Picturesque

Chapter 23: The Sun

After the movie, Jo's friends wanted to go out clubbing with Johnny. To my surprise, Jo turned them down with a simple, "No thanks." They looked shocked at first, mostly hurt, but I think they recovered when they remembered that Jo was moody and didn't mean any offense. The only issue is that she wasn't necessarily upset or angry—she was quiet.

After we dropped the other three off and were driving back to her house, she barely said a word. She was chewing on her inner cheek, her hand on the wheel eerily still. Usually it was tapping or bouncing, but everything about her was still except for the habit of chewing her inner cheek.

I tried to spark up conversation, feeling ill and uncomfortable at the way she was being so quiet. Had I upset her by touching her hand? Was she thinking the worst of me now? Was she going to leave again?

"The movie wasn't too great," I said quietly, hoping she heard me through the wind of her convertible. It wasn't as much wind as usual—she was driving slowly.

"Why?" she mumbled, not even looking at me or bothering to change her strange expression.

I shrugged even though she didn't see me, and I didn't say anything else, and neither did she. She drove us slowly home, under the moon and stars watching us, until we pulled into the garage. She didn't jump out of the car like usual—she opened the door and carefully stepped out. It made me want to jump out of the car and break my leg on the concrete.

I half-expected her to take off, but she followed me inside the house, and she even followed me up the stairs. I walked into my room without saying goodnight, expecting her to be in a mood and just go straight to her own room. When I tried to close my door behind me, she caught it with her hand.

I turned to her, seeing that strange look on her face. She was looking at me like I was a puzzle, like she was trying to work me out and put me together.

"What?" I mouthed, but my voice didn't even come out.

Her hand flat on the door, she slowly stepped inside my room, her palm sliding along the wooden panel before it reached the doorknob, gently closing the door behind her. I stepped away—I felt afraid. I feel like I had a good idea of who Jo was at that point, or at least as much of an idea as anyone could have of her; but her moods were unpredictable, and I was alone in the room with her.

I wanted to say something—I thought about talking about the movie again, but I didn't bother. Slowly, she stalked towards me. Her eyes stayed trained on my face, looking all over it. It made me feel self-conscious. Jo never looked that hard at anything. She never took double glances. She never left her eyes on one thing for too long. I knew—I'd stared at her long enough myself to know.

Usually, when I was under Jo's gaze, I felt like I was the only thing in the world—like she was the only ray of sun that struck the earth and just so happened to strike me. In that moment, it was the opposite. I felt painfully aware of the entire room around me, of my jeans that scratched as I stepped backward, of the floor under my sandals, the bed near me, the desk beside me, the way the top buttons of her blouse were open, the way her sunglasses were still pushed on top of her head, the way her boots crinkled as she stepped towards me. It felt like there was too much light all at once—like Jo had embodied the sun and was too bright to be contained in that one room, and I was just another object melting under her heat.

"Why'd you hold my hand?" she asked calmly, evenly, her voice not near one tone or another.

"I didn't," I immediately replied, my heart racing at the start of the conversation. "I stopped it from tapping. It was annoying me."

"But you didn't pull away when I held yours," she countered with speed, continuing to come close to me.

"So?" I said out of desperation, my face starting to turn hot. "You didn't pull away either."