ship to wreck | s.k. (ongoing)

ii

sam and i had been walking my neighborhood for about an hour, making small talk and getting to know each other, when we came to a small park. in the park was a swing set along with a merry-go-round and a old wooden play set, complete with a slide and short rock-climbing wall. sam made his way over to the swings and took a seat, pushing his feet off the ground to get him moving.

i took the swing next to him and let it rock back and forth under my weight, "so, you started touring in twenty-seventeen. you would have been—"

"barely eighteen," sam chuckled. i shook my head, the thought of being a touring artist at so young sounding crazy. even my dad didn't find success until he was in his late twenties.

"that's impressive," i commented.

sam shrugged, "i guess so. not as impressive as your dad's career though."

i rolled my eyes at the comparison, "at your age, my dad couldn't even access a studio to record in."

the boy next to me grinned, "i would love to get your dad in a studio for a session. he's, like, the god of jazz piano."

i laughed, the sentiment feeling hyperbolic. my dad was a great pianist, don't get me wrong, but the god of piano was a comical thought. then again, that could just be my biased opinion since the great marc whitlow is my father.

"he'd probably love that," i nodded, "my dad loves collaborating, especially with young talent."

sam's grin somehow grew wider as he kicked his legs in front of him, his heels bringing his swing to a jolting stop, "do you play at all?"

"piano?"

sam let his long arms dangle in his lap, "anything."

"i play a little piano, my dad tried to teach me when i was young but i gave up pretty quick," i laughed, holding my hands out so my palms faced the sky. "hands were too small."

sam reached out a pressed the heel of his palm against mine and watched as his long, slender fingers extended far past my own, "huh, you do have small hands."

i laughed examining the differences between the size of our hands, "told you so."

before i could separate the palms of our hands, sam's fingers moved to intertwine with my own. the warmth of his hand enveloping mine made my cheeks turn pink which made me glad we were sitting out in the middle of a dark park. attempting to distract myself from the butterfly sanctuary in my stomach, i decided to answer his question properly, "i do play the fiddle."

sam peered at my through the dim moonlight, "interesting choice."

i shrugged, "my mom played, so she taught me too."

sam nodded, the soft smile on his face indicating he understood the significance of my preferred instrument, "fiddle is cool."

we sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, observing our dark surroundings. our hands were still linked and hanging between our seats. i tried not to think too hard about his fingers brushing against my skin as the pad of his thumb rubbed small circles.

"it's getting late. want me to take you home?" sam asked, looking up at the sky. it was still hours before morning light, but it had to be about two in the morning.

"sure," i said, lifting my self from the swing. his hand released mine as he stood from his swing and a part of me missed it's warmth in a matter of seconds. the absence was only missed briefly though as he took a hold of my hand once he was up from his spot, his fingers weaving through mine once more.

the walk back to my backyard was about ten minutes, but my mind was telling me that for some reason it wasn't long enough. when we reached my window, sam pulled me to a stop and leaned against the siding of the house just adjacent to the frame he'd climbed through just a few hours ago.