Lighthouse Lullaby | ✓

Part 8 | Wednesday, 23rd September

"Parker alert," I mutter to Evy Thomas. "Twelve-O'clock."

Usually, at the mention of Parker Lee, Evy exhibits the same level of excitement as K-Stew when Mom announces dinner. Today, however, she barely raises her eyes to the approaching potential candidate for the 'perfect asexual partner'.

Parker is attractive in a strange, old-timey kind of way. He has a posh British accent that makes you feel like you're in a black-and-white movie. And that is exactly what happens when he walks up to Evy and me.

(Special effects: convert conversation to exaggerated old-timey format.)

"Greetings, m'ladies," says he with his coquettish baritone that has swayed many a woman. "How art thou?"

I wish to make a cutting rejoinder, but my heart does not permit me to do any more than to offer Parker a mere simper.

"I must confess," begins Evy, who is not as troubled by his beauty as her compeer. "I am not myself."

"What, pray tell, causes you this distress?" inquires he.

The affrighting toll of a bell interrupts Evy as she begins to enounce her words.

"Ah, I must take your leave," says he. "The time for my arithmetic lesson has come."

Evy's eyes remain despondent while I gaze upon Parker Lee's sightly physique as he betakes himself.

(End special effects.)

"Fucking hell, Parker could totally be on a TV show," I murmur as we walk towards our class.

"He could do a cameo as a duke or something," Evy suggests, but her usual cheeriness is lacking.

"He could do a cameo in my bedroom as a duke," I wink.

Instead of laughing at my comment as expected, Evy rubs her temples with the hand that isn't laden with books.

"Sorry," she sighs. "This week has been a nightmare."

I'm about to ask her if she's okay, but she adds, "I could use a friend right now. I feel awful."

Hold the fuck up. Why did Evy say 'friend' and look at me?

We're just acquaintances. We don't get emotionally attached. We don't involve ourselves too much in each other's lives. That's the way I want things to be. That's all I can handle.

So, instead of saying anything supportive or kind, I just say, "Ugh, me too. I might need electroshock therapy to get Lady Gaga out of my head every morning."

Much like Dylan's look of hope from last night, I can't seem to ignore the hurt that crosses Evy's face.

***

All along the twenty-minute jog to the lighthouse, I pray to the tooth fairy, God and Beyoncé that Dylan shouldn't be at the lighthouse. But when I find him sitting in his usual spot, a strange wave of relief and excitement washes over me.

(It's probably the shit ton of biology homework I did today that's making me crazy.)

I can't help but stare at Dylan as I sit next to him. His short hair is a royal mess, and his stormy eyes are darker than usual. His hands grip the railing so tightly that his knuckles turn white as snow.

"Rough day, Frost?"

"Something like that, yeah."

He removes his hands from the railing and pulls the splitter out of his denim pocket.

"Listen with me," he begs, pinning my gaze with his.

I clench my fists and shake my head in answer.

"Please," he mutters, blinking as strands of his hair fall over his eyes. "It was . . . It felt like nothing had changed yesterday. I want to . . . I just want to . . ."

He goes on an incoherent ramble, as though he's forgotten the language. But I'm not laughing because his voice is thick with hurt and desperation.

"Just play the song," I sigh, my voice shaking as Dylan hands me a pair of earphones.

A chill runs down my spine as the music trickles into my ears. This song, much like the one from yesterday, is unfamiliar. But the words catch on immediately, and I can't stop myself from wondering, who am I?

Over the past several months, I've forced myself to change. Now, I'm nothing like the person I used to be. But I do not want to think about that. Not now, not ever.

I steel myself and rest my palms on the floor behind me, my shoulders lifting up. With narrowed eyes, I scan the frothy waves through the gaps in the metal railing. Strong, high tides crash onto the shore. Soft moonlight bounces off of the waves in a hypnotic pattern.

I turn when Dylan's index finger overlaps with mine in a whisper of a touch. His hands are also resting on the floor behind his back. But his eyes are raised to the stars, splashed across the night sky like diamonds on velvet.

It shocks me how good this feels despite everything. Fear is building in the pit of my stomach when I realise I'm starting to crave this again. The music, the lyrics, the touch . . .

The boy.