Little Redhead (#OnceUponNow)

waxing crescent

"Once upon a time, I danced with the devil among the trees. And with his claws at my throat, he told me I was beautiful."

– Charlotte's Journal

April 16, 2017

~*~

When you think you're in love, it feels like nothing can stop you.

You think the whole universe is working in your favor, and if anything bad should happen, it "really isn't all that bad" because you still feel on top of the world. You always have these stupid butterflies in your stomach and chest, and your blood burns in a good way. You wake up and spring out of bed more easily in the morning. You greet your mother cheerfully in the kitchen as she pours the coffee. You smile at strangers in the street.

You do all this, and it's disgusting.

I'm guilty of it, too. Lovesick fool. That's where my story begins.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Really, my story begins in Central Park, on a sunny Saturday afternoon during the final week of August.

New York City is boiling hot in the summer, so I'm wearing cut-offs and a thin blue tank top. I've walked six blocks to the park only to escape the hot-box heat of my Mom's apartment. Mom doesn't know how awful it gets during mid-day, because she's always at work, in the cool backroom of the Italian deli, slicing expensive cutlets of prosciutto.

Anyway. I've hidden myself beneath the shade of a looming oak tree, splayed out on a rickety old bench. I've propped a book against my bare thighs, my elbows tucked in close to hold down the pages against any rare gust of wind.

Here, even beneath the tree's vast covering of shade, it's still too hot. I tentatively balance the book's binding against my hipbone and thighs as I reach up, peeling my hair away to let the skin of my neck breathe.

My forearms haven't begun to ache just yet, so I keep my hair balled up beneath my hands for the time being. I glance around at the surrounding area of the park, since I've reached the end of the open page and don't want to let go of my hair yet to turn to the next. There's a woman in her late fifties speed-walking along the pathway towards my direction, her weighted fanny pack shifting and arms pumping excessively with each step. Across the open stretch of overgrown lawn to my left, a mother speaks into the cellphone cradled against her shoulder and ear as she pushes the stroller, her baby's chubby arm – the only part I can see over the back of my bench – waving an empty juice bottle out the side.

I guess this is what I like about New York: the people-watching. I watch through narrowed eyes as she ignores her baby's gurgling demand for more juice.

"Wow. You just gave her the nastiest death glare."

The voice emerges just behind my left ear, and I jump so badly that the book tumbles from my thighs to the cement path below. I am flustered as I jackknife upwards, my makeshift bun completely forgotten. I twist to look behind me, as though I'm afraid whoever it was is going to grab me.

The low voice belongs to a teenage boy, with hair the color of ink – so dark, it's nearly a silvery blue. His eyes appear black under the oak tree's shade. He's grinning at me, with hands dug into the pockets of his shorts. When all I do is gape at him, he nods to the mom with her stroller, chattering into her cellphone at light speed across the park's lawn. "I saw that glare. Don't like people talking on their phones, do you?"

I hold my grip on the bench's arm to keep myself facing this boy behind me, just long enough to reply shortly, "I don't know what you're talking about. I was just looking."

Letting go of the arm, I swing my legs off the bench and touch the path below with the toes of my sneakers. The book's pages have crumpled beneath the weight of its hardcover against the concrete, and I gingerly pick it up with both hands.

"So does this mean you were stalking?"

I peer up at him, huffing upwards so a stray curl floats out of my eyes. His dark gaze is fixated on me, but he's still smiling lazily, so I don't feel afraid. "Sorry if I blew your cover."

Focusing my attention back on the damaged book against my knees, I grumble a few choice words under my breath. I enjoy people-watching, not people-talking. Especially not with strangers. Or nosy, dark-haired boys.

"What'd you say?" he asks, grinning as he leans closer and turns one ear towards me. "I didn't catch that."

He's actually teasing me. I begin to smooth the wrinkled book pages with the heel of my hand to distract myself. I tell him coolly, "Nothing. And I wasn't stalking anyone. You're the one coming up to strangers and acting like you're best friends."

The boy snorts. "If I wanted to stalk you, I'd be hiding in those bushes over there. That's Stalking 101."

I can't help it. I barely hide a smile behind the back of my hand, pretending to sniff and scratch the tip of my nose. He can't know he finally got me to laugh.

Apparently, the boy takes the tiny laugh I let slip as an invitation to sit. He smugly steps to my left and plants himself on the bench beside me.

"Did I say you could sit down?" I ask hotly. Despite myself, the jabbing question didn't come out as harshly as I intended. I want to get him to leave me alone, not boost his confidence. What is wrong with me?

"You didn't have to," he replies slyly.

I press the hardcover shut, in the hope that its weight will flatten out the crumpled pages. I tuck the book under my arm and tell him nastily, "I don't even know you."

The boy seems to take this as a challenge, and he automatically slides a few inches closer on the bench. He reaches out his hand and takes mine in his own, dramatically lifting it to press his lips against the back of my fingers. The action stuns me, so formal and teasingly cordial, that my hand is limp beneath the gentle kiss.

He looks up at me, over my knuckles, dark eyes glinting and right eyebrow raised. A warm grin pulls up the right corner of his lips. "Zev Fenris. Pleasure to meet you."

I am sure my skin has become flushed, now, because his fingers are cool against mine even in this summer heat. I didn't expect him to touch me so...gently.

"And you? My lady." He's still holding my hand between us, and that smirking grin is still imprinted against his lips. I know he's doing this to make me laugh again, but he's only succeeding in making my heart race and my cheeks burn. "What do I call you?"

"Charlotte," I tell him, my tone much softer than it was just seconds earlier. "Charlotte Braith."

For a moment, this boy continues to hold his grip on my hand, skin cool as river water.

He's only a stranger, I scold myself. I don't know anything about him.

I know the stupid butterflies in my chest and stomach have arrived too soon, yet the feeling is there all the same, already fluttering and burning beneath my skin.