Walking With The Outcast

Chapter 13 - Lucilia

Waking up Thursday morning was tremendously easy, solely because my subconscious concern for Ace caused me to shoot straight to awareness and jump out of bed. I had gotten ready at lightning pace, almost forgetting breakfast in the process, and ran right out the door, which I forgot to lock.

Now my concern for Ace has tripled because I am standing at the crossroads, and he is not anywhere in sight. Normally, he waits for me, not the other way around. I can't help but worry that he's still in jail. However, I don't think his father would let him skip school, but what do I know? Ace could be kept there all day as punishment.

I sit on the ground, anxiously glancing at my phone and checking the time every few seconds. My gaze frantically switches between the road and device.

Ace is late. He's never late. Something's wrong. What if he got mugged or something?

I immediately expel that thought. Ace? Losing a fight? Highly unlikely.

I skim my hand over the asphalt, sharp pebbles grating against my skin, while my other hand rubs my thigh, transferring the sweat my jeans. Then I gaze down the road, eyes squinting in the vain hope that I'll see Ace coming.

My compulsive back-and-forth checking occurs for five more minutes, before I realize that I need to get moving. I'm already late as it is. Just as I start to push myself into a standing position, a lone figure comes into view.

The form is far away, but I know it's Ace. His confident gait is recognizable, but there is something slightly off about it. It's slow and looks almost like he is forcing himself to continue. As he comes closer, I notice that his back, though upright, appears unnaturally rigid.

Swinging my bag over my shoulder, I jog to meet Ace halfway. He somehow straightens even more and smiles at me once he reaches where I'm standing.

I run my eyes over him from top-to-bottom, searching for the cause of his obvious discomfort. Gasping, I catch sight of his face. It's bruised horribly, worse than yesterday. Purple and black, it must have darkened throughout the night.

Ace's grin drops, and he hands me the notebook after scribbling for a second.

"It looks worse than it feels," the note says.

I reach up and lightly trail my fingertips over the darkest bruise, the one on his cheekbone. "Oh, Ace," my voice cracks on his name.

He cups my hand, rubbing his fingers over the back of it in a soothing motion. Then he releases it in favor of writing again. "I'm fine, Lucilia. And plus, I think it gives me that rugged fighter look, don't you think?" My cheeks flush a light pink, and when I look up, Ace winks with a satisfied smile.

I shake my head softly and grip his hand, scooting myself under his left shoulder and wrapping an arm around his waist. "It's to...um... help you walk," I explain at his raised eyebrow. Lies. Lies. Lies. You just want to be close to him.

A humming noise emits from his throat, but all he does is look ahead and pull me closer. Warmth radiates from Ace, and his muscular form helps block the autumn wind. I sidle a little closer, pretending to need to adjust my grip on his waist.

He glances down at me and looks away after a moment, but then his eyes, wide-eyed, dart to me as if he realized something. After analyzing me, Ace starts to chuckle, which morphs into full-blown laughter, deep and melodious. I stare, confused.

He releases me to write in his notebook, chuckling all the way. Once it is in my hand, I read the note. "Missed me so badly you forgot how to dress correctly?"

Nonplussed, I glance down at my clothes and back to Ace, trying to determine what he meant. He stares pointedly at my clothing, or more specifically, my shirt. My inside-out shirt. My jaw drops at my own stupidity, and color seeps onto my cheeks.