Page 85 of The Same Backward as Forward
“The person you’re grieving. The one you loved so fiercely.”Fiercely, I suspect, is the only way that she can love. “No one has eyes like yours, Hannah the Same Backward as Forward, unless they’ve lost.”
It takes her a beat longer than usual to reply. “And what will you give me when I win?”
I would give her the world if I could. I would give her the whole damn sky.“When?”I repeat. “I admire your confidence, misplaced though it might be.”
“I’ve solved your last two puzzles, haven’t I?”
She has done far more than that. “What do you want if you win, liar mine?”
I don’t expect her to let me get away with it, calling her mine.
But she does. “I don’t know.”
There are a thousand different ways she could use this wager to push me away—but she hasn’t. Not yet. I know better than to readanythinginto that.
“An unspecified boon?” I make light of the situation. “How very fairy tale of you, Hannah the Same Backward as Forward.”
“Frightened?”
“Terrified,” I murmur. And just like that, we have a deal.
It doesn’t take her long—or that many guesses in our little game of Hangman—to recall that I am a tricky son of a bitch.
“There’s no such thing as a word without vowels.”
I offer her a little shrug that’s meant to be infuriating. “I never promised to spell my word with letters.”
“Then what else would you—Numbers.” If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under. “We’re playing Hangman incode?”
Indeed we are. “As fond as my people are of wagers, I believe we’re also very fond of skewing the game.” I press on the bruise again, just to prove that I can.
As it turns out, I can do anything, as long as Hannah keeps playing my games.
“In my defense,” I tell her, “you have as many guesses as hairs on your head, the stars in the sky, and the number of ways you’ve imagined wiping this smug expression right off my classically handsome face.”
My hands are itching to draw her. There is a reason I have skewed this game as much as I have. Line by line and stroke by stroke, I will show her what I see when I look at her.
I will hold up a mirror so that Hannah the Same Backward as Forward might see herself.
“You’re not that handsome,” she says darkly.
“Did you know,” I ask her, “thatbugiardais Italian forliar?”
Chapter 20
I draw her just as I intended to—stroke by stroke, line by line. The longer the process goes on, the easier it is for me to see the effect that it is has on her. With each glance she steals at my drawing, Hannah sees herself laid out on the page as she truly is. I have drawn the Hannah who could walk through a hurricane without batting an eye. I have drawn the Hannah who saved me.
Line by line by line.
It’s clear enough with each stolen glance that she would very much like me to stop drawing, but some things have to be earned. She hasn’t broken my code yet—or realized that there is a shortcut to the answer.
I know, though, that it is only a matter of time.
Jackson doesn’t say anything to me about the fact that Hannah and I are playing games again, and in return, I cook for him. Not well. But I do it.
“Beans à la Harry,” I declare grandly.
“Smart-ass,” he grumbles.
