“Fine. Walk me over there.”
I gave him an impatient look that sailed right over his head. “Come on.” I stomped off, frustrated.
Even at six years old, he actually had the balls to giggle as he followed.
Once I had Quarry planted inches away from a light, I made my way back toward the window. My heart was pounding, and the vase in my hand rattled as I drew near.
It was just Eliza.
Shit. It was Eliza. My pulse spiked once again.
“Hey!” she exclaimed as I pried the window open.
My nerves calmed immediately at the sight of her face. She’s still there. Almost four years later and she was still there.
“Hey, birthday girl!” I was careful to keep my hands low so she couldn’t see her present.
“Why are you standing out there? Get in here.”
“Ugh. I can’t. My mom took off . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to dump all of my shit on her tonight. I should have been singing “Happy Birthday” and holding her sketchpad—or, more accurately, staring down her shirt while she leaned over to draw.
“Where’d she go?” she questioned, standing up from a blanket on the floor. I made a mental note to find something more comfortable for her to sit on.
“To get cigarettes . . .”
“Oh, okay.”
“Six hours ago,” I finished.
“Ah.” When she stopped, she was only inches away, but a whole world in the shape of a window divided us.
“I’m sorry, Doodle. I can’t leave them alone. I just . . . Well, happy birthday.” I lifted the vase filled with paper flowers into her view.
“Till!” she gasped as her hands covered her mouth. Then a loud laugh escaped her throat as familiar tears welled in her eyes.
Eliza was a crier. She pretended that it was only when she was mad. That was bullshit though. She cried every time the wind blew north. Happy, sad, angry—it didn’t matter.
I loved it when she happy cried. I laughed when she angry cried. I was gutted when she sad cried. I’d held her through all of them. But her reaction that night was extraordinary. I guessed my present was pretty extraordinary too though.
Eliza had been jabbering about these special paintbrushes she wanted for months. At fifty bucks, they cost a freaking mint for kids like us. But when I realized that her birthday was coming, I knew exactly what I was getting her. I folded a million pieces of notebook paper into these little flower things and taped a few onto the ends of each brush. Then I shoved them into a vase and bam! I had flowers that wouldn’t die. I’d thought it was a good idea, but it had actually turned out far better than I’d expected.
“Did you make those?” she asked from behind her hands.
“Yep,” I said proudly.
“Are those . . .”
“Yep,” I confirmed, and her eyes grew wide. “I bought them,” I quickly added when I remembered the first time I’d given her art supplies.
She burst out laughing. God, I loved that sound so much. I knew I’d never be the same when I lost it to the silence. I’d happily give up every noise in the world if I could just keep her laugh. But my life didn’t work that way.
“Till!” She scrambled out the window and threw her arms around my neck. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome, Doodle,” I whispered into the hair at the top of her head. Holding her impossibly tight, I siphoned the warmth only she could give me.
She leaned away, and her eyes heated as they immediately flashed to my mouth. Eliza always looked at me like that, and as the years had passed, it’d become more and more difficult to stop myself from kissing her, touching her, claiming her. But I knew that, if I did, I would eventually lose her. Relationships didn’t work in high school. Something would have happened, we would have broken up, and then I would have lost her completely. I needed Eliza too damn bad to ever chance that.
I’d spent years loving her from afar—well, actually only from afar when we were outside of our private little haven. It wasn’t safe to notice her outside those walls.
She had always been beautiful. Even at thirteen, her deep, ink-blue eyes had captivated me. Her shoulder-length, brown hair was perfectly straight, but she nervously played with the ends so often that it had formed a permanent curl in the front. Her fair skin had a sprinkle of freckles I could map out from memory alone. And her body . . . Jesus, her body had been made for me. She was naturally thin, but a small curve rounded her hips. Those same curves taunted my hands on a daily basis. I was at least a foot taller than she was and probably had her by almost a hundred pounds, but on the inside, she was the strong one.