Unspoken Words

by K. M. Golland

  I shrugged but smiled proudly.

  “You should be one of those house decorator people.”

  His eyes roamed my room, so I flopped onto my bed, which was also white and jutted out from the only wall without books, except it did have books—pictures of books—framed and randomly positioned around posters of the beach and Madonna.

  “A decorator? You think?”

  “Yeah. You can start with my room.”

  “Maybe I will. Your room was pretty boring. It could definitely do with a little more … colour.”

  “I take back my offer. Boys rooms should not be colourful.”

  “Sure they should.”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “I’m happy with boring.”

  Stretching back, I grabbed my new pizza pillow. “I got this from Chris. It’s a pillow shaped as a pizza.”

  I frisbeed it in his direction and he caught it and held it up. “Cool.”

  “And I got these from Mum and Dad.” I sprung up from the bed and pointed to my Converse-covered toes. “They’re my third pair. I have them in black and pink too. The next colour I’m gonna get is red, or maybe yellow.”

  “Nice. I have a white pair.”

  “Boring,” I teased.

  Connor frisbeed the pillow back at me, hitting me square in the face before it fell to my feet.

  I blinked then stared at it, blinking again before I bent down and picked it up. When I looked in Connor’s direction, his hands were raised in surrender, his eyes wide with shock.

  He gulped. “Sorry, I—”

  Swinging the pillow, I whacked him in the gut then over the head. Relentless.

  “Hey!” he said, covering his face with his hands. “For a brightly coloured person, you’re very strong.”

  I whacked him again.

  “Stop! I come in peace, Munchkin of Munchkin land.”

  Whack. Whack.

  “I thought your kind were supposed to be friendly.”

  WHACK.

  “Maybe you’re the wicked witch in disguise.”

  Pausing my attack, I placed my hand on my hip, the pizza pillow dangling from my fingertip. “No, if I were any character from the Wizard of Oz, I’d be Dorothy.”

  Connor peeked through his spread fingers. “Dorothy? Na, you’re more like the good witch with the red hair.”

  “The good witch was a softie.” I tossed the pillow back onto my bed. “Dorothy was badarse—she killed the bitch who tried to steal her shoes. If anyone tried to steal my Chucks, I’d drop a house on them too.”

  Connor burst into laughter. “Yeah, I reckon you would.”

  I just shrugged and smiled with admiration at my pointed toe.

  “So,” he said, picking up a notebook from my desk, “what else did you get for your birthday?”

  Stepping forward, I removed the notebook from his hands and placed it back down. “This,” I grumbled, and made my way over to my wardrobe, opening the door and riffling through my clothes until I pulled out a brown knitted jumper. “It’s from my gran. She made it.”

  Connor’s face contorted. “Niiiiiiice.”

  “Nice? It’s poo brown,” I said, turning the coat hanger around. “And it has a bear on the back. A BEAR!” Astonished, I shook my head then shoved it back among my clothes before closing the door. “Madonna would never wear a bear jumper. EVER!”

  He chuckled and placed his hands in his pockets. “So … did you get anything else?”

  “Yeah. I got some jewellery from Mum and Dad, and a notebook from my friend.”

  “What kind of jewellery?” Connor all of a sudden seemed anxious, as if he was annoyed someone had bought me jewellery.

  “These,” I said, stepping up to him, my cheek turned in his direction. I lifted my hair to expose my earlobe. “They’re book-shaped earrings. Aren’t they cute?”

  He sighed with relief, the corners of his mouth arching into a smile as he studied them. “Yeah. They really suit you.”

  I sighed with relief too, all of a sudden aware that I wanted him to like what I wore and what I looked like. No one else’s opinion mattered. Only his.

  Slowly pulling his hand out of his pocket, he glanced down at a small velvet box clenched tight within his fingers. “I … I got you something else, just from me. Mum didn’t help me choose it,” he blurted out.

  Heat swept across my face. “You do realise we’re too young to get married, right?” I joked, blushing at what might be inside.

