She leaves her statement hanging as if it will bother me that something has been left unsaid, which, phsh, won’t work. I mean, just because the words just dangle in the air like a thousand pounds of rock doesn’t mean that I have to say something to close out the sentence. My knee bounces, and it causes the table to vibrate.
I’m not falling for it. Not at all... “Do you think Noah’s going to leave me?”
Aw, heck...my chin drops to my throat. Why did I ask that? I raise my head, hoping for a positive outcome to my slip. Mrs. Collins is good at putting things in perspective—good at making me discover things that are right in front of me.
What I prayed for doesn’t materialize as I meet her sad blue eyes. “I’m not a fortune teller, Echo.”
“It would be cool if you were.” I give her a weak grin, and she offers a genuine smile back.
“What makes you think Noah’s going to break up with you?”
I shrug, and Mrs. Collins leans forward so that her face encompasses the entire screen. “Tell me the first thing that pops into your mind. What makes you think Noah is going to leave you?”
I hate this game, but unfortunately, it’s effective. “I don’t know.”
“What do you eat at the movies?”
“Popcorn.”
“What color are you wearing?”
I glance down. “Blue.”
“What’s your middle name?”
“Cassandra.”
“Why do you think Noah’s going to leave you?”
“Because my mom did.” I honest to God groan after I answer. I’m so stinking pathetic.
“Why else?”
Evidently ripping out my heart and setting it on fire isn’t enough. Oh, sorry, it’s Mrs. Collins so no, she demands so much more—like my soul.
“Come on, Echo. Besides your mom, why do you think Noah’s going to leave you?”
“My dad left me.” Though not like Mom. He divorced Mom, married someone new and has begun a life that can continue fine without me. On top of that, my father ignored my desperate call to him for help the night I ended up with the scars. The night I almost died.
“Who else?” she says in a soft voice. “You know it’s safe to talk about it here.”
My lower lip trembles and I suck in a breath, trying to keep it all in: the words, the pain, the grief.
“Who else, Echo?” Mrs. Collins repeats as a lullaby.
“Aires left me,” I whisper.
She moves her camera so that the angle of her is less sharp horror film and more soft light. “We’ve been working together close to eight months and did you know that you rarely mention Aires?”
My head snaps up, and a wave of anger shouts at me to throw something at the screen. “Yes, I do.”
“Aires must have been a big part of your life, correct?”
There’s this ache deep within. Like millions of paper cuts. The type that happen quickly then continue to throb for days. Except this throb has lasted years, and each morning when I wake and think of Aires, it’s like someone pours alcohol over the open wound again and again. “I don’t want to talk about Aires.”
She nods as she scribbles into a file. I hate it when she does that. It’s like she’s tallying how many times those words have dripped out of my mouth.
“What about Noah?” I ask, trying to get the conversation back on course.
Mrs. Collins places the pen over the file and clasps her hands over it. “Let’s pause for a moment and see where our conversation has taken us. You’re afraid Noah’s going to leave you, yes?”
I bob my head in indifference because it feels like I’m cheating on Noah by even discussing this. “I guess.”
“You already feel like other people have left you.”
“My mom and dad,” I say for her.
“You also mentioned Aires.”
I pick at a fingernail instead of answering. “I asked about Noah.”
“Echo, I wonder if there are things we aren’t addressing. I wonder what you would say if I asked what Aires and Noah have in common.”
My eyes flash to hers. Noah walked into darkness, and it reminded me of Aires.
It’s like there are a thousand voices in my head and none of them belong to me. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
With one click of the button, Mrs. Collins disappears.
Noah
With his legs kicked out on the bed, Isaiah relaxes with his back against the headboard. Beth rests her head against his shoulder and is absorbed in a movie they found on one of the five cable stations. She’s not as green as before, but dark circles mar the skin underneath her eyes, plus she hasn’t bitched yet. She must still feel like shit.
I returned thirty minutes ago to discover Echo missing. I showered, shaved and when I reemerged from the bathroom a half pound of cooking grease lighter, Echo stood near the window, peeking out the curtains. The moment I walked out we packed, in coordinated silence, what we’d need for the night. I zip up my pack and I say, “You ready, baby?”
“I need a few minutes.”
Echo disappears into the bathroom, and Isaiah and I share a glance. “Give me a hand?”
Beth shifts to free Isaiah, and he grabs my stuff as I shoulder Echo’s. The moment we’re in the hallway and safely away, I jack my thumb toward the room. “Beth going to live?”
“Yeah. She said she feels like she’s still moving. I sure as shit hope she’s not sick. I don’t know if states take another state’s free insurance.”
“Give her until tomorrow, and then we’ll figure it out.”
I shove the door open with my back, and the heat of the day permeates from the concrete. The sun’s low in the west, and the blue horizon starts to merge into that pink that Echo loves. We’ve got maybe an hour and a half before sundown. Not much time to set up camp, especially since I promised I’d do it on my own.
With the push of a button on Echo’s key chain, her trunk pops open, and Isaiah and I set the stuff in. “Is Echo okay?” I ask.
