Page 10 of First Verse

evangeline

The palatial home Wilder grew up in is shadowed and quiet as I walk up carpeted stairs and down a hallway.

Sounds from the backyard drift through open windows: squeals from the kids still in the pool, laughter and shouts from adults. My stomach grumbles at the scent of smoking wood chips. I should be outside helping my dad with the grill—it’s been a Sullivan tradition since I was a kid. But when he started prepping burgers, I decided to avoid the questions in his laser-like blue eyes and hid in a chair on the outskirts of the women.

Unfortunately, where I sat put me in Rose’s direct line of sight, and her concerned glances made my skin itch with guilt. Or maybe the itching was due to all the sun and chlorine in combination with my lack of sleep last night. Either way, when Wilder’s brother, River, walked over to ask Rose where he went and she said he was taking a nap, I slipped away with a mumbled excuse of needing the bathroom.

I just want to make sure he’s okay.

In the light of a new day, the certainty and conviction I felt last night are murky, clouded by a jumbled mix of anxiety, longing, and sadness. We both said hurtful things; it wasn’t the first time and likely won’t be the last. All I really feel right now is the pain of the distance between us. I don’t want to accept that a lifetime of friendship could be over, that the boy I grew up with has changed so much he’s now a stranger.

At the door of his old bedroom, I press my ear to the wood and hear soft music. My heart kicks against my ribs as I knock.

“Wilder?”

When seconds pass with no response, I turn the knob and push the door open a crack. He’s on the bed facing the window, his old gray comforter tangled around his jean-clad legs. From his deep, even breathing, he’s fast asleep.

I slip into the room and close the door behind me. Approaching the bed, I step out of my sandals and crawl onto the mattress, then lie down and press myself to his warm back. I want to put my arms around him. Hold him. But that would be breaking the rules. I’m already bending them by touching him through his clothes.

I don’t know how long I lie there, my cheek against his spine, but it’s long enough for my tears to darken his soft gray T-shirt.

“Are you crying on me, Fairy?”

His gravelly words throw my heart into my stomach. It takes me several tries to find my voice. “You haven’t called me that in years.”

When I was five, a kid in my class called me a freak because of my heterochromia. I developed an immediate and overwhelming insecurity about my eyes. I begged my parents to buy me an eyepatch and when they wouldn’t, I made one myself by gluing yarn to a piece of cardboard I’d cut from a cereal box. Then I refused to take it off my gray eye, even hiding it at night so they wouldn’t find it and throw it away.

My mom told Rose what was going on, and Wilder overheard the phone call. When our families gathered that weekend, he pulled me aside. With all the solemn authority in his seven-year-old self, he told me that my pale gray iris didn’t make me a freak. It made me a descendant of powerful fairies and meant I could see beyond the veil of the physical world to realities invisible to everyone else. Then he pulled off my homemade eyepatch and threw it away. I didn’t make another one, and I never felt self-conscious about my eyes again. He called me Fairy until I was ten and told him to stop.

Wilder shifts on the bed, rolling over until we face each other. Three electrified inches separate us. Afraid to see his eyes, I stare at the base of his throat where his pulse flutters close to his skin.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. “Me too. I don’t…” I swallow back the urge to sob. “I don’t want to lose you. I love making music with you—I do—but I can’t ignore what I’m feeling anymore. I’m not happy.”

“I know.” His tone is low and agonized. “I’ve been such a dick to you. Getting away from me is the right choice.”

“Why?” My voice aches like my heart. “Why do you say the things you do? Why can’t you stop?”

My eyes fly open at a touch on my jaw. He stares at his fingers like he isn’t sure they belong to him, but he doesn’t move them. Long, dark lashes flicker as his gaze lifts to mine.

The world around us blurs; we’re static figures in a shaken snow globe.

“I wish…” His throat bobs. “I wish I wasn’t so afraid.”

My brows draw together. “Of what?”

His thumb coasts across my cheek. Blood races to the gentle pressure as if my very essence wants to catch and trap his touch.

“Everything,” he whispers. “But mostly you.”

My whole body turns hot and prickly. “What? Why?”

The barest of smiles curves his lips. “Silly Fairy who sees so much and so little at the same time.”

His lips press to my forehead. Silky soft, dry, and warm. I freeze in shock, tingles radiating from the illicit contact and spreading down my limbs. My stomach swoops as his fingertips slide over my jaw. His hand forms a hot band around the side of my throat.

“I can’t be what you want me to be,” he murmurs as he draws away, “but not for the reason you think. Look at me, Fairy.”

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