  His brow crumpled. “We are? Oh well.” Connor turned around and went to leave the room. Wait! What? Where’s he going? Come back!

  “I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” I protested. “Well, kinda. We’re definitely too young to get married, but …” I marched after him. “That’s my gift. Give it back.”

  Bright, white teeth gleamed from his mouth as he spun to face me, the box held behind his back. I tried to reach around his shoulders to grab it, but he kept rotating his body until he held it high above his head, too high for me to reach.

  “Connor, pleeeeeease.”

  The smarty-pants just grinned.

  “Grrrrr.” I stomped my foot and poked my fingers into his armpit.

  “Oww.” He laughed. “Geez, you’re vicious.”

  Connor instinctively dropped his arm, so I seized my opportunity and wrenched the box free of his hand before escaping to sit on the edge of my bed where I flipped the lid open.

  Inside, was a silver book charm on a necklace. “It’s … beautiful.” I snapped my head in his direction. “And it matches my earrings.”

  He nodded and sat down beside me. “It opens.”

  “Really? Cool!”

  Lifting the silver locket from the box, I gently pressed on the clasp. The front of the book sprung open and a tiny piece of paper fell onto my lap.

  “Oh! A note!” I smiled and quickly unravelled it:

  CB

  ❤️

  EM

  Squinting at the hand-drawn message, my eyes lifted to find Connor’s.

  “Do you … wanna be my girlfriend?”

  My cheeks flushed with warmth, and I just knew my face had turned red, the perfect complement to the curls resting on my shoulders. “Yes.” I nodded. “I’d really like that.”

  He closed his eyes for the briefest of seconds then smiled and placed one hand on the mattress beside me and the other on my cheek. His touch was warm, hot even, and it heated my already searing body to boiling point. I felt like a kettle, ready to billow steam from my ears and nostrils.

  Connor leaned forward, the bed dipping under his shifted weight, his nose brushing mine, our eyes locked tight.

  I gasped.

  He paused. “I’ve … I’ve never a kissed a girl before,” he said, his voice strained.

  “Neither have I,” I whispered back. “I mean, a boy. I’ve never kissed a boy.”

  Connor’s smile lit up his grey eyes and he pressed his lips to mine. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. My chest was heavy, my muscles tight.

  Flexing his fingers against my face, I felt them tremble a little as his mouth opened wider. So I did the same, the tips of our tongues touching. It was so weird … and wet. A little gross but perfect all the same. Oh my God, I’m kissing. WE’RE kissing!

  “Elliephant!” Chris hollered, the wrap of his knuckles connecting with my bedroom door. “Dinner’s ready.”

  I shoved Connor in the chest, pushing him away so I could answer my brother. “O … OKAY,” I stuttered, shouting in response. “WE’LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE.”

  Connor rubbed his chest. “Ow, that hurt.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered, giggling as I quickly wiped my mouth. “I panicked.”

  He smiled back at me, his lips glistening from our kiss. It made me blush.

  “It’s okay. I’d rather you beat me up than Chris.”

  Quickly standing, I brushed my skirt down and made sure I looked decent. The last thing I wanted to do was walk into a room where our families were and have my outfit
all twisted and rumpled, because that was definitely evidence of kissing … or worse.

  “You should know my brother hits like a toddler, so you should be scared of me, not him.”

  Connor stood up beside me and gently laced his fingers with mine. “Don’t you worry, Eloise Mitchell,” he said with a wink. “I am scared of you.”

  Smiling, I went to pry my hands free so we could leave the room.

  “Wait!” he said, picking up the necklace from my bed. He removed it from the box and stood behind me. “Lift your hair.”

  I did as I was told while he fastened it around my neck, placed his hands on my shoulders, and gently turned me to face him. “There. Perfect.”

  I reached up and clasped the book charm in my hand. “It is. I love it.”

  Connor took my other hand in his then traced a heart with the tip of his finger on my wrist. Once, twice, three times. My skin tickled, and I stared at the invisible symbol he’d drawn, the mark as prominent to my eyes as if it were a real, inked tattoo.

  It was so sweet.

