This cab smells like what I would imagine dead bodies do.
I sneak a look at Knox and his nostrils are flared up in distaste as well.
"It smells like death in here," I whisper so the cabbie wouldn't hear me.
Knox snorts, a thick grin spreading over his face. His eyes are still on the cab driver.
The cabbie eyes us suspiciously from the rearview mirror and I pipe down and settle back into my seat. The dull hum of the car drowns everything out.
The thrill of sneaking out makes me feel lighter. Oh, if my father knew. My ass would be grass.
The night is cold, but Knox is warm in his many layers. He was smart in dressing warmly, I was not. I tuck my fingers into the coat I wear and tuck them in my lap. Knox notices and shifts in his place.
"We're here. Two-fifty," the cabbie says. I dig into my pocket to pull out the wad of crumpled dollar bills I had in my pocket, but Knox was quick to grab my wrist and lean forward, giving the cabbie a five from his pocket.
I breathe a laugh out and we scoot out of the car. Knox pulls me out by the same wrist and continues to hold onto it. The cold bites at my cheeks and the skin on my arm that is exposed. We hustle into the bookshop, gold light spilling out of the windows and onto us.
The inside is warm, as any good bookshop would be, and smells of pages and ink. I have to stop myself from inhaling, but Knox does so, rather obnoxiously.
"You smell that?" He says, his eyes glowing with childlike wonder.
My head is nodding and he grabs my other wrist. I'm pulled close to him. Or noses almost touch.
"It's the best smell in the world," he says intimately as if he were sharing a hush-hush secret with me.
"You're in the clouds tonight," I whisper, looking around and realizing that we are most likely being loud. No one likes loud teenagers coming into a store so close to closing.
"C'mon, let's get the book," I say, pulling my wrists, which he has hold of, and walking us to the shelves.
Knox looks absolutely dazed.
In an attempt to pull him back to earth, I pull my wrists back.
"Where's the Shakespeare section?" He asks, eyeing the shelves as we walk quietly.
"Probably by the plays," I say, rounding the corner of another narrow row. I run my finger across the spines of books as we look. The only sound is our heavy feet and the occasional sniff.
I purse my lips and rack my mind for conversation topics. I'm still a bit rushed from my close encounter with Knox.
"What are you doing for the holidays?" I ask, turning around to face him and walk backward.
"Home for Thanksgiving. Here for Christmas."
He slows to a halt without even thinking about it.
"What about you?"
I lean my back against the shelf and cross my ankles and state, "Here for both. Parents are going to be out of town."
"For both?"
"For both."
I look at the carpet.
You will stay. You will continue working for Harvard over break.
My father's icy words cut through my brain as I lie to Knox.
Harvard Law.
"Oh, look-" Knox says, pointing to the section across from us.
