He takes my mouth with his, a hand grazing my throat like a warm, rough necklace.
"Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
My hands slip under his shirt, over his abdomen, his muscles tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I'...
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A Wednesday in August, 5:59 PM
Sometimes I wonder if I'd notice water if I was born in the ocean. Maybe I'd have fins and scales, and I'd never know about air. I could dive and follow currents in the coolness, live in the freedom of it, the transparent blue and soft ripples.
But here I am, just a girl with a blue lollipop stuck between my lips, humming a tune that flits in and out of my head like the shy birds in the trees above.
The Bell River Trail is quiet today, as it is most days, but it's the kind of quiet that feels full of rustling leaves and distant thunder.
I step from stone to stone in the shallow stream, the water cool against my bare feet and ankles, sweet relief from the sticky August humidity. My disposable camera dangles from a makeshift strap around my neck, swinging slightly with each hop.
Every few steps, I stop, crouch, and focus on the tiny life bustling below the surface—tadpoles darting through the water, their little dark bodies a flurry of frantic energy. Click goes the camera.
A fat drop of rain lands on my nose, making me blink.
Greyson's on the bank, laying back against an oak tree, eyes closed. Well, this time they're closed; I've caught him staring at me more than once.
The sky above grows darker, clouds clumping together in gnarly grays and blues. Thunder rolls again, closer this time, a low rumble that makes my heart beat a little faster. The air tastes like rain, metallic and sharp. I'm not sure how much longer we have.
Today, and really, the week, has been... beautifully normal. Uncle Pat started his new job yesterday, all dressed up in black slacks and a crisp white button-up—not blue for a change. Raveena was around, teasing him, combing his hair like he was a little boy on picture day.
I've been strumming my guitar a lot, playing with minor keys, and taking long, aimless walks. There's something about minor chords that feels more than the others. They don't need to be bright to be felt.
Most nights, I've waited up for Grey to get home from the shop, happy to see his skin almost all unblemished now, no more pain or cuts or bruises. We'd sit on the porch, or in the treehouse, or walk around a bit under the dim glow of the streetlight, talking about nothing really.
I suppose I need to find another job since I'll be around another year. But that can wait a few more days, I think.
Tonight's different. It's the last slice of bliss because Steven's set to return tonight. Actually, he might already be back. That's why Grey and I are here at the river, drawing out the night, trying to stop time.
We're doing pretty good so far.
"Hey," Grey says, his voice a bit strained as he watches me balance on a particularly wobbly stone. He's trying to smile, but it's not really working.
