The Fragile Ordinary(77)
He smirked down at me. “Chasing after a girl.”
Delighted, I tried hard not to grin back. “He says with absolutely no embarrassment or pricked male pride.”
Tobias’s gaze softened. “She’s no ordinary girl.”
I blushed and wrapped my arms around one of his, hugging in close. “We should climb Arthur’s Seat. Or you should climb it with Luke and Andy.” Tobias had grown closer to the sixth year and to Andy in our year, both of whom were on the rugby team. Although he hadn’t wanted to leave me at lunchtime in case anyone tried to start in on us again, I knew Steph and Vicki probably wanted our girls-only time back, and I had to imagine Tobias was missing hanging out with just the guys.
“We could all climb it.”
“I’ll bring the girls then, too.”
After a moment of silence I ventured to say, “You know you can start eating lunch with the boys from the rugby team at school now.”
“Is that your way of saying you’re sick of me?” he teased.
“No.” I shoved him playfully. “I just think we should get back to normality. We shouldn’t let Stevie and his delinquent friends mess with our heads anymore.”
Tobias stared out at the city, his gaze drawn to the opulent lights of the Christmas Fair. “How about we start that after Christmas? Just to be sure.”
I could give him that. “Sounds like a plan.”
He turned into me, sliding his hands around my waist and drawing me close. I stared up at him expectantly but what he said next surprised me. “Now I want to visit this poetry café of yours.”
“Pan?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s part of you. It’s something you enjoy. And I’m expecting you to come cheer me on at my rugby games, so I feel it’s only fair I go to your thing, too.”
I struggled not to laugh. “My thing?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Trying to be supportive and mature here.”
“I know,” I chuckled. “And it’s much appreciated. But Tobias... Pan isn’t really your type of thing.”
“But it’s yours,” he reiterated. “And I want to see it.”
THE FRAGILE ORDINARYSAMANTHA YOUNG
22
His kisses feel like a calm before the storm,
Like waves crashing harder and harder to shore.
I’m pushed in deep waters, feeling myself transform,
Now just lips, body, hands searching for more.
—CC
While I’d been excited about Tobias’s reaction to Princes Street at Christmastime, I was afraid to look at his face when we walked into Pan. I was afraid of his judgment since his opinion meant so much to me.
“Drink?” he asked, drawing my reluctant gaze. He wore a neutral expression.
“I’m okay.”
“I’m going to get a coffee. You grab us a table.”
I nodded, bemused by his lack of reaction. Well, not lack of reaction, but lack of judgment really. He just took in the tie-dyed scarfs, weird murals and smell of patchouli mixed with coffee like it was no big deal. Grabbing a table for two at the window, I took off my hat and scarf and listened to the woman onstage recite a poem that was clearly about loss. It was a busy day, Tobias and I taking the last little table left.
He returned a few minutes later with his coffee and turned in his seat so that he could watch and listen to the woman. When she was done and everyone clapped, Tobias clapped, too.
“What do you think?” I asked.
Tobias was quiet as he slipped off his beanie hat and stuck it into the pocket of his jacket. Finally, he made eye contact with me. “She was good.”
“And the rest of the place?”
He grinned and stared around at the space. “Eclectic,” he finally landed on.
I smirked. “Very diplomatic.”
Before he could respond a young guy, perhaps a few years older than us, stood at the mic and introduced himself. And then he began to read his poem. Like the woman before him, his poem was in free verse. I studied Tobias’s profile as he listened but I couldn’t get a read on him. When the young guy finished and people started chattering among themselves, Tobias looked at me. Whatever he saw on my face made his eyebrows pull together. “What?”
“No one rhymes anymore. I mean...my poetry sometimes doesn’t have a measurable meter, so it technically is free verse, but I rhyme.”
“So?”
“My poetry seems childish in comparison.”
“No it doesn’t,” he said immediately and vehemently. “Yours is funny and thoughtful and sometimes sad. And I get it. Just because your poetry is different to the people in here doesn’t mean you don’t have something to say.” Tobias reached across the table and took my hand in his warm one. “After everything you’ve been through, Comet, you have to know you’re brave. You showed your poetry to Mr. Stone. You’re willing to publish it in the lit mag. The next step is that stage up there.”
The thought of getting up on that stage gave me nervous butterflies. Poetry, any piece of writing or anything a person created, was a window into their soul. When people got up on that stage, they might as well strip off their clothes and be naked. Except baring your soul was harder than baring skin. Skin was just skin. If you pierced it, you bled then you bandaged it up. It was harder to recover from an injury to the soul.