The Anatomy of Emotion

Chapter Eight

August—Los Angeles

Maeva alternates between chatting with Jessie and watching Corin make the hoodie kid's day. They sit by themselves, converse and laugh over drinks. Corin listens intently while the kid talks. Jessie asks about art schools, and Maeva attends to that. When she looks back, Corin and the kid are comparing scars. That strains something inside her—she reminds herself to draw it.

He looks a little bit sad when he comes back. Not the bone deep sadness that turns her stomach with worry, but a little glimmer of it in the downturn of his lips.

"Something wrong?"

He swings his arm around her and speaks French again, "I just hate to see people like me. Nobody deserves it, especially not someone that young. He's younger than I was."

"I'm sure he's feeling his serotonin right now, at least," she squeezes his hand, "what did you write on him?"

"His favorite lyric, and my name. I think he's going to get it tattooed," he consults his free hand, "I was thinking about getting my second row of digits done."

"With what?"

"Molecules. Serotonin, dopamine, lithium, and heroin. I'm not sure if I'd do the same on the other hand or different ones."

"Why lithium?"

"I take it alongside my medication, it's a mood stabilizer."

"Mhm. Maybe I'll draw them on you later, you can see how they look," she strokes the blank space between his second and third knuckles.

"I'd like that," Corin laces their fingers and cuddles her closer.

Maeva rests her head on his shoulder in the quiet, content just to sit with him. He leans his head into hers and studies the posters on the wall. She can feel his jaw jumping as he thinks, the pulse in his wrist against her shoulder. The stereo fades from one song to another. She aches to be closer to him, and he lets out a heavy sigh.

"Hey, stop thinking so much," she stands and tugs on his hand, "come dance with me."

He frowns, "there's no dance floor."

"So?" She tugs again.

Corin shrugs and follows her out to the middle of the room, "I hope you know I'm exactly two shots past being impressive," he twirls her back into his chest.

"I'm not looking to be impressed," Maeva brings his hands around her waist. "and I can't even dance sober."

He laughs, and they sway idly to the soft music. Maeva sighs, leaning into his hold on her, his lips resting against her hair. Neither of them say anything, not about the tender way he cradles her against his chest, or her thumbs stroking the ribbon around his wrist. She doesn't say how much it bothers her when he pulls away to twirl her, and he doesn't explain pulling her chest flush to his. She slips her arms around his neck, nose almost brushing his. His breaths smell like peppermint gum and hard cider and all of the feelings she had left with him. The emotions swell with tension; the same stretched rubber band sensation, though there isn't any distance between them.

Her breath trembles, "why haven't you kissed me?"

She feels his laugh, "I didn't think I was allowed to. I thought pretending was over."

"You can dream about the same thing more than once."

"This isn't a dream though. I can't just do whatever I want," he takes a breath, "why? Do you want me to kiss you?"