Boundless
Page 37
“Okay,” I concede, “they’re kind of scary,” and now I’m vaguely disappointed that we’re not here to watch a zombie movie.
“Next time,” Christian says.
“Hey, I have a new rule for our date,” I suggest with a cheerful grin. “No mind reading.”
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I won’t do it again.” He sounds so serious all of a sudden, embarrassed like I’ve caught him looking down the front of my shirt, that I have no choice but to throw a piece of popcorn at him.
“You’d better not,” I say.
He smiles.
I smile.
And then we sit in silence, munching popcorn, until the lights dim and the screen flickers to life.
Afterward he drives me to the beach. We have dinner at Paradise Beach Grille, this little upscale place on the shore, and after dinner we take our shoes off and walk along the sand. The sun set hours ago, and the light of the moon is playing off the water. The ocean gently shushes us, lapping at our feet, and we’re laughing, because I have admitted that my favorite movie is Ever After, this old and completely cheesy retelling of the Cinderella story where Drew Barrymore tries and fails to master an English accent. Which is embarrassing, but there it is.
“So, how am I doing?” he asks after a while.
“Best date ever,” I answer. “Good movie, good food, good company.”
He takes my hand. His power and mine converge, the familiar heat sparking between us. A cool breeze picks up and blows my hair, and I toss it back over my shoulder. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, then looks away, out at the water, which gives me a chance to look at him.
It’s awkward to call a guy beautiful, but he is. His body is lean but strong, and he moves with such grace—like a dancer, I think, although I would never tell him that. Sometimes I forget how beautiful he is. His gorgeous gold-flecked eyes. Those thick dark eyelashes any girl would kill to have, his serious eyebrows, the finely chiseled angles of his cheekbones, the full, expressive lips.
I shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asks, and before I can answer, he takes off his jacket, the black fleece jacket, and pulls it around me. I am immediately enveloped by his smell: soap and cologne, a whiff of cloud, like he’s been flying. I flash back to the first time I wore his jacket, the night of the fire, when he put it around my shoulders. It’s been over a year since that night, but the vision still lingers bright in my mind: the burning hillside, the way Christian said, It’s you, the way it felt when he took my hand. It never actually happened that way, but it feels like a memory.
It’s you, he said.
“Thank you,” I say to him now, my voice faltering.
“You’re welcome,” he says, and picks up my hand again.
He doesn’t know what else to say. He wants to tell me how beautiful I am to him, too, how I make him feel like the best, strongest version of himself, how he wants to tuck my runaway hair behind my ear and kiss me, and maybe this time I’d kiss him back.
Now I’m the one cheating.
I let go of his hand.
It doesn’t matter, he says into my mind. I don’t mind you seeing what’s inside me.
My breath catches. I have to stop being such a chicken, I think. It’s not that I’m afraid of him, exactly, because if there’s one person in this world who makes me feel safe, it’s Christian, but I’m scared to let go, to let what’s between us really happen. I’m afraid to lose myself.
“You won’t lose yourself,” he whispers.
Now we’re clearly both cheating.
I won’t? I ask silently.
Not with me, he says. You know who you are. You won’t let anyone take that away.
He loves that about me. He loves—
He pulls me closer and looks into my eyes. My heart careens wildly in my chest. I close my eyes, and his lips touch my cheek near my ear.
“Clara,” he says, my name is all, but it sends a tremor through me.
He draws back, and I know he’s going to kiss me, any second now, and I want him to, but in that moment, his lips inches from mine, I suddenly see Tucker’s face. Tucker’s blue eyes. Tucker’s mouth a breath away from mine.
Christian stops, his body going rigid. He sees what I see. He pulls away.
I open my eyes. “I—”
“Don’t.” He rakes his hand through his hair, stares off at the water. “Just … don’t.”
He hates me. I would hate me about now, too.
“I don’t hate you,” he says sharply. Sighs. “But I wish you would get over him.”
“I’m trying.”
“Not hard enough.” His eyes are flinty when he looks at me this time. He’s not used to chasing girls; they’ve always chased him. He’s certainly not used to being someone’s second choice. The thought makes him clench his jaw.
“I’m sorry,” I say. He deserves so much better than this.
He shakes his head and starts back up the beach toward the road. I trail after him, struggling to put my shoes on as I go.
“Wait,” I say. “Let’s not go yet. It’s still early. Maybe we can—”
“What would be the point?” he interrupts. “You think we should brush it off and try to pretend it didn’t happen? I’m not built that way.” He sighs again. “Let’s just go.”
I hate the idea of the silent drive back to Stanford. “I can get home by myself,” I say, taking a step back. “You go. I’m sorry.”
He stares at me, hands shoved in his pockets. “No. I should—”
I shake my head. “Good night, Christian,” I say, and then I close my eyes and call the glory and send myself away.
I mean to go to Buzzards Roost, someplace quiet, where I can think, but when the glory fades and my eyes adjust, I find myself in an enclosed space in pretty much pitch black. I almost have a panic attack right there, but then I think this can’t be my vision, my doom, because I left Christian behind. I stumble forward, arms outstretched, feeling at the floor with my feet, breathe out a sigh when I find that it’s not slanted. I encounter the wall, rough and wooden, and attempt to walk along it in slow, shuffling steps. I run into something like a row of rakes leaning against the wall, which fall to the floor with a very loud crash. I hurry to set them upright again, then figure, Screw it, and call the glory to light my way.
I hold up my hand and concentrate on drawing the glory inside it, the way Dad says you do with the glory sword, but right now I’m thinking lantern, not blade. I’m impressed with myself when I’m able to shape a glowing ball in my hand, which feels so warm and alive it makes my fingers tingle. Ah, glory, I think, so useful—the power of the Almighty when you need a weapon, but also doubles as a handy flashlight.