Isaiah pulls on his bottom earring before squeezing the last bag into a cramped spot. “She didn’t say anything when she came in. I saw her a while ago, though. She was hanging out in some room with her computer.”
“Yeah.” That’s where I left her.
“Look, bro. We were talking then that Mrs. Collins contacted Echo...”
“I got it,” I tell him so he doesn’t have to explain. Part of me is relieved to hear Mrs. Collins is the reason for Echo being withdrawn and not me. “Echo can get that way after they talk.” It can also mean night terrors.
“I’m not sure that’s what got her—”
“Isaiah, Beth’s asking for you,” Echo says the moment she exits the hotel.
He warily eyes Echo, and my mouth turns down when I notice her mirror Isaiah’s dark expression. What the hell? Isaiah offers his hand to me. “Have a great time.”
I accept the short shake. “We’ll catch up tomorrow.”
“S’all good,” he says then strides over to Echo, who’s hanging by the hotel entrance.
I pretend not to watch as I rearrange the cooler. Since Echo and I became the real deal after I gave up my brothers, the two of them have become tight. Not as tight as me and him and not as tight as him and Beth, but there’s an understanding between them. Nothing romantic, just a sense of acceptance on a different level.
He lowers his voice and mumbles something to her. Echo nods and offers him a half smile. She whispers back, but knowing Echo well enough I can read her lips. “It’s okay. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“It’s my shit,” he answers in a normal tone and places his hand over his heart like he’s swearing a promise. “Not yours. Won’t happen again.”
She holds out her arms to offer a hug.
He looks over his shoulder at me, and I slightly tip my chin in approval. It’s a quick hug, one like I’d give my brothers, and Isaiah says something to Echo that makes her laugh as they both walk away.
“You and Isaiah okay?” I close the trunk after he enters the hotel.
“Yes.”
It’s like dragging concrete through mud. “Are you going to tell me what’s up?”
She folds her hands over her chest and holds her elbows like she’s cold. “If you want me to, but I think it’s better left behind.”
Neither of them would do me wrong. Few things can press Isaiah’s buttons, and it’s the same type of button that can propel Echo over the edge. “You guys talk about moms?”
She nods.
“Then I get it.”
“Does that bother you?” she asks. “That we talked and that we hugged?”
I lock my finger around her belt loop and bring her closer to me. “The opposite. It feels good to know I have a family.”
Echo
In the fading evening sun, my hand rushes against the page as I attempt to capture the way the long grass of the field dances in the light breeze. I love the colors here: the deep green of the grass, the dark blue of the water cutting through the meadow, the still barely snowcapped purplish mountains looming in the distance.
What cements this picturesque scene is the sky. Behind me to the east, the black-blue of night races me to the end, threatening to cover the way the oranges and pinks and reds of the sunset bleed together. The scent of pine is thick here. So thick the smell is probably being absorbed by the page, and I hope it is. I want to remember this moment—forever.
My eyes narrow as I try to defeat the night, but like always, time runs out, and I’m on the losing end. No longer able to see, I drop the oil crayon and fall back onto my elbows on the ground.
To my right, there’s a click, and the area brightens as the rest of the world falls dark. The lantern Noah and I purchased back in April for this trip flickers before remaining lit. Sitting next to it, Noah’s sexy as heck as he watches me from beyond the hair that hides his eyes.
“Hi,” I say, like I’m a shy child caught peeking around the corner.
“Hey,” he replies.
“How long have you been there?”
“Awhile.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear and busy myself with slipping the oil pastels back into their allotted slots of the container. “You could have told me that you were done with the campsite.”
“Could’ve,” he says. “But then I wouldn’t have been able to watch you.”
My cheeks burn and when I don’t respond, Noah inches close enough to caress my cheek. “I love it when you do that.”
“What?” I ask a little breathlessly. His fingers brush against my skin, causing goose bumps on my arms.
“Look at me like the first time you told me you loved me.”
The heat rising off my face intensifies. Noah cups my jaw and skims his thumb against my skin one more time. I swallow, thinking of his lips touching mine.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
My stomach growls as if it recognized the question, and Noah’s mouth tilts into this slow, seductive smile. Those mutant pterodactyls that Noah spawned when we began the game of flirting months ago spread their wings and fly. This is what I miss about us—the simplicity in the chaos.
Noah stands and offers me his hand. I gather my sketchbook and pastels and when my hand is firmly in his, he lifts the lantern and leads me from the field to the campground.
We hold hands on the dirt path, our fingers entwined. The long grass lazily grazes along my thighs. Noah doesn’t hold hands often. In fact, it was one of the few rules I understood, and it’s not lost on me how special this moment is. It’s like the roses. Noah’s showing me his love.
Because of that, I concentrate on the rough sensation of his skin against mine. The heat between our palms. How his larger and stronger fingers grasping mine make me feel smaller, extremely feminine and protected.
Near the entrance of the campsite are two camper trailers, and on the far left, closer to the bathroom facilities, are a few more tents. Noah set us up as far from everyone as humanly possible, designing our own little world.
