Wild is the Witch (49)
“But I don’t want to grieve someone who was never supposed to leave.”
“Then don’t grieve that he’s gone,” Pike says. “Grieve that he turned out to be such an asshole.”
I almost laugh, the words surprising in such a delicate conversation. “I like that shift.”
“It’s all about perspective,” Pike says. “Or so they say.”
There’s a pause, and I think he’s done talking. Then: “Do you think we could ever get to a place where you’d miss me?”
“Are you planning on going somewhere?” I ask, keeping my voice light, compensating for the way his got heavy.
“I’m being serious.”
I stare up at the ceiling, even though I can’t see anything. My throat feels tight, aching, and I’m terrified of what I’m about to ask. I take a breath. “Why would you want to be missed by me?”
“Because you’re special, Iris. You’re strange and surprising, and I’m endlessly curious about the things that take up space in your mind.”
“A lot of worst-case scenarios,” I say in a casual tone, trying to ignore the way his words enter my bloodstream and rush through my body, the way my heart beats faster and my mind whispers that this is maybe the best thing anyone has ever said to me.
“You do tend to jump to the worst possible outcome,” he says, pulling the sleeping bag up to his chin.
“You’re very observant.”
“I am. And that’s not the only thing I’ve observed.”
“Oh yeah? What else have you noticed?” I ask, keeping the conversation light. Light is good. Light is safe.
Pike shifts and rolls onto his side, facing me. All the air in the tent becomes charged at once, and I finally take the breath I need, holding it in my lungs, hoping he can’t tell how tense I am, how hard I’m working to keep it together.
“You double-check everything, sometimes triple-check. You pace when you’re stressed. You push your palm to your chest when you’re worried about something. You add vitamin D to your mom’s coffee every morning when she isn’t looking. You wear your hair up when we have group tours and down the rest of the time. When Sarah brings in doughnuts, you let everyone else pick theirs before you pick your own, including me. Your favorite color is green. And when I say something that annoys you, you give me an expression I’ve never seen you give anyone else. So I keep annoying you, just so you’ll make the face you only make for me.”
My heart pounds and my mind races with everything he just said. “Pike,” I say, slowly rolling to my side, so close I can feel his breath on my skin. “We both know you can’t help how annoying you are.”
“It’s only because I’m right all the time, and you hate that.” His tone is low and heavy, at odds with the words he just spoke.
“I suppose I would hate it,” I say quietly, “if you were ever right.”
He laughs, so quiet I feel it more than hear it. “Here’s the thing. You spend all this time in your head and carry around all these worries, but it doesn’t actually change the fact that there’s something about you that seems entirely at home in this world, more so than anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t know how to describe it,” he says, trailing off.
I’m afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to speak. Afraid of losing this moment that feels as if I’m seeing myself for the first time, as if Pike is holding up a mirror, allowing me to look past all my fears and see the girl beneath them all.
“Effortless,” he says, reflecting someone who can’t possibly be me. “You’re effortless.”
His fingertips find my face, slowly tracing down the bridge of my nose and over my mouth. I inhale sharply, thinking this is probably the worst idea I’ve ever had, second only to the curse I put on him.
I close my eyes and part my lips, feeling his touch in every part of me, my body coming to life as his fingers move over my chin and down the center of my neck before pulling away. Everything is heightened due to the dark, every sound and touch, my senses wild with how close he is. I reach out and take his hand, wrap it around my waist and push his palm into the small of my back. For several moments we stay that way, unmoving, listening to the wind and the river and each other’s breaths. Then he pulls me closer, and his mouth meets mine.
He kisses me slowly, moving his fingers up my spine and into my hair. I know I should pull away, should tell him about the owl and the curse, let him decide if he wants to be kissing a witch. But instead, I push into him more, getting closer.
Either I will unbind the curse and make this right or I won’t and I’ll ruin everything, but either way, I want this moment that’s untouched by tragedy and curses and magic, this moment that’s wholly ours, away from whatever is waiting for us in the morning.
Right now, I can be a girl kissing the boy she likes instead of a witch kissing the boy she cursed.
I open my mouth just slightly, and Pike exhales, the sound traveling all the way through me. He rolls me onto my back, and I reach up with both hands to touch his face and jaw and neck. I feel the plastic of his glasses and pause.
“Wait,” I say.
Pike pulls back and asks if I’m okay.
“Will you turn on the lantern?”
He turns it to its dimmest setting, illuminating the tent in a soft glow. He sits back on his heels, breathing heavy, searching my eyes. I sit up on my knees so I’m facing him, watching him in the light.