Candy Colored Sky, стр. 39
“You get that look sometimes,” she says. My brow grows heavy at that thought, which in a way proves her right, I suppose.
“Do I?” I still keep my face forward, especially now that it’s stoic and pensive.
A gentle laugh calls up from my lap. Damn her, I want to look. I spare a short glance and force a smile.
“Not all the time,” she says. I look up before I get trapped. “But sometimes, when you’re in intense thought. And when you’re quiet.”
I pull in one side of my mouth, a little disappointed in myself because I am serious. I don’t mean to be. It’s a default because most of the time I don’t know how to act. I’m more uncomfortable in my surroundings than I am serious, I think. But to everyone else, I suppose I look a lot like my dad did most of the time. Detached.
“You also look like he does in that photo a lot of the time. Happy?” I can’t tell whether she’s trying to ease my bruised ego or if she’s being sincere. I look down at her again because sometimes people need to see eyes to understand true meaning. Hers show something very honest, and incredibly gentle.
“You haven’t seen me that much.” I wasn’t expecting to say that, but those are the words that come out. I’ve thought them often over the last few days that Eleanor and I have grown closer. I’m her solace, and I’m okay with that, but she and I weren’t much of anything before she wandered into my garage.
“I see you now.” She smiles up at me and I reflect her expression as best I can, nodding.
“That you do,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper.
I get stuck on her image just like I feared I would. Small hairs tickle her face as the breeze picks them up. Her cheeks are peppered with dust from heaven, and her skin is soft like cotton sheets. I find myself moving my focus from her eyes to her lips, over and over again, noting details I’ve never been granted access to before. Her front teeth scrape against her bottom lip naturally, and a tiny mole or birthmark dots the space just above her lip on one side—a beauty mark like famous women before her; like Marilyn Monroe.
“Have you ever had a girlfriend, Jonah?”
I’m frozen on her nose as she asks this question, and I’m glad I’m not looking her directly in the eyes when she does. My eyes widen. I know it’s obvious; my eyes stretch enough that I feel it at my hairline.
“I guess, maybe one or two. Really more like dates gone bad. I never really clicked with someone, I guess.” My voice cracks during my response. Of course it does. I squint and spare myself meeting her eyes.
“I’ve had a few . . . boyfriends,” she says through quiet laughter. She rolls a little on her side, looking out toward the street and the dimming sky. Somehow her position feels more intimate like this, her cheek resting on my thigh, hands nestled under her chin. I’m struck by it, and without thinking I reach forward to catch the stray hairs blowing across her face. It’s a tender touch that sweeps them behind her ear, my fingertips grazing her cheek with a feather light brush. Unfazed, her eyes drift shut then open on me with a slight shift of her head.
“You aren’t missing much. For me, at least, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Being with someone.” There’s an emptiness to her words and a depth to her eyes as her stare lingers for a few extra seconds. I’m wounded by what she says, and I can’t help but feel shot down before ever getting in the air.
Also, she’s never picked anyone worthy of her time or attention. I’ve watched her dates pull up at the curb and they’re douchebags, every single one of them.
“I could see that, I guess,” I mutter. I’m thinking out loud.
“Hmm?” She sits up, stretching her arms up over her head and bringing her legs in to hug her knees.
“Your comment, about it not being all it’s cracked up to be. I can understand why you’d say that, based on . . . your history.” By the end, I’m slurring, desperate for a way to erase my words from existence. They just keep coming, despite the nonverbal cues I’m getting—falling eyelids, dipping chin, slumping shoulders. I let some of the bitterness into my head and I’m not getting any of this right. I can see in her eyes that I’m not. She’s instantly guarded.
“I’m not making sense. Just ignore me,” I say, still earning a scowl. I swallow the dry knot of regret choking me and push on.
“Hey, I almost forgot. I got you that invite to the poker game, for Thursday. My grandpa says he isn’t spotting you any cash, though, so if you need, I can give you some of mine. I have forty bucks, and—”
“Explain what you mean by history.” She’s pulled her feet in closer to her body and is hugging her legs tighter. I can’t help but think it’s a move to somehow inch herself a little farther away from me.
I roll my neck and blow out a heavy breath before letting my face fall into my hands. Rubbing my eyes, I groan. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”
“Oh, you meant it in a good way? I mean, it’s my history after all. Go on.” She holds out a palm, sweeping the air between us. She’s clearly overreacting, and I know it’s because she’s exhausted and heartbroken, but she keeps pushing. I’m bound to make this worse.
“It’s just . .