Lost in the Never Woods(83)

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it!” Wendy said before covering her mouth again. She needed to be quiet or else she’d wake up her mother. “Ugh, okay,” she said, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes. “I grabbed some food.” She gestured to the assortment on the bed. “Help yourself. I’m going to … clean myself up.” Uncertainty started to creep up her spine again. Chewing on her bottom lip, she eyed Peter as he plopped down on her bed. He crossed his legs and immediately started opening the Chinese food containers.

Wendy grabbed some pajamas from her drawer and shut herself in the bathroom. She peeled off her clothes, which were sticky with stale sweat.

As she stepped into the shower, there was already a layer of dirt settled in the bottom of the tub. Peter must have been filthier than she’d thought. Wendy turned up the heat as high as she could stand. The water rushed down her body, taking the remnants of the woods along with it. She leaned her forehead against the cool tile and took a deep breath, letting the water wash along her neck and across her parted lips. The rhythmic pounding against her skin was comforting. Her muscles ached and burned, especially across her shoulders. She was thorough in scrubbing herself clean. She shampooed her hair twice. When she was done she stepped out of the water and pulled a dry towel from the rack. She rubbed it through her hair before wrapping it tightly around her body. The knots and tangles in her short hair were stubborn, but the conditioner and some rough handling with a brush smoothed it out.

Wendy dug through the pile of pajamas she had haphazardly grabbed and picked out a nightshirt and cotton shorts. She used the damp towel to wipe the fog from the mirror. She stared at her smudgy reflection, focusing on her exposed legs.

Peter was just on the other side of the door, and they were going to be sleeping in the same room.

Her heart was beating fast, but not the jarring pound in her temples like when she was in the woods. This was a light flutter at the base of her throat. She did her best to swallow it down. Woman up, Wendy Darling, she chided herself before stepping into her bedroom.

Peter was on her bed next to an empty container of cold chicken chow mein. He was lying on his side, his cheek pressed against her pillow as he hugged it to him. His nose was tucked into his shoulder, his eyes closed, his lashes splayed against his freckled cheeks. One of his legs was bent and one foot hung off the side of the mattress. The curve of his back was relaxed and languid.

Quietly, Wendy stepped farther into the room. Had he already fallen asleep?

It was so strange to have him there. Peter Pan—her Peter—was in her world, in her room, on her bed. The boy she’d daydreamed about as a little girl. A boy who was supposed to be just make-believe, a creation of her mother’s imagination, only real in her stories. But he was real. A little worse for wear, and older, and he was here, with her.

Careful not to jostle him, Wendy knelt down next to the bed. Her chin rested atop her hands on the edge of the mattress. She would never get this close to him when he was awake. A thrill ran up her spine, like she was taking something she wasn’t even supposed to touch.

Warmth bloomed from her chest, where her acorn hung. His back rose and fell slowly with his breaths. That same crease was between his eyebrows, the one that never quite seemed to leave, a mark of the weight he balanced on his shoulders. She lifted her hand, but hesitated and bit her bottom lip. She wanted to feel the softness of his hair, to touch the warmth of his skin. Peter looked how summer felt.

“You have no idea how amazing this feels,” Peter mumbled into his shoulder. His eyes opened and the sudden closeness of those astonishing eyes made her spring back.

Tripping over her own feet, Wendy struggled for a moment before popping back upright. “What?” she breathed, her hand hurriedly running through her damp hair.

Peter pushed himself onto his elbow. For a moment, he lay there, looking up at her with a curious tilt of his head. “Your bed,” he finally clarified, a small shadow of a smile on his lips.

“Oh, yeah, it’s the mattress pad.” Wendy’s rushed words tumbled out of her mouth. She cleared her throat and took a step back. “You can sleep on the bed, if you want,” she offered suddenly. “I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

Waving her off, Peter slid to the edge of the mattress. Wendy took two more steps away.

“No way, you sleep in your own bed,” he told her. He went to the floor and sprawled out on the sleeping bag. “That wouldn’t be very gallant of me,” he pointed out, arching his back and gripping at air as he stretched.

Wendy plucked a pillow from her bed and tossed it at him. “Since when are you gallant?” Wendy asked.

Peter caught it easily. “Your words wound me, Wendy Darling,” he said with a smirk before tucking the pillow behind his head and flopping onto his back.

Wendy laughed—a nervous, shaky thing. Gathering up the remaining food, she moved it onto the bedside table.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Peter asked, peeking at her from the other side of the bed.

“I already scarfed down half the chow mein,” she told him. But she did reach out for the orange and peeled it as he devoured the Chinese food. She split it in two and tossed Peter one half, which he easily caught out of the air. Wendy ate the slices and reveled in the sweet, cool juices of the orange.

When she was finished, Wendy crawled into her bed and curled up in a ball on her side, close enough to the edge that she could still see Peter. Her bed smelled like him: grass, honeysuckle, and earth woven into the soft threads of her pillow. She breathed it in. She breathed it out.