  He was so sweet.

  Connor didn’t say a word; he didn’t need to. He just lifted my hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss on my knuckles before he opened my bedroom door like a gentleman and gestured I walk through.

  In that moment, I realised I loved his unspoken words more than ever.

  And in that moment, Connor Bourke once again stole my air.

  Chapter Ten

  Ellie

  For the next four years, Connor and I were inseparable. If he jumped, I jumped. If I fell, he fell with me. We were two young peas in a pod of adolescent love, except it wasn’t always smooth sailing when our pod failed to float. It often sunk and was a struggle to resurface—nine times out of ten because of his damn unspoken words … or his jealousy.

  Roughly a year after we’d been dating, I’d found out just how jealous Connor could be when a new family moved next door; a single mum with twins our age: a girl named Lilah, and a boy named Tristan. Funnily enough, the twins didn’t attend the same school. Tristan started at Eastside with me, and Lilah went to Greenhills with Connor. At first, I thought it was a little weird that they attended different schools, like maybe they didn’t get along—at all—but I soon found out they were just two different people living in bodies that were almost the same.

  Lilah and Tristan were tall, dark, and beautiful with skin like milk and hair like molasses, almost vampire-ish. On the day they moved in, I’d sat unnoticed behind my bedroom window, watching them cart boxes from their car while admiring Lilah’s unique and mysterious style, accentuated by a pair of black, ten-eyed Doc Martens boots, inky nail polish, and burgundy lipstick. She’d even worn a thick, black, lace, baroque patterned choker around her neck, which made her look like a walking piece of art. I still had the notes I’d written that day: intriguing, statuesque, enticing … scary. As it turned out, she wasn’t as scary as she looked, just rude and a little stuck up, which was made abundantly clear when I’d asked if she wanted to come over to watch a movie or listen to music and her response had been no. She hadn’t even offered a bogus excuse or been polite enough to explain her rejection.

  I never asked her again.

  Tristan, on the other hand, was the polar opposite of his sister; super friendly and talkative. And maybe that’s why Connor didn’t like him. Or maybe it was because his and Connor’s eyes were at the same level and Connor didn’t have to tilt his head to look down at Tristan like he did with nearly everyone else. Or maybe it was because Tristan was boisterous like my brother. Despite his rambunctious tendencies, though, he was still nice all the same, which is why when he’d sat down on the school bus in Connor’s seat one morning shortly after they’d moved into town, I didn’t have the heart to tell him to move. There were no seats left, and I honestly didn’t think Connor would mind—my boyfriend was usually kind, unfazed, and serene at the best of times.

  Turned out Connor had minded. A lot. He’d also chosen not to sit next to me on the way home from school that day too. But it hadn’t deterred me from getting off the bus at his stop to ask him what was wrong, and what followed was our first real fight as boyfriend and girlfriend.

  He’d yelled, I’d yelled back.

  I’d cried; he’d hugged me.

  I’d walked home feeling lost; he’d written me a note the following day.

  Because that’s what Connor did—he wrote notes when words were too hard to say. His apologies. His feelings. His love. And I would forgive him because I loved him back. Always.

  Since that first fight, there’d been many more. Big ones, small ones, and stupid ones like what movie we’d watch on a Friday night. It was one of our favourite things to do together, and most of the time I’d win possession of the borrowing card for our local video store—my victory usually involving persuasion of the kissing and hand-up-the-shirt kind.

  It was now the summer of ‘93, and I was scanning the video store shelves for a movie to watch.

  “How ‘bout this one?” I asked, picking up the empty VHS cover of Sleepless in Seattle. Tom Hanks was all the rage.

  Connor’s hands slowly slid around my waist, his fingers skating the underside of my breasts. “Sure. Whatever you want, baby.”

  “Stop that. Someone might see.”

  His chest rumbled against my back, an I-know-you-love-my-hands-touching-you kind of rumble. And he was right; I did love him touching me, just not in a very public video store.

