The Meaning of Charlie Armanio

XVI

JAMES MAKES MY HEART flutter like that. Just like that. He doesn't need words, or pick-up lines or any of those sort of things, but he just needs to look at me, like the way he's doing now and my heart would do what it needs to do.

His eyes are sparkling in the hot sun, which may be the only good thing this weather may be doing. His brown hair is swept up in a ponytail and his arms are folded in front of him.

"James," I say again, standing a bit straighter and sparing a quick glance at my dad – he's smiling, by the way – and then back at him, "hi, what are you doing here?"

"It's the town's market," he says with an awkward laugh as he scratches the top of his right eyebrow.

"Right."

I look around the market so I don't look back at him, because I know he's still looking at me. I do this again. And again. Then, I cough and do it again.

Somehow, we end up walking through the market alone.

"You don't look like a market goer," I blurt out as we pass the Pizza Shop, "it's a weird thing to say, I know," I continue when he gives me a funny look.

"Yeah, it is," he laughs, "listen, about last time."

I stop him with my own funny look and sigh, "James, no offense, all I want to do is forget about it."

He's silent for a second too long before, "I totally understand."

His eyes seem to catch the light again, and something extraordinary seems to happen right before my eyes. It's like everything changes when he blinks and opens his eyes. The emotion in them shifts from uncomfortable to confident and I'll blame this on the sunlight, because nothing else would make sense.

"Actually, no. I don't totally understand."

"What don't you get?" I ask. The wind picks up vigour, pushing my hair in front of my face, and with a quick hand, I brush them behind my ear and look back at James. "I don't want to talk about it; I'm trying to forget it. It's a time I'm not proud of."

At his confused expression, "Please," I start, "I really don't want to talk about that day."

Why in the world would anyone want to remember the day they were at their weakest? A day when they felt the closest to death. A day when they weren't able to tell reality from memory?

I place my hand softly against the sides of my neck, and I remember his hands there, fingers curling against my neck, fingers pressing down slowly and knowingly – then quickly and harsh, and I remember the smile on his face -

"You've lost me, Chloe."

His voice jolts me into the present.

If all he wants is to remind me about that day, then he's crueller than the rest of them. But who am I to label him as cruel, when he doesn't know the effect that day had on me. He doesn't know what he's doing to me when he reminds me of that day.

"That day, the day in the hallway, I don't want to remember it, like at all," I seethe, "so please don't make me. Please."

He remembers.

"That's not what I'm talking about."

I breathe out in relief. As long as it's not that day, then everything is fine. I'd talk about anything at all with him except that day.