Page 239 of Ominous: Part 1
The wrestlers with the biggest mouths have the worst finesse.
The quiet ones are the people I watch out for, the ones second-guessing themselves. They’re the type who work the hardest, striving for perfection.
I swirl my key ring over one finger, glancing down at the fob, the key to my house, and the only keychain I own. It’s silver, something my dad bought me from a work trip to D.C.
All For Nothing,with the F scratched out. It was a thoughtless gift, a souvenir to bring his kid because he didn’t want to show up empty handed.
I close my fingers around it, smiling as I shake my head. I set off down the aisle that leads to the fireplace no longer in use, listening as I walk. I don’t really expect her to be here, but practice ran late tonight, and I don’t think she’d be at Fit4Ever, either, which means I’d have to show up, unexpectedly, at her house, and I don’t think that’d go over well for me.
I take a left turn between bookshelves rising almost to the high ceilings, on each side of the walkway. The scent of old paper is stronger the further in I go, and up ahead, to the right, is the narrow aisle where Eden would be if she was here.
But I prepare myself to see nothing at all.
I slowly step to the aisle, my body half-hidden by the enormous oak shelves.
I stop.
My muscles relax, my face stretching as I smile. I couldn’t hide it if I wanted to, but I don’t, because I’m still in shadows, and she doesn’t see me.
Her hair is only half up, no braids today, and dark strands hang in her eyes as she leans closer to her notebook, pen in hand. Her laptop is open, and I see it’s school issued, “Trafalgar” engraved onto the silver casing in the lower, right-hand corner.
I push my hands into my pockets and lean against the bookshelf, one ankle crossed over the other. If she looked up, she would probably spot me. As it is, she’s completely engrossed in whatever she’s scribbling down onto the page, folded over and halfway filled with her inky scrawls.
I consider it could be homework, but the way she leans in, her forehead inches from the paper, her knuckles white as hard as she’s gripping the black pen… I don’t think even Eden would be this enamored with something school related.
She doesn’t even lift the pen once. It’s like cursive, maybe, and I’m too far to read it, but it could be she’s just that excited. Or frenetic. Like she can’t get the words out fast enough.
And I can’t stop watching her.
I become so mesmerized in her fascination that when she finally,finally,gets to the bottom of the page, drops her pen with finality and glances over her work almost as if in dismissal before burying her head in her hands, I breathe out. And on the exhale, I’m not sure I was ever inhaling normally, the entire time she wrote.
I lean my head back against the shelf behind me, marginally relaxing as she does, and I realize my muscles were tense as I watched her. Like I could physicallyfeelher passion. Like I can only let go when she does. We’re more than connected. We’re fucking tangled.
Her hair is between her fingers, the pieces which came free from her clip, and the rest of it is down her back. She’s still in her Trafalgar uniform, a black polo, as usual, buttoned up to her throat. Today, she wore the skirt again, although it’s still very much a rarity.
I couldn’t stop stealing glances at her in Latin this morning, her knees pressed together like she knew I was watching her. My dick gets hard, and I have to adjust it with my hand in my pocket.
I like to think when she puts the skirt on, it’s an exception for me.
I like to think everything she does is an exception for me, but I know there are parts of her darker than most people, and they were alive long before we met.
It’s probably why we fit so perfectly together at the same time we repel one another with stormy emotions and strange jealousies. Magnets, but not always attracted.
I want to go to her, but I like watching too.
I’m not sure how long she stays that way, her head bowed, her work done for now, me against the bookshelf, waiting patiently to approach her.
I have no desire to move. I could stand here all night, looking over as she fell asleep. I want to know why she’s been avoiding me outside of class, but when she’s in view, there’s no urgency to ask anything at all.
Eventually, though, the spell is broken.
She sighs, audibly, and pushes away from the table, her fingertips pressed against the ledge after she drops her hands and looks at her notebook.
I see it, then, the moment she senses someone is here.
Her shoulders tense, her chin lifting slightly even before she looks away from her notepad. Her grip seems to tighten on the ledge of the table, and slowly, she picks her head up.
Her lips part, the smallest of startled gasps escaping her pretty mouth, and I smile at her as I straighten from the shelf, then walk toward her, my hands still in my pockets.
