Painting The BadBoy ✔

08 | The Poem

I took the shorter route home, the one through the park. Clouds were beginning to form on the sky, brilliant wisps of pure white reflecting the golden light of the sun.

I passed a couple of joggers, the trail getting narrower before it got wider again. On either sides stood tall trees getting ready to shed their leaves soon. With my feet pounding beneath me, and the open sky above, it didn't feel like in three weeks' time, it would be fourteen years without Genevieve.

Maybe that's why I had come to the park in the first place. Dad had told me how he used to bring me and Genevieve here when we were three. Evie was a lively girl, full of spirit. She also had Mom's blonde hair and Dad's green eyes.

She was beautiful.

Until a couple of years ago, I had strained to try and remember every little detail of the time we had spent together.

Sometimes, I would remember her laugh- although I didn't know whether it was my imagination- but the numerous videos and pictures that were now sealed in mom's bottom drawer did have an effect on me, just not the type my dad hoped.

He did miss Evie, but not as much as mom. To mom, she was the perfect daughter. Maybe that's why she never got over her death.

Genevieve was also one of the reasons that I hated Eli at first. I was jealous of him, of his special bond with Jessica.

I sighed. I knew I wasn't even close to perfect, but at least I was trying. Even Cayden. Why couldn't Mom see that?

As the trail got wider, so did the amount of people. It would be autumn soon, and I couldn't wait. Our little group had this ritual of playing in the fallen leaves ever since we were children.

Soon, the trees gave way to open ground, which was utilized to make a playground for the little kids. Beyond that, was the maze and a little cafeteria further away.

And that's when I noticed a very familiar person in a very familiar jacket, leaning against an unlit streetlamp.

Good, he didn't notice me yet.

I creeped up behind him, getting a whiff of his scent. It wasn't very strong, but smelled good. Like really good.

"Still smoking, I see." I said. The cigarette dropped from his hand and a hand instantly went over to his heart.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, turning around to see that it was just me. His eyes were a lighter grey today, and I almost forgot how to breathe for a minute. "You almost gave me a heart attack. "

A smug smile creeped up on my face. "Glad to see I'm not the only jumpy one around here."

I leaned next to him on the pole, crossing my arms. "So what brings you out here? Not selling drugs to little kids, I hope."

"Nope, but hey I've got plenty if you want in on the action." He said, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement. I gasped, slapping his arm.

"Fancy a walk?" he asked.

I shrugged. "As long as you don't kill me out there, let's go."

He stopped and looked at me like I was crazy. "Why do all your conclusions result in me murdering you?"

I bit my lip, looking away. "No offense or anything, but the first time we met each other, you were more than intimidating. And all the chains and smoke kind of put me off."

When we started walking, I made sure there was comfortable space in between us. But damn, those biceps. I wonder if he would find it weird if I just reached out and touched them. "Speaking of," I said, clearing my mind. "Were the chains a one-time thing?"

'Something like that, yeah." Good. Right now, with no cigarette in his mouth, no chains dangling from his jeans and his hair flopping over his forehead, Dani looked really cute.

"Your last name," I wondered. "It's not very Spanish." Hey I shouldn't have been so quick to judge. My only experience with Spanish, minus the class, had been watching Fernando Sucre on Prison Break and listening to some Enrique Iglesias song Claire had sent me a long time ago.

He chuckled, a low sound that made butterflies appear in my stomach. "My mom happens to be from around here."

Oh, that made sense.

"That's why you're here?"

He nodded. "After eighteen years of living in Spain, Mom began to miss home."

"What about you?" I asked. It was beginning to get hard to keep up with his long strides. "Don't you miss, uh..."

"Madrid? I guess." He slowed down for me to catch up. Instead, I stumbled and tripped, and then heard his soft chuckle. Jerk. "What about you, Valencia? You have a really fancy name, you know?"

I would have laughed if he hadn't pissed me off by laughing a nano-second ago. "When I was younger, I hated my name." Ah, the days when I would beg my parents to change my name to something more common, like Lilly, or Sarah or even Cookie. I especially loved Cookie.

"What made you finally like it?"

"My dad. He told me Valencia was where he met my mom." When I looked at him, I realised he wasn't even paying attention.

Well then. "I'm probably boring you to death."

He snickered. "Like you don't do enough of that already." Alrighty then. I pressed my lips together firmly. What did he want? For me to do a cartwheel for him? And he hadn't exactly been making conversation either.

I hadn't noticed when the trees had disappeared altogether and we were walking on the pavement besides the street now, just a few minutes from my house.

"Have you read Emily Bronte's, 'The Night Is Darkening Around Me?'" He said randomly. I knew it was a poem. I think I had read it before, but didn't really remember.

"I might have. What about it?"

He looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it and kept his mouth closed. Then, he said, "Nothing. You should read it, it's nice."

By the time we reached the front of my house, the wind had picked up again, and I found it annoying to kept lifting my hand to keep the hair away from my face.

"Do you wanna come in?" I asked. Might as well try and be polite for the heck of it.

But he shook his head, his gaze dropping to the ground and then returning to me. How could anyone have such beautiful eyes? I made a mental note to ask him whether he wore contacts the next time I saw him. "I better go."

"Okay." He turned around, and with one final look, he walked away.

I sighed, fumbling with the keys in my pocket and opening the door.

That night, I did google Emily Bronte's poem. Going through the first stanza, I realized it was beautiful, but so tragic.

Once I was done, I read it again. One part caught my eye.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,

Wasted beyond wastes below;

But nothing drear can move me;

I will not, cannot go.