  As each day went by, Connor touched me more and more, both of us exploring one another’s bodies in a way no one else had. It drove me wild because, at seventeen years of age, I was still a virgin and slowly losing the will to keep my virtue intact, something I blamed on my body … and his damn, big, soft hands.

  “Not here,” I whispered, despite my body tingling in response, my eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of seconds.

  His lips found my neck, and my nerve endings surged to life. I loved when he kissed me there, when his warm, delicious mouth trailed from just below my ear to my collarbone. My goodness, he’ll be my undoing.

  I swiped his hands away. “Please stop.” My voice was breathy and lacked conviction.

  “I love it when you beg.” His voice was low and unashamed.

  Squirming out of his embrace, I turned around and pushed against the muscle of his chest, my back pressing into the store shelving for leverage. “Connor,” I warned. My fingers flexed against his t-shirt.

  His mouth quirked. “You’re adorable when you fight for control.”

  “Ha.” I glared at him, playfully. “You mean I’m adorable when I pretend to relinquish it.”

  He leaned forward to kiss me but stopped, our noses touching ever so slightly. “Can I kiss you, or might someone see that too?”

  “You can always kiss me. Whenever. Wherever.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Uh huh.” My eyes flared excitement at the challenge in his tone just before his lips—like magnets—soared to mine: quick, firm, possessive and swift, the kiss over just as fast as it began.

  “Good,” he said, drawing back, “because I will kiss you. Whenever. Wherever.” He grabbed hold of my hand and pulled me toward the cashier. “Come on, let’s get back to my place so I can finish what I’ve started.”

  I giggled, my legs shuffling to keep up with the rest of my body. “Who says we’re doing anything other than watching the movie?”

  Connor glanced back, eyebrows high, dimples as big as ever, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he stopped ushering us out of the store, lifted my hand, traced a heart on my wrist with his fingertip, and then kissed the spot he’d just drawn on—his words, as per usual, unspoken.

  My skin tingled, my cheeks heated, and tears prickled my eyes, because I couldn’t possibly love this boy any more than I did. The bond we shared ran deep below the surface, roots forever embedded.

  “So, what’s this movie about?” Connor asked as he reached for a slice of pizza out of the box we’d p
laced on the coffee table in front of us.

  He sat back and nestled into the cushions, resting his other arm across the top of the couch, behind me. I snatched his slice just as he was about to take a bite and shovelled it into my mouth, mumbling, “I think it’s about a guy who loses his wife suddenly.” I choked on my mouthful and giggled. Connor shook his head with amusement and grabbed another slice, so I continued. “His young son wants him to move on and find a new wife, so, unbeknown to him, his son rings a radio station and basically declares, ‘I want a new mum. Any takers?’ A lady (Meg Ryan) hears his story and writes a letter to him. I think she’s married though. Anyway, I’m pretty sure they fall in love and live happily ever after.”

  “If you know what happens then why are we watching it?”

  I sucked some cheesy, greasy goodness off my finger. “Because the true story lies within all the little details, silly. Plus,” I said, pointing the remote at the TV and nuzzling into Connor’s side. “I love a good romance.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, because it’s romantic, I guess.”

  “Not always.”

  Arcing my neck, I looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Three words: Romeo and Juliet.”

  “How is Romeo and Juliet not romantic? It’s one of the most romantic stories ever written.”

  “They died,” he deadpanned.

  “Well, yeah, because they couldn’t live without each other.”

  “But. They. DIED!”

  “There’s still love in death, Connor,” I said before stealing his crust.

  “You’re wrong. There’s only death in death.”

  We fell silent for a few seconds, the mention of death a solemn cloud over our otherwise romantic evening. I wanted desperately to argue his ridiculous logic, to change his view on the subject and help him heal a wound that was forever open. But I didn’t bother because I knew it was an argument I wouldn’t win with him, at least not tonight. All I wanted was to snuggle, eat pizza, and get lost in a world of love and happiness, which, sadly, crashed and burned when—ten minutes into the movie—the mother and wife in the story died of an aggressive cancer. And despite it being five years since Aaron’s passing, sudden death brought on by cancer was still a trigger for Connor.