidence. This. This hurt, this is exactly why I needed boundaries--why he doesn’t need to feel this way.
“Is this about Titus?” he asks, defeated.
“No.” I scoff. “Why would you think that? No.”
“I saw you together.” He looks out the window at nothing while I recall Titus kissing me on the forehead before running to help us escape. Right before... “I know he cared for you.” Dylan’s eyes are dark, the sunlight almost gone.
“No, it wasn’t like that. Dylan, you know I just...I’m not sure that...I can feel that way.”
His voice raises a little and grows defensive. “What did you feel when you were with me in that tree? When you fell asleep in my arms with your lips against my skin?”
“You remember the tree?” I ask, stunned that my secret was never a secret at all.
“I woke up so happy that day, but you were acting like you regretted it. So I played dumb to give you a way out. But I’m tired of feeling this way. Desperate. Aching. I want to be in this together.”
“I...I’m just not...I don’t...”
“Then why did you let me? Why didn’t you stop me the first time?” His cheeks are flushed, and there’s a deep crease between his eyebrows as he backs away.
“We were in a tree; there was nowhere to go!”
He drops his head to his hands and takes a deep breath. I feel daggers in my gut, and I deserve them. Why am I hurting the only person I have?
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking his hand in mine. “I was scared. I’m sorry.” I draw closer to him, but he grabs my wrists, holding me at a distance.
“Don’t,” he says, his mouth in a hard line. “Not out of pity.”
“I don’t pity you, Dylan,” I say, trying to garner my strength, my courage. He’s brave. I’m brave. “I want you to.” I don’t know when I decided that. “I want you to kiss me.”
He searches my eyes, his jaw tight. “You mean it?”
“Yes.” I press against his hands that hold me back, trembling again.
He seems uncertain, but relaxes the furrow in his brows and leans in, pressing his mouth to mine.
I.
Don’t.
Breathe.
For at least a hundred years, while his lips are still against mine. He lets go of my wrists and puts both hands against my neck, and they swallow me up. Hands so strong shouldn’t be this gentle, but he touches me like I could break, and I think I might. I think I will break.
Warmth spreads across my chest, and the tension there oozes away--the pain, too. I take the deepest breath I’ve taken in ten years and let it go with a heavy force behind it. I’m free to breathe. And being with Dylan is easy.
He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into a tight embrace and I wrap both arms around his back, squeezing him.
He kisses the crook of my neck lightly, spreading his hands across my back and holding me. I close my eyes as his hands glide over my back, caressing me. Comforting me. Loving me.
When the sun is gone, Dylan lifts me and adjusts us so we’re laying together with his back against the cushion, and my back against his chest. There’s not as much space as a bed would have, but we make do. He wraps an arm over me and my eyes get heavy.
This is far more comfortable than the ground or the inside of a tree.
There’s a sound I don’t recognize that the darkness pulling me under won’t let me focus on. I want to listen to it longer, but I can’t hold on. The last thing I remember before falling asleep is Dylan kissing my hair.
Chapter Fourteen
“Time to move,” Dylan whispers, with a hand on my shoulder.
I open my eyes and take in the home filled with morning light. I blink a few times before moving.
“We need to find clothes today, maybe some supplies, and then get back on our way.”
“Yeah. Okay,” I say as pleasantly as I’m capable in the morning. I must say, it’s the best sleep I’ve had in years.
We eat and drink again, then decide against going back upstairs and opt to try another home. When we walk out the front door, I’m surprised to see another row of nearly-identical homes facing us on the other side of a small street.
At the house next door, we peek in through the windows. We can’t tell much, but there aren’t any bodies in plain sight, and that’s my only criteria, really.
Dylan pulls the screen off the window and tries to slide it open. It takes a few pushes before it gives, but it finally slides up with a creaking, scraping sound. Dylan moves the lacy cloth aside and hoists himself in. He turns back toward me and pulls me in by my armpits, the same way Twig lifted me. I force the thought of him away.
Once I’m steady on my feet, the two of us look around the home for a moment. Dylan’s hand lingers on my back, and I don’t ask him to remove it. I almost don’t even flinch. Almost.
“Try upstairs?” I ask him.
He nods, but when I start for the staircase, he hurries to get in front of me and leads by several steps. He checks the first room we come to and keeps moving, making sure he peeks inside each door before I do.
After looking in the third doorway, he closes it. I pass a bedroom, and a room with a desk then stand beside him. I eye the closed door, curiously, but Dylan shakes his head and steers me away from it.
I don’t wonder why. I know.
The final door we come to leads into a large room with the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. Wooden posts that stand at least ten feet tall support the frame. The linens are dusty, but I can tell they were comfortable and fluffy once. Best of all, there are no bodies.
I walk into a closet that’s almost the size of my bedroom in Antius. Clothing hangs along both sides, shoes line the floor, and boxes are stored on shelves across the top.
