Page 40 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
The boy smirks, raising a hand and snapping his fingers. The people return, though their faces morph and blur. I can’t get a good look at any of them, but I try.
“Stop,”the boy says, reaching out and grabbing my chin. He gently guides my gaze back to his.“You focus on everyone else too often. Let tonight be for us. You haven’t even told me the color of your dress.”
He takes a long stride to the left, and I follow. My dress billows around my legs as he spins me through the room.
When we finally slow, I ask,“Told you? Can’t you see it?”
The boy looks down at my gown, shaking his head.“My world is black and white, until you paint the picture.”
Confused, I nod. I’ve had him in my mind for years, how could I have not known this?
“It’s silver,”I tell him as our dance finds its rhythm again—his hand steady at the small of my back, mine resting lightly in his.
His eyes trace the gown, lingering longer this time.“It suits you.”
“It isn’t meant to.”
It’s the color of Ilyria—there isn’t a choice as to whether or not I like it.
The boy leans in, his breath warm against my cheek, just enough to unsettle the air between us.“Perhaps that’s the trouble,”he murmurs. “Even that which you never wanted finds a way to belong to you.”
“I could think of many,”I say, my voice quieter now, colored by the ache of memory.
“Don’t offend me, my love.”
“Not you. You know I’m happy to have you.”
The boy smirks, but there is nothing content about his gaze. He stares at me like he’s losing me and wants to see me thoroughly before I go.
Then he speaks again, quietly.
“Are you happy to be here tonight?”
The people around us continue to dance, but there is no noise. No bustle. Just marionettes with porcelain smiles.
“No,”I answer honestly.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t do anything.”
He lifts my hand and spins me, his fingers grazing my palm. The silver of my dress swirls around me. When I’ve finished, he draws me back in, steadying me with both hands. This time, his smile is more earnest, a toothy grin. There’s a light in his eyes again, like I’ve given it back to him.
And without meaning to, I smile back.
“We’re doing something right now,”he murmurs.“Aren’t we?”
“Yes, but—”
He cuts me off with a gentle tug, pulling me closer to him.“But what? Can you not be content in your own mind?”
He leads with long strides, and I follow, willingly. The brush of his thumb against mine, the pressure of his hand at my waist—I feel all of it. And I enjoy it.
I enjoy doing the things that I only ever get to watch—even if it’s in my mind.
Yet, I still shake my head and say,“No, not really.”
“I know that’s not true,”he says.“I’ve held you in my arms, and you have smiled.”
