Under Rose-Tainted Skies(55)
‘No!’ I protest a little too intensely. ‘I mean, honestly, I’m fine.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll quit bugging you.’ He stands up.
‘You can . . .’ A heatwave washes over me. ‘You can sit over here with me . . . if you want to.’
‘Sure.’ I revel in the way the bed shifts when he sits back down, more on than off this time.
The rest of the film plays out, but I don’t tune in. Between his proximity and trying to figure out how to mention his phone call, which I’m totally going to have to confess to eavesdropping on – ugh – my mind is a hot mess. I’ll figure it out. I really wish Mom’s question from this morning wasn’t starting to make more sense.
When Luke suggested we sit and count stars the following Friday, I was suspicious. You normally find stars outside, after all. But then he showed up at my house with a projector.
We’re lying on my bed like soldiers, arms by our sides, legs together, too afraid to touch, and watching space swirl around on my ceiling. It’s impossible to count the stars, there are so many, flickering like diamonds on a black backdrop.
My iPod is on shuffle. Rock chicks have been commandeering the airwaves for an hour, but then some dude starts strumming his guitar and, with a soft voice, begins singing about holding the girl he loves. My concentration abandons the stars and I focus hard on the lyrics of the love song, the love song with lines that, somehow, speak directly to my current situation.
The invisible barrier between us . . .
The ache in my heart . . .
The burn of constant curiosity . . .
‘I got you something,’ Luke says, twisting his body and leaning over the side of the bed. While he’s reaching, his shirt lifts and I can see the bottom of his back. I swallow lumps.
I’m supposed to protest, I know that for sure, because I see it happen all the time on TV. Though I’m not sure why anyone would want to object to a present. That’s a thing I’d like to figure out, but my brain is too busy inspecting the sliver of exposed flesh. Luke has freckles. I’ve never been close enough to his skin to see freckles before.
‘Check it out.’ Luke lies back, and my stare charges towards the ceiling. He hands me a book. Not a book. A journal. The cover is coated in pictures. It’s shiny. Silky smooth. My fingers skate idly over an image of the Arc de Triomphe, the Latona Fountain, the Eiffel Tower, and half a dozen other famous structures in France.
‘It’s like a journal,’ Luke tells me, opening it to the first page. ‘But it has a travel planner in the back.’ He flips through more lined light blue pages, stops at a group of white sheets coated in plastic. ‘You can keep photographs in this part. Or maybe postcards. And then this section here is a directory, with every number you could ever need.’ I watch him flip through the rest of the journal. The excitement in his smile is immeasurable. ‘I thought you could use it when you go to school in France.’
‘I love it,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you so much.’
I do love it. Really, I do, which is why I can’t understand the bolt of hostility that shoots through me when he says France. He’s so thoughtful, and I’m super-grateful, but my mind is unsettled.
Luke talks about Paris, about art, about maybe dumping his no-travel policy for a week to visit the Louvre and see the Mona Lisa. My head spins. He keeps asking me what I think. Asking me if I’ve ever seen this online? Or that online? Seen them online? Seen it online? Seen her online? Or him online? In conclusion, my life is all about things that can be found on the web, and yes is the only word I can contribute to this conversation.
The sound of Luke breathing beside me is melodic. I copy the rhythm, force my lungs to slow down.
He’s just talking. Dreaming. Dreaming for both of us. I smile to myself, squash hostility with happy. Reclaim the normal night we’re having.
The warmth of my room mixed with the low light makes me sleepy.
My eyes are getting heavy when Luke’s pinkie brushes against the side of my hand. I stiffen. At first I think it’s a mistake, but then I feel it a second time.
‘Is this okay?’ The bed shifts, he turns his head, and I turn to meet his face. He’s drenched in starlight, practically sparkling. There’s only inches between us. I can smell spearmint on his breath. My body bursts into flames.
We’re not wearing matching sweaters or strolling through a fall landscape, but I imagine kissing him now would be perfect. I look at his lips. They’re parted, just a little. It would be so easy to tighten the gap between us and press my mouth against his.
Except: petri dishes, full of little alien life forms that live on the human tongue. Then this morning, I was flicking through my Hub feed, and this one guy from Cardinal was talking about having glandular fever. Viruses spread like wildfire in schools. Their school. His school. As much as I want to, I can’t forget that.
His pinkie meets my hand now, draws circles on the side. Pins and needles explode in the pit of my stomach, and shivers, good shivers, the kind you get when something exciting happens, shoot up and down my spine. I can’t pull away.
‘Norah.’ I like the shape his lips make when he says my name. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’
Blink-blink. ‘What?’
He smiles. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’ I float up and up and up, get lost in the makeshift galaxy on my ceiling. My heart feels like it’s trying to box its way beyond my ribcage.