Haunt Me (Heartbreaker Duet #2)

seven

The next morning is exactly the same.

It’s still October in New England and I’m still bored out of my mind.

I am, as always, thinking about my dad. Missing him. Trying to take a breath, and another one, and another one.

But.

Something has changed.

For one thing, I slept during the night. I did not wake up sweating from nightmares like I usually do, and I did not lie there staring at the dark ceiling as tears ran down my temples into my ears.

I wake up with morning light streaming through the curtains, disoriented and panicked from the long night’s sleep. I jolt up and get dressed without looking at what I’m choosing. Then I grab my violin and run out into the hall. I slept all through breakfast, too.

It’s Saturday, so there are few teachers around. I head straight for the gates, realizing I forgot my violin’s case in my haste. I don’t even know why I took it with me—I promised myself that I wouldn’t play anymore after dad died. It felt wrong to enjoy it when he was dead.

It also felt somehow wrong to enjoy it before, simply because I wasn’t as good at it as my brother is.

But still that stubborn violin won’t leave my side. It’s as if it’s got a mind of its own. And then suddenly I remember that I composed a song for the girl from the woods on it last night, and I realize that’s why I’m carrying the violin.

The song is trapped inside the violin. The one I had promised myself I couldn’t—wouldn’t play anymore.

There are birds chirping when I go outside, the morning sun blinding my sleep-heavy eyelids. I haven’t been outside this early in the day in months. Blinking, I find my way to the back fence, climb it, and walk out into the woods, stupidly looking for her. Looking for Eden.

My eyes find her silhouette in the orange autumn light. She’s sitting under her tree, reading a book. She is wearing the same oversized sweater as yesterday; it’s so big on her that her pleated skirt is barely visible under it. I try to approach her slowly, but the minute I reach her, a huge smile breaks out on my lips. I can’t help it. A branch breaks under my feet and she looks up, sharply.

I remember every little detail of her face. Those eyes of hers look so big they take up almost half her face.

There is a plaster on her knee. I wish I had put it there.

I stop a few inches away from her, scared.

Scared I will be electrified again if I get too close to her.

“Why were you crying the other day?” I ask her and her cheeks catch on fire.

She looks down, embarrassed.

I could have just said ‘hi’ like a normal person, but I had to blurt that out. Nailed it.

“Was I?” she replies in that deep voice that catches me by surprise.

She says it much the same way she has said everything so far: with a hint of sarcasm and a whole lot of boredom. As if it’s half a question and half a joke.

“It was barely noticeable,” I tell her, trying to mimic her tone. On me, instead of impossibly cool, it sounds childish. How does she do it? “I shouldn’t have asked,” I add quickly, in my own voice, noticing the blush spread down to her neck. “It’s none of my business and I…”

“I thought I was going to hell,” she replies and my eyes bulge. She what? Is she kidding? She shrugs. “It’s true, I genuinely did,” she says, as if she can read my mind.

How does she do that?

“Oh.”

I don’t quite know what to say .

“Yeah.” She pushes a large leaf around with the tip of her boot. “I thought it would be instant, you know? The minute I did the thing I wasn’t supposed to do… Whoosh!” She makes a gesture, pointing to the earth. “I’d be in hell. But it turns out I was wrong.” Her eyes meet mine and my breath catches. They are big and brown, and as the sun’s rays reflect off them, they seem to be made of dark gold. “I wasn’t going to hell. I was just running away from it.”

I take a step closer. “I know exactly how that feels.”

“You do?” she doesn’t get up. I am standing so close, I could reach out and grab the end of her braid. I could go on one knee in front of her and pull her close to me by it. And once our faces were on the same level, I could…

“Who knew hell would be in Amherst, of all places,” she murmurs. Again, it’s not a question. Just a really cool observation. Not to mention a pretty accurate one.

“Emily Dickinson lived here,” I blurt out. James would be so proud. “Did you know—of course you knew that,” I interrupt my own sentence, stumbling over my words in one of my smoothest moves yet, if I do say so myself. “Every kid within a fifty mile radius has been taught her poems to death. School trips—forced to memorize…”

“ Hope is the thing with feathers ,” she starts.

“… that nestles in the soul ,” I finish, and then I turn red.

“Hey, you know it!” Her eyes light up and I swear, I forget how to exist.

Her entire face is transformed.

“Yeah,” I look down, too embarrassed by the fact that one, I am quoting Emily freaking Dickinson to this random girl I only just met, and two, she absolutely loved it. “Doesn’t everyone?”

She snorts and I relax a little. “I would not be the right person to ask that.”

“You… what?” Do I sound as stupid as I feel? Probably worse. My brain has turned to mush.

“She lived her whole life in a room,” Eden says, her eyes taking on a far-off look. “Imagine that… A whole life in a single room.”

She looks at her watch. It’s too big for her wrist, and it looks like a man’s watch. It’s probably her dad’s. A wave of grief hits me so hard it nearly knocks me off my feet. It’s not the first time this has happened to me, but it’s the first time that I forgot. I forgot he’s gone. It was just for a few seconds, while we were quoting Emily Dickinson, but it happened .

Am I allowed to forget, even for a second? I can’t make up my mind, but it doesn’t matter, because suddenly there is not enough air to breathe. I am drowning.

I am drowning in guilt far more than I am drowning in pain. But it doesn’t matter; it’s still drowning.

“Hey, where did you go?” her voice brings me back.

I stumble, and her arm flashes out to catch me. She only touches my sleeve, but it’s enough for the same shot of electricity to zap through me. The same thing that happened yesterday. What is up with that?

I tug my sleeve free, and I think it’s a smooth and imperceptive little gesture, but she notices. The transformation is instant, and it is complete. She makes herself smally at once, shoulders hunched, that haunted look back on her face.

I swallow a curse and kneel down on the leaves next to her.

“Just thinking of all the studying I have to do,” I say casually as if an entire war isn’t happening inside me. Erupting between us. “And I don’t want to do it.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” she says, voice back to her sarcastic monotone.

“Which school do you go to?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “Homeschooled,” she replies. “You’d think it would be fun, but…”

“Hell?” I ask, hoping for that smile again.

It does not come. She just looks at me, her gaze serious and examining. I can’t look away from those eyes.

“Are you in pain?” I ask her.

“You mean my knee? No, it’s fine. Thank you for binding… Thanks.”

“No problem.”

She looks at her book. “Are you in pain?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You were crying,” she says. “Barely able to breathe. You were not ok.”

My eyebrow shoots up. “How could you tell?”

I don