Page 12 of Colossal
A superhero the likes of which I’ve never drawn. Until now.
I’m sitting in a coffee shop a couple blocks from the arena, pencil in hand, sketching madly in my unlined pad. As soon as the game ended, I ran out the side door, needing to get everything I saw on paper. Eric standingat leastseven feet tall in his hockey skates. His knack for tossing aside his opponents to reach the puck, his strength effortless and godlike. The way he came to my rescue with enough vigor to empty the bleachers.
Superhero shit. Plain and simple.
I can barely sit still in my seat, my pencil creating panel after panel of scenes, complete with my perceived inner dialogue for Eric. Grunts and grrrs. I probably should be sneaking back into my bedroom window right now, but I can’t stop sketching. My lateness could really come back to bite me, too, because Jessie and Suzie are also out tonight. I saw them at the hockey game, albeit in a different section.
That being said, my stepmother makes me abide by a very different set of rules than my stepsisters. They’re allowed to come and go as they please to school functions and church, as long as their homework is completed. I’ve been instructed to stay in my attic room and keep my influence away from Jessie and Suzie. Ever since my stepmother unearthed my illustrations and saw the risqué contents, I have been unredeemable in her eyes. Sure, I don’t help my cause by refusing to stop putting my imagination on paper, but then again, my father doesn’t help my cause, either.
He allows his new wife to run everything.
Leaving me out in the cold.
But I’m not out in the cold right now. I’m getting warmer, actually, because I’ve arrived at the part of the illustration series where Colossal, also known as Eric, meets with his romantic interest after the game, and—
My phone vibrates on the table, making my yip, the end of my pencil snapping.
“Oh no,” I murmur, setting down the implement. I say a prayer that my stepmother or father aren’t texting me, before looking at the screen.
My prayers are answered, because it’s not one of them.
It’s Eric.
My thighs immediately squeak together on the seat.
Eric: Hey, Fairy Tale. Did you…leave?
Marlow: Well yes. The game was over, right?
E: I was hoping I’d see you afterward.
M: Oh!
E: But I understand if you just wanted to get home. Is that where you are? I would have driven you.
M: I’m at the coffee shop down the street, actually. Lola’s.
E: I’ll be there in thirty seconds.
I set down the phone with forty million butterflies in my tummy. I have this crazy urge to watch Eric walk down the street and I don’t deny myself, hopping up from the table and running out the front door of Lola’s, the sky lit up with stars and moonlight. And there’s Eric in a hoodie, hands hidden in the pockets of his sweatpants. His feet are shoved into a pair of black slides that I could probably use to go sledding.
Obeying the urge that prods me, I hit the sidewalk in a jog and I run to him.
His head lifts when I get closer, relief spreading across his features over whatever he sees on my face, his arms opening to snatch me up off the ground with zero effort. I wrap my thighs around his waist and nuzzle my face in his neck, loving how easily he holds me there, so I can just let my feet dangle.
“Damn, Marlow.” His arms close around me tight. “I thought I’d scared you off.”
I lift my head, giving him an inquisitive look. “Why?”
“I broke the glass, yelled at that fucker who was bothering you.” He shakes his head. “Everyone ran, like I was Godzilla about to stomp out the whole town.”
“I didn’t run,” I whisper, kissing his chin. “Sometimes the hero needs to step in and remind everyone they’re being held to a higher standard. The oneyouset. That’s all you were doing.” I scrub my knuckles against his stubble. “And letting everyone know I’m yours. I like that part most of all.”
“Same. But I still can’t believe it’s true.” He runs his hands up the outsides of my thighs, twisting his fists in the sides of my skirt, tugging my lower body closer. “Aw, baby. You looked like a sweet little cupcake sitting there in the bleachers.”
“I am sweet,” I breathe, laying my mouth on top of his. “Wanna see?”
“Yes,” he says, already hoarse.
