Somewhere Only We Know(45)

“So, how did you like it?” she asked the second the lights turned on.

“How did I like what?” I asked, only half-kidding.

Honestly, though, I could hardly concentrate on it. A dark room, romantic soundtrack, sexy scenes? It was a lot.

She made a face at me. “I don’t like to be teased.”

“You need an older brother, clearly.”

“Actually, I don’t,” she said before punching me hard in the arm, then running up and out of the theater before I could react.

When I caught up with her, she was slipping into the restroom. I paced outside, thinking about how much I had revealed to her in the café. Was it because I wouldn’t see her after today? That even if she found out about the photos, I would be old news? A jerk she once hung out with in Hong Kong.

Or was it … because it was her? Because something about her specifically made me want to tell her about all sorts of things? No one in my life took my photography seriously. But in the few hours she had known me—she could tell it was important to me. That it was something worth pursuing.

“I’ve peed so many times today,” she proclaimed as she walked out of the restroom.

And it was the strangest thing. That TMI proclamation, like her other unexpected bursts, made me realize something: I liked Lucky, too. A lot.

I liked her confidence in who she was balanced with a healthy dose of good humor. Not taking herself too seriously when she could have been this unbearable out-of-touch superstar. I liked how she thought I could turn photography into a job. That she even cared about it. I liked how she reached out for my hand all day.

“Cool, good job,” I said, trying to smile through the sheer terror of this realization. This complicated everything to the billionth degree.

“It means I’m well hydrated. My trainer would be proud,” she said. Her expression froze as soon as she said it.

“I don’t drink enough water,” I responded smoothly, draping my arm around her shoulders, so that we could both ignore the fact that she had a personal trainer. Like all normal teenagers did.

She was at the perfect height for arm-draping. Every part of her seemed to fit just right with me. I felt pulled to her like a magnet. A magnetic puzzle. God, I was poetic.

She made me want to be poetic.

When we stepped outside, the sun was starting to set. Perfect. “Let’s head to the harbor,” I said, walking us out of the courtyard. There was a playground nearby, part of the neighboring apartment complex. Tons of kids crawled around the equipment, unsupervised yet safe. For a big city, Hong Kong was very safe. The CCTVs everywhere probably helped with that.

We headed back toward where we began, walking by people strolling the streets, grandparents with children, the hazy light golden on every window, every treetop.

Lucky was content to walk nestled into me and I was content to let her.

It felt right to ask her then, during this quiet moment, “What do you like so much about singing?” I had asked about why she liked choir earlier in the day—but I still didn’t know what she actually got out of singing. Of performing.

She was contemplative, but she stayed at my side. “Hm. That’s an interesting question.”

Something about that was crazy flattering. I asked interesting questions!

A breeze ruffled through her hair and a strand stuck to my neck. I pushed it away, and she put her hand over mine to tuck it behind her ear. Something in my chest twinged at that effortlessly intimate touch.

“Well,” she said with a wrinkle of concentration between her eyebrows. “There’s so much. I love how it makes me feel. Like, it actually gives me a high. Or, what I imagine what a high feels like,” she said with a snort. “I, uh, have never done that.”

I knew I was supposed to be surprised that she had never been high, but I didn’t feel like making her lie. My heart wasn’t in it right now. “So, that’s why you’re hungry all the time,” I said instead. “Singing-high gives you the munchies.”

She hit my arm. “Ha. Anyway. Yeah, it makes me feel good physically. But it’s also this act of creating something beautiful out of thin air, communicating everything you’re feeling with sound. It’s magic.”

The hairs on my arm stood on end and I rubbed them. “I know what you mean.” Photography did that for me. When I captured something special, the image reflected my point of view without any words. I always thought that was magical, too.

She glanced up at me, a flash of self-consciousness flitting across her features. “Also, I’m good at it and it feels nice to be able to share that with the world. I know that sounds conceited.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s actually refreshing to hear someone own up to their skills.”

“Right?” she exclaimed, skipping a little. “Girls are taught to be so self-effacing all the time. Heaven forbid we actually show pride and confidence at something.”

“Well, otherwise you lil’ ladies might think you could rule the world or something,” I said with a tsk.

Lucky laughed, heartily, throwing her entire body into it, dislodging my arm. “It’s funny because men are so screwed in the future. You guys have messed up this world.”

We dodged a couple of kids dribbling a soccer ball and broke apart for a second before coming back together to hold hands. “We have. And it’s going to continue to get messed up,” I said.