With one firm squeeze, Noah releases my fingers and leaves me and the lantern at a blanket he laid out next to the tent. He quickly goes to work lighting the campfire. Without a doubt, the fire has been my favorite part of camping. I love the fluttering light, the scent of the smoke, the way I lose myself while admiring the flames.
At the start of our trip, I asked Noah if the campfires bothered him, and he told me no. He said they reminded him of all the times his parents took him camping. Still, a part of me wonders what he really sees when he looks into the fire.
“There’s some food in the cooler,” Noah says. “Hope you don’t mind, but I already ate.”
“Not at all.” Noah’s familiar with my odd artistic moods and learned he could be waiting for hours until I officially wake to reality. I root through the cooler and smile when I find a ham and cheese deli sandwich on wheat drenched with honey mustard. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Damn, baby, I’ve got to step up my game if ham’s a spoil.”
I tear off a corner of the sandwich. “It’s the thought, not the ham.”
Noah clicks the lighter, and flint sparks against metal. He places the glowing flame near the wood. He doesn’t say anything, but I spot the satisfied glint in his eye.
Inside the tent, Noah has created a cozy layer of blankets and pillows—illustrating how he’s polished the fine art of presentation. I turn to tease him, but Noah quickly averts his focus to the kindling. I could grow accustomed to being wooed by the great Noah Hutchins.
With the fire crackling toward a slow roar, Noah slides next to me, and I pop the last bite of my favorite fast dinner into my mouth, licking the last drops of honey mustard off my fingers. Right as I go to lick my ring finger, Noah snags my wrist, and my breath catches in my throat.
Noah opens his mouth and draws my finger in, his tongue moving against my skin in a way that causes a warm tingle in my belly. It’s a pressure and a pull and a sensation I crave to melt into. His eyes lock with mine, and it’s like I’m hypnotized—powerless over him, but I love being here...I love being under his spell.
Noah lets my finger go and when he does, I can barely breathe. He reaches over and brushes his thumb near the corner of my mouth. “You have some sauce...” Another brush. “Right there.”
My mouth slightly drops open, and Noah keeps his hand at my face. All thought starts and stops and races. I should kiss Noah’s hand like he did mine, but I freeze, wondering if that’s what he wants or if he’d laugh if I did.
His hand glides down my face, lingers on my neck then moves on to my shoulder. I’m split between being disappointed in avoiding what could have been a moment, and enjoying Noah’s touch.
“Come here,” he says, and he leans back against the cooler and leads me so that I’m resting between his legs. I settle in and lay my back against his chest as he wraps his arms around me. I inhale his dark scent, and I have the overwhelming feeling of coming home.
Noah
Echo releases a slow breath and for the first time since I’ve known her, she sets her gaze on the stars. There’s a million of them in the sky. Each stop across the country has been a perfect spot to observe them, but Echo always chose to stare straight ahead at the flames. Because of that, warm, cold or boiling hot, I’ve created a fire.
As she peers at the sight she avoids, I comb my fingers through her curls. “What do you see when you look up?”
Echo adds another protective layer around herself by tucking her hands under my arms. “Aires.”
I focus on the stars. Bright and dim lights dot a black
sky. It’s disorganized chaos to me, but Echo recognizes patterns and pictures in the confusion. I wish I could view the world through her eyes. I might be less jaded then. “Where’s his constellation at?”
“It’s a December constellation for the northern hemisphere.”
“Then why Aires?” This is a tricky conversation with Echo. The stars above, they’re a deep root in her life—like how Spanish is a bond between me and my mother and architecture is between me and my dad. There are times that I talk to my friends Rico and Antonio in their first language, and a knife slashes through my gut and, as I prepare to study architecture this fall, I sometimes feel as if someone has punched me in the throat.
While I like the bonds that link me to my parents, there are times the gift of the memories serves as a curse. But Echo has been distant the past few days, and I need her to give me this. I need her trust.
Echo
Noah rubs his smooth jaw against my cheek and when he eases back, he nips the tip of my ear. Heat spreads down my neck, through my body and makes me very aware of me and Noah and where this night could lead...
“Tell me, Echo,” he coaxes. “Why do you think of Aires when you look at the stars?”
I clear my throat and fight the haze of seduction, remembering we were discussing Aires. My head falls back on his shoulder so I can lazily scan the sky. Hercules stretches across the horizon as well as Draco the Dragon. What would it be like to look up and see nothing but random stars...to be ignorant of the stories involving not only heaven, but hell?
Cuddled in Noah’s arms, I try to find words to explain. “Mom was the one who taught us the night sky, but Aires was the one who brought it to life. He loved the myths far more than I did and he was a better storyteller than Mom. We’d lie out for hours during the summer or huddled up under blankets during the winter, and Aires would tell me the same stories Mom had told me, but when he talked, I couldn’t get enough.”
Like the last summer I saw Aires...I stepped out of my old boyfriend Luke’s car, and the humidity of the night smacked me like a truck. The garage door was open, and Dad’s car was missing. My stomach had sunk with the sight. Mr. Overprotective, Mr. I’ll-Be-Upset-if-Any-Boy-Brings-You-Home-a-Minute-Late had left, and there are times when a girl returns from a bad date and she wants her dad.