Every Little Thing

12

It takes exactly three steps outside of the trolley for me to instantly regret the decision to go to the pier. Reed looks miserable, too, and suddenly the two-people-one-jacket thing isn't exactly functioning and I am shivering violently, my head ducked to somewhat buffer the oncoming bursts of wind.

"Jesus Christ," Reed says, with a slight shake of his head, "This isn't going to work."

"Tell me about it," I say, through clenched teeth. "Maybe we should just—"

I turn, raising my finger in preparation to point at the trolley, but it's already gone. Reed curses under his breath.

"Great," I say, unable to hide the fact that I'm now shaking, my fingers turning pink at the tips. Reed turns to me, eyes wide, and adjusts the coat sleeve so that it's a little more secure on my arm, but it doesn't help.

"I'm okay," I lie, "We just need to get inside or something."

I look out at the blustering ocean, yards away from where we stand, its waves frothy and navy blue against the slate-gray of the sand. Clouds, thick and dark, are beginning to move in, obscuring the sun and making everything—if it's even possible—colder.

Reed points to a small restaurant set up beside the entrance to the pier itself, whitewashed and made of weathered wood. Steam is billowing from a brick chimney, and I practically trip over myself rushing towards it, with him following suit. We reach the entrance and tug at the old, splintered door until it swings open.

I peer inside, and everything's dark. I can see the glint of stoves in the darkness, and past them, seating areas. But it's heated and empty and it will have to do. If someone finds us, we'll just have to apologize.

I look up at Reed, who affirms my thoughts with a nod.

"We'll just wait here until the next trolley."

Without saying anything, I step inside, my hand groping the wall for a light switch. Once I feel the hard plastic protruding from it, I flick it upwards, and a few, yellow-tinted lights flicker on. I breathe a sigh of relief, and Reed closes the door behind us.

Slowly, carefully, we make our way to the main seating area, choosing to sit at a table beside the heating unit, which rumbles with electricity. I hold my hands over it, shrugging the coat from my shoulders and glancing outside the large, dusty window.

"What is this place?" I ask, and Reed sits across from me, releasing a breath.

"Some seafood restaurant. It's been here forever; I'm surprised the electricity's still running."

"Do you think someone's coming back? Will they kick us out?"

"Doubt it," he says, taking off his beanie and running a hand through his tangled mop of hair, "And if they do, we'll just tell them that we were freezing our asses off and that we're leaving as soon as the trolley gets back."

I nod, swallowing as I release a somewhat breathy laugh.

"I can't believe this," I say, and he shakes his head with a smile.

"Me, either. Here I was, thinking that we would make use of Georgina and Hale's former plans, only to find that they actually had common sense."

"We were going to be heroes," I add sarcastically, with a grand flourish of my hand, "Proving the perfect couple wrong by doing exactly what they decided not to do."

"We can just tell them we went to the pier," he says, tapping his chin in mock-thought, "They don't have to know that we actually just sat in an old restaurant for an hour."

"It's going to be an hour?" I ask, incredulous, and he nods.

"I would call somebody, but I forgot my phone."

I check my own, cursing. "No signal."

He leans back, biting his lip. And then, there's silence, save for the still-rumbling heating unit and the wind that blows outside of the window, causing it to crackle a little along the seams, as if on the brink of breaking but not quite.

And in that silence, I'm able to think. To marvel at the fact that, just a week ago, I was daydreaming about Reed Bishop, wishing he would talk to me. And now, he's held my hand. He's called me cute. He's told me about his mom. We've developed a friendship, inside jokes, have talked on the phone.

And, for some strange reason, I'm not freaking out about it. I'm not wondering what I should say, or what he thinks, or all the things I would have done if he never noticed me. I'm not second-guessing, or reevaluating. I'm just living. I'm living, and Reed Bishop is now a part of my life, and that is the strangest thing of them all.

It's as if this was meant to happen. As if the fantasy was always meant to turn into reality. As if it wasn't chance, or accident, but on purpose. He'd sat down next to me in French class that day intentionally, and maybe—just maybe—everything was meant to be, instead of just happening to fall into place.

His voice drags me from my thoughts before I have the chance to ponder them.

"Evelyn."

I look up, meeting his eyes and swallowing.

"Yeah?"

"Hi," he says, with a small wink. I laugh, rolling my eyes.

"Hi." I reply, sticking my tongue out at him, which makes him laugh.

"You're such a child."

"Me?" I demand, shaking my head, "Might have to look in a mirror, Bishop."

His brows rise as he scoffs. "Ooh, nice comeback. What, are you back in kindergarten?"

I laugh, leaning so that I'm upright in my chair, and he does the same, smiling at me.

"Flocon de neige," he says, and I frown.

"Snowflake?"

"Yeah," he replies, looking out the window as he says, "When it snows, there are thousands of them, but somehow, they're all different. Individual. Unique."

I watch him as he continues, drawing in a deep breath.

"And you look at the sky and you think to yourself, they can't possibly be different. That one is just like the other one. But then you see it up close, and you realize that you were wrong. That even though you might think they're the same, you have to be close enough to know that they are all different. That's you."

"Me?" I ask, my voice soft, "How?"

He glances back at me and says, "All this time I spent thinking that you were just another face in the crowd, just another girl in my class. I just can't believe it took me this long figure it out. You're a flocon de neige, Evelyn."

He smiles and then turns away, as if he hasn't just complimented me in, like, the greatest way possible. And as I watch him, this utter mystery of a boy, I can feel myself falling for him, harder, harder, harder, never knowing if he'll be able to catch me.