I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror that’s as tall as I am. My clothes are filthy, bloody, and torn. There’s dirt on my face, and my hair is beyond help. The insect bite is almost unnoticeable now; I’m lucky it only bit me once.
I flip through some of the clothing and find a pair of pants that are made of thick, heavy, blue fabric. They feel rough, and I imagine they would offer good protection.
I hear water come on from the other side of the wall and rush to see. There’s an oversized bathroom with a giant tub, a shower with glass walls, and two sinks side-by-side. The tiles look like stone, and the wood cabinets are a deep red shade. It’s all dusty, of course, but magnificent still.
After a few minutes, like next door, the water in the shower runs clear.
<
br /> “Want to go first?” he asks me, and I nod. He leans in and kisses my forehead before leaving the room, and shutting the door. Our affection has passed the point of no return, and I’ll surely never ask him to stop. If I can stay out of my head, someday I could actually enjoy it as much as he does.
I drop the clean pants on the floor, then slip out of my boots, and peel off my socks. I shed my clothes quickly, hopping on the cold tiles on my tiptoes. I land on a patch of fabric on the floor beside the shower, and it’s warmer there. Reaching in, I feel the cold water. It’s better than nothing.
I step in and shiver as the cold water runs over me. I need to make this quick, I think. I soak my hair and let the dirt wash down my body, rubbing my face with my hands. I decide against the soaps in the shower since they are probably toxic or poisonous by now.
After I’m shivering to the bone and I’ve rinsed off as much dirt as I can, I step out of the shower, leaving it running for Dylan. I look around and realize quickly that I have nothing to dry off with. I open all the cabinets and find everything but towels. I huff, wiping my face again. Water keeps dripping down from my hair.
I dance over the cold floor and crack the door enough to peek out. “Dylan,” I say bashfully.
He sits up on the bed which he’d pulled the blanket off and laid down on. “Yeah?” he says, anxiously, his eyes wide.
“I can’t find a towel.”
“Oh.” He opens another door next to the closet and I hear a few cabinets being rummaged through. He comes to me with a towel. I back away from the crack for him to pass the towel through and grab it. I shut the door quickly, hoping he didn’t see my flushed face.
I dry off and slide into the blue pants. I put my stupid bra back on but realize I didn’t grab a shirt.
I stand in the doorway with my hand on the knob wearing pants that are insanely oversized, and a towel wrapped around my torso. I dried my hair as much as I could, but it’s still dripping. I look ridiculous.
Dylan stands before me with a new towel in his hands.
“Your turn.” I try to smile. He brushes past me, turning sideways to slide by without pushing me from the doorway. As he passes, he kisses my temple, and I think he smells my hair.
I don’t move for a moment, but when I glance over my shoulder, he’s pulling his shirt off and dropping it on the floor. He’s not looking at me. But I’m looking at him. His hands drop to the front of his pants and he unsnaps the button.
I close the door.
I go back to the smaller bedroom. A bed, a desk with some kind of screen--maybe a computer--a chair, and a dresser. There are pictures pinned to the wall of a teenage boy posing with other kids. Large artwork hangs on the walls, as well as some words and designs drawn by hand with some sort of paint. It looks like scribble to me.
I open the middle drawer in the dresser and find a pair of brown pants. They fit just right on my hips, then become looser down the legs, but taper in at the ankle and stop at the right length. They fit perfectly. I’m shaped like a boy.
The next drawer holds a bunch of t-shirts, most of them either black or gray. I pick the only white one and slide it on over my head. I’ve had enough darkness over the last ten years, white just feels better. It’s snug, but the long sleeves will keep me warm at night. It feels wrong to take things, but I don’t think the kid would mind.
I plop onto the boy’s chair and dust flies up, making me cough. After all that trouble getting clean, I sit down in dirt.
I rake my fingers through my tangled hair and gather it in the back for a ponytail but realize I left the elastic in the bathroom with Dylan.
I stand and round the corner back into the hallway when I see Dylan’s panicked face in the doorway. After a moment, he rushes toward me and shoves my boots into my hands. He opens the one closed door and shoves me inside by my shoulders.
“What is it?”
“Shhh.” He fights his way into a fresh t-shirt. “I think they found us.”
“What?”
He tugs his shoes on and it takes a minute for me to follow suit. He walks to the window in the tiny room--another bathroom I realize--and points outside. In the yard next door, a group of Nathan’s soldiers enter through the hole in the fence that Dylan made and they march toward the house with weapons drawn.
Panic rises up in my throat, and that’s when I see her--a woman lying dead in the bathtub not three feet from me. I only know it’s a woman because she was wearing a dress when she died. Her face is bone now.
Time escapes me, logic and panic forgotten. I stand staring at her for the longest time before Dylan grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at him.
“We have to hide,” he says calmly.
“Where?” My eyes drift back to the body.
Dylan surveys the room. He opens the cabinets below the sink, and a tiny closet by the shower, but shakes his head. He grabs my hand and opens the door, peeking into the hallway.
I follow his lead, tiptoeing behind him toward the boy’s room. I start to close the door, but he stops me. “No. It’ll draw their attention.” He’s so much smarter than I am. He looks around the room, trying to make a decision quickly. His hand slips to the back of his pants and he pulls out a gun, offering it to me.
I stare at it. “Where’d you get that?”
“Off the soldier in the woods,” he answers. “I don’t know how to shoot.”
I stare at the gun for another moment before grabbing it, checking the clip, then chambering a bullet--my hands remember the motion more than my mind remembers the steps. I pull it close to my chest and follow Dylan toward the kid’s closet, which extends sideways on either side of the door. Dylan shoves me inside and pushes me toward the left, away from the opening. We shimmy behind clothing and clutter, leaving the closet door open as well. It feels wrong not to close it, but I think Dylan’s right, it’s less conspicuous with them open since every other door in the home is ajar.
Dylan piles some of the bags and junk in the floor around our legs to conceal them, and I hope if someone comes, they won’t be able to see us. I already know if they found the hole in the fence, they’ll find the missing screen on the front window, which we left open.
Dylan stands between me and the door with his back to my chest, and the gun between us. I think it would be smarter if the one who can use a weapon was in front, but maybe I should just leave the “smart” department to Dylan.
I could at least keep the weapon more handy, so I slide the gun out from between us. I wrap my arm in front of Dylan, holding my finger near the gun’s trigger. To keep myself steady, I plant my free hand on Dylan’s side. He lays his hand on top of mine, and I realize that it’s his hip, not his side. If I was taller, or he was shorter, it would be his side. He caresses the back of my hand for a moment longer, then we hear them breaking down the front door.
They’re not very subtle, but, then again, they weren’t trained for tracking.
My heart is beating so loudly, I can’t even hear Dylan’s heavy breaths anymore; I just feel his chest rise and fall against my gun-hand. Suddenly, I become woozy, like the world is caving in, and darkness is pressing in on me. I try to force my eyes to focus on the corners of the closet, the shelf and bar above me, the clothes in front of me. The water dripping down the back of Dylan’s neck. But it’s too dark in here. My knees start to go weak and I find it hard to breathe. When my hands start trembling, Dylan grabs my wrists and pulls my arms tight around his waist. I know he would say something if he could, and I try to imagine what that would be.
Footsteps echo throughout the home, and I shudder when they reach the top of the staircase. Dylan squeezes my wrists, I assume to keep my attention on him since he can’t speak.
Get it together, I yell inside my head. Don’t get caught.
I shake my head and lay my cheek against Dylan’s back, listening to his heartbeat. It’s fast, but it’s steady, so I focus on it. I time one breath to every three beats of his heart. I think every four or five beats
would be better, but I’m not relaxed enough.
Calm down, I tell myself, as the first set of boots enters the boy’s bedroom, easily close enough to hear the beating of my heart and raging blood inside my veins. Surely.
The man walks all around the room and I wish I could see what he’s doing, see what he’s looking at. Know if he’s onto us.
As the steps grow nearer to the closet, Dylan releases my hand that’s holding the gun. I adjust my grip around it, sliding my index finger over the trigger. I hold it straight up and down, afraid that if I stick it straight out the man will see it.
I hear heavy breathing in front of me and squeeze Dylan, willing him to stop, but when Dylan squeezes me back, I realize the breathing is not his. I draw my head away from Dylan’s back just an inch or two so I can hear better, and be ready to lean around him if I have to aim and fire.
Objects on the floor of the closet scoot around, I assume the guard is pushing them with his feet since his breathing still comes from the space in front of Dylan. Abruptly, hangers and clothes are shoved into Dylan knocking him off balance. He leans into me, his whole body tensed, and I push against the wall behind me to keep him standing. If we fall and make noise, we’re caught.
When the hangers shift in the other direction, I realize the soldier was checking the cavity to the right, and now he’s starting toward the left, toward us.
I tilt the gun forward and begin to lean around Dylan’s shoulder to see, when a voice calls out. “They were here. Not long ago.”
“What did you find?” the soldier in our closet calls back without moving away from us.
“Bloody clothes. Water on the floor.”
From somewhere downstairs, another soldier shouts, “There’s a broken window across the street.”
At that, the man jogs away from us and down the stairs. “Let’s go.” His voice reverberates throughout the structure.
I wait another minute or two before releasing a long exhale and lowering my weapon. I tuck it in the back of my waistband as Dylan scoots forward a little. It gives me just enough space to cover my face with both hands, digging my fingertips into my forehead and pressing as hard as I can to exert the energy pent up in my arms.