by R.K. Ryals
~Peregrine Storke~
There was a window in the loft, the shutters thrown open to the night. Moonlight poured through the opening. I lay within the ray of light, my body surrounded by silver. Hundreds of stars winked down at me. It was the kind of night that made me want to climb a tree, the moon begging for me to get closer. Up, up, up, until I was sitting on top of the world, a lunar queen.
“Moon-kissed,” Foster mumbled next to me.
I didn’t even glance at him. It was dangerous to look at Foster Evans. There was a fire in his gaze that scared me. He teased and he was passionate. There were things he could teach me I wasn’t sure I was ready to learn. Life until now had been an awkward occasion for me. My parents, bullying in school, and the world I’d drawn coming to life. Having Foster be a part of it had complicated things even more.
“You sort of intrigue me,” Foster said suddenly.
My head fell to the side, my startled gaze finding the side of his face. Half of his features were in shadow, the other half bathed in pale light. It turned his red hair black, his skin effervescent.
“I intrigue you?” I asked.
Foster’s gaze stayed on the window. “I drive people away, Perri. I push them away. Everyone except family. Never family.”
His confession surprised me.
“You have friends,” I pointed out, “and you date. I know. You’ve brought a lot of girls home. Remember, I’ve been there. Camilla and I had this game …” My words trailed off, my cheeks blazing.
Foster’s head fell to the side, his gaze meeting mine. “A game, huh?”
I grimaced. “It was stupid … it was kind of like one of those betting boards you set up for Super Bowl Sunday. We wrote the names of the girls you dated on it, and then we’d guess how long you’d actually stay with her.”
Foster smirked. “And who won?”
My brows rose. “Oh, it was Camilla. It was always Camilla. She was much better at numbers than I was. She had this whole equation she came up with to figure it out. I suck at math.” My gaze searched his. “For someone who drives people away, you certainly had a lot of them around you.”
Foster laughed. “Do you want me to put this delicately or bluntly? I didn’t have friends, I had people I hung out with. I didn’t date, I had girls I fu—”
“I’ve got it, thank you,” I interrupted, my gaze moving away from his. “Let’s not ruin this,” I said, my hand gesturing at the window. Even as tired as I was, I didn’t want to close my eyes and shut out the beauty. I was afraid I would wake up to find all of it gone, destroyed by Perfection. “What’s intriguing about me?”
There was silence, and then, “You push people away, too.”
I sat up. “I do no—”
“Yes,” he insisted, “you do. It’s an awkward trait we both share. You were seventeen when I started noticing the way you withdraw. Hell, you were seventeen when I first started noticing you. Even Camilla is only allowed so close before you retreat.”
I wasn’t sure which surprised me the most, the fact that he’d noticed me or the belief that I was unapproachable.
“I don—”
Foster cut me off, his hand gesturing. “Look at the way you are with Elspeth, Weasel, Nimble, and Herman ... I know you’d do anything to save them, I know you care about them, but you still push them away. Other than helping them, have you once hugged them? Showed them any affection? Have you thought about them as anything other than drawings even after touching them, seeing them?”
I stared down at him. “I hugged King Happenstance,” I muttered.
Foster didn’t miss a beat. “Because you wish he was your father.”
My mouth fell open, my eyes narrowing.
Foster sat up across from me. “I’m not judging you, Perri. I told you, I’m the same way. It’s why you intrigue me. Every time I’ve come home the last couple of years, we’ve been pushing at each other. I’m sure the rhyme had something to do with it, but it wasn’t just that. There’s a brick wall between us, and every time either one of us tries to cross that line, we run straight into it.”
“I let you kiss me,” I pointed out.
He smiled. “Kissing has nothing to do with walls.”
I frowned. “Seemed pretty wall shattering to me.”
Foster clutched his chest. “I think I’m flattered by that.”
There was something about Foster that made you want to laugh even when he was insulting you.
My gaze went once more to the window. “You have family,” I said.
My knees were pulled up to my chest, my arms wrapped around them when Foster tugged one of them loose, taking my hand in his. He didn’t come close, he just held my hand.
“You do, too, Perri,” he whispered. My gaze—when it met his—must have been too serious because he shrugged, a familiar glint in his eyes. “Of course, the whole my wanting to have sex with you thing kind of complicates things.”
I kicked him. “Damn fine brick wall you have there, Foster Evans,” I said when he winced.
His hand squeezed mine. “I’ve killed people,” he said abruptly.
I froze, his words shattering barriers I never knew were up. I’d let being in Awkward fool me into feeling younger … innocent, and I’d viewed Foster that way, too. His words crumbled it all.
“Foster—” I began.
He squeezed my hand again. “You told me about Halloween. I figured I owed you one.”
My jaw dropped. “Halloween seems kind of lame right now after that confession.” My palm was growing clammy, but I didn’t let him go. “Foster, what you had to do in the field—”
He inhaled. “Doing what you have to do doesn’t make it any easier.”
I didn’t know what to do. My father often had moments of true despair, but he drowned them in alcohol and criticism. His was made worse by his condition, by the mania he suffered. I’d not seen anything like that with Foster. His was despair of a different kind. Something not caused by madness, but something real that could cause madness if he let it.
I just didn’t know what to do.
In movies and books, fantasy and fiction, there were scripts for things like this. There were words the actors made look right. In reality, life was full of awkward moments with no right words.
“C-can I hug you?” I stuttered.
It seemed like such a stupid thing to ask. I felt like he needed it, but didn’t want to do it if it was the wrong thing to do.
Foster tugged me toward him, and I fell into him, my arms wrapping around his neck. Even grown men have scared children inside of them. If I died in Awkward, I would die with a whole new realization.
“Life kinda sucks, doesn’t it?” I asked against Foster’s neck.
He laughed into my hair. “It kinda doesn’t sometimes, too.”
There was silence, heavy silence, the quiet broken only by our breathing. My arms were cramping and my neck hurt, but I wasn’t going to be the first to let go.
Foster exhaled, the breath hot against my head. “So I gotta ask, are you still a virgin?”
I choked, swallowing my laugh until tears pricked my eyes. My father drowned his madness and despair in awful things. Foster drowned his with humor.
“Brick wall, Foster. Remember that damned brick wall.”
Silence.
Breathing.
Shifting hands.
Clammy skin.
The smell of hay, soap, and watermelon.
Both of us refused to let go first. Maybe it was a test. See, there’s this odd thing about fairytales. Most of the time, there’s something to compete against—a tower to climb, a wall of briars to cut away, a poison apple to dislodge, evil queens, wolves, and nasty stepparents—but the true test isn’t what we have the courage to fight. It’s what we have the courage to admit. True courage is admitting when you’re vulnerable.
Silence.
Breathing.
In the end, when the darkness was too much and
sleep overcame, neither one of us had let go.
Chapter 21
“That awkward moment when the past meets the present, and they don’t agree with each other.”