Little Spark

29 - Get The Picture

In the quiet of the woods Monday afternoon, my conscience is slowly chewing through the muzzle I put over its mouth when I asked Reign to meet me, and guilt over my broken promise to Candis gnaws away at my self-respect.

Deep down, I know she and Ruby are right: darkness and light can't mix. Inviting Reign into my nightmare—and as a result, into my torments and fears—is the equivalent of telling a cat burglar where we keep the spare keys to our house. But the truth is I'm finding it just as hard to stay away from him as he says it is to stay away from me.

Case in point: he's thirty minutes late, and I'm still standing here. I know I should leave. A smart person would leave. A smart person wouldn't have come—

"Pssst." His head pokes out from behind his peeping tree.

I cross my arms and lean back against the rail, my irritation filling the thirty or so feet between us. "So I see you and I have vastly different definitions of 'right after school,'" I say.

"Awww come on, B." He comes over and puts his hands on the rail at my sides to box me in. "I promise, I came as fast as I could."

I look away from him and try to hold on to my aggravation, but I might as well be trying to grip a fistful of water; his cool breath and familiar scent work their usual dark magic and unknot my nerves against my will.

I peek at him out of the corner of my eye, and he smiles and turns my chin to make me look at him. "You're really cute when you're mad, New Girl. I like seeing this passion you obviously feel for me."

"Oh my goodness.... Please go home and send the guy I met on Saturday."

Reign laughs. Like, really laughs. It's so robust, the sun seems to shine a bit brighter. "God, where did you comefrom? If you weren't a mortal enemy, you'd totally be my dream woman."

I shove him away. "Whatever. Let's go before I come to my senses and run away from you like I should."

"After you, Montague," he says, flashing that sickeningly perfect smile and gesturing for me to lead the way.

Our hands brush as we walk, but I find it exhilarating, so I don't increase the space between us. "For the record," I say once we're a little way past the tree, "if you must reference the most tragic love story of all time, you could at least put me in the right family. Juliet was a Capulet."

"True," he says, "but 'you' and 'Montague' rhyme. And the cadence is better."

"Oh, are we adding 'poet' to your list of life skills, now?"

"What'd you think I was writing that day you were peepy-tomming me in the library, New Girl?"

I look at him in complete disbelief. "You? Poetry?"

"Geez, B." He bumps me with his shoulder. "Don't sound so surprised."

"Sorry," I shrug. "You've just got this 'playa-playa'-alpha-male vibe. I know you're Ivy-League bound and everything, but I never would've taken you for a poet."

"Hmm... Guess we were both wrong."

"Huh?"

"I never would've taken you for the type to judge a book by its cover."

I open my mouth to speak, but can't think of anything to say, so I close it.

He laughs. "I'm just messing with you, B. No one knows I write. To the outside world, I'm early-action Princeton, pre-law, popular playboy Patos."

"Alliteration. Not bad."

"Had to show you my skills." He winks at me and my insides go all fluttery like during the first drop of a roller coaster. "Just do me a favor and don't tell anyone because I'd never live it down."