“Next time,” Christian says.
“Hey, I have a new rule for our date,” I suggest with a cheerful grin. “No mind reading.”
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I won’t do it again.” He sounds so serious all of a sudden, embarrassed like I’ve caught him looking down the front of my shirt, that I have no choice but to throw a piece of popcorn at him.
“You’d better not,” I say.
He smiles.
I smile.
And then we sit in silence, munching popcorn, until the lights dim and the screen flickers to life.
Afterward he drives me to the beach. We have dinner at Paradise Beach Grille, this little upscale place on the shore, and after dinner we take our shoes off and walk along the sand. The sun set hours ago, and the light of the moon is playing off the water. The ocean gently shushes us, lapping at our feet, and we’re laughing, because I have admitted that my favorite movie is Ever After, this old and completely cheesy retelling of the Cinderella story where Drew Barrymore tries and fails to master an English accent. Which is embarrassing, but there it is.
“So, how am I doing?” he asks after a while.
“Best date ever,” I answer. “Good movie, good food, good company.”
He takes my hand. His power and mine converge, the familiar heat sparking between us. A cool breeze picks up and blows my hair, and I toss it back over my shoulder. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, then looks away, out at the water, which gives me a chance to look at him.
It’s awkward to call a guy beautiful, but he is. His body is lean but strong, and he moves with such grace—like a dancer, I think, although I would never tell him that. Sometimes I forget how beautiful he is. His gorgeous gold-flecked eyes. Those thick dark eyelashes any girl would kill to have, his serious eyebrows, the finely chiseled angles of his cheekbones, the full, expressive lips.
I shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asks, and before I can answer, he takes off his jacket, the black fleece jacket, and pulls it around me. I am immediately enveloped by his smell: soap and cologne, a whiff of cloud, like he’s been flying. I flash back to the first time I wore his jacket, the night of the fire, when he put it around my shoulders. It’s been over a year since that night, but the vision still lingers bright in my mind: the burning hillside, the way Christian said, It’s you, the way it felt when he took my hand. It never actually happened that way, but it feels like a memory.
It’s you, he said.
“Thank you,” I say to him now, my voice faltering.
“You’re welcome,” he says, and picks up my hand again.
He doesn’t know what else to say. He wants to tell me how beautiful I am to him, too, how I make him feel like the best, strongest version of himself, how he wants to tuck my runaway hair behind my ear and kiss me, and maybe this time I’d kiss him back.
Now I’m the one cheating.
I let go of his hand.
It doesn’t matter, he says into my mind. I don’t mind you seeing what’s inside me.
My breath catches. I have to stop being such a chicken, I think. It’s not that I’m afraid of him, exactly, because if there’s one person in this world who makes me feel safe, it’s Christian, but I’m scared to let go, to let what’s between us really happen. I’m afraid to lose myself.
“You won’t lose yourself,” he whispers.
Now we’re clearly both cheating.
I won’t? I ask silently.
Not with me, he says. You know who you are. You won’t let anyone take that away.
He loves that about me. He loves—
He pulls me closer and looks into my eyes. My heart careens wildly in my chest. I close my eyes, and his lips touch my cheek near my ear.
“Clara,” he says, my name is all, but it sends a tremor through me.
He draws back, and I know he’s going to kiss me, any second now, and I want him to, but in that moment, his lips inches from mine, I suddenly see Tucker’s face. Tucker’s blue eyes. Tucker’s mouth a breath away from mine.
Christian stops, his body going rigid. He sees what I see. He pulls away.
I open my eyes. “I—”
“Don’t.” He rakes his hand through his hair, stares off at the water. “Just … don’t.”
He hates me. I would hate me about now, too.
“I don’t hate you,” he says sharply. Sighs. “But I wish you would get over him.”
“I’m trying.”
“Not hard enough.” His eyes are flinty when he looks at me this time. He’s not used to chasing girls; they’ve always chased him. He’s certainly not used to being someone’s second choice. The thought makes him clench his jaw.
“I’m sorry,” I say. He deserves so much better than this.
He shakes his head and starts back up the beach toward the road. I trail after him, struggling to put my shoes on as I go.
“Wait,” I say. “Let’s not go yet. It’s still early. Maybe we can—”
“What would be the point?” he interrupts. “You think we should brush it off and try to pretend it didn’t happen? I’m not built that way.” He sighs again. “Let’s just go.”
I hate the idea of the silent drive back to Stanford. “I can get home by myself,” I say, taking a step back. “You go. I’m sorry.”
He stares at me, hands shoved in his pockets. “No. I should—”
I shake my head. “Good night, Christian,” I say, and then I close my eyes and call the glory and send myself away.
I mean to go to Buzzards Roost, someplace quiet, where I can think, but when the glory fades and my eyes adjust, I find myself in an enclosed space in pretty much pitch black. I almost have a panic attack right there, but then I think this can’t be my vision, my doom, because I left Christian behind. I stumble forward, arms outstretched, feeling at the floor with my feet, breathe out a sigh when I find that it’s not slanted. I encounter the wall, rough and wooden, and attempt to walk along it in slow, shuffling steps. I run into something like a row of rakes leaning against the wall, which fall to the floor with a very loud crash. I hurry to set them upright again, then figure, Screw it, and call the glory to light my way.
I hold up my hand and concentrate on drawing the glory inside it, the way Dad says you do with the glory sword, but right now I’m thinking lantern, not blade. I’m impressed with myself when I’m able to shape a glowing ball in my hand, which feels so warm and alive it makes my fingers tingle. Ah, glory, I think, so useful—the power of the Almighty when you need a weapon, but also doubles as a handy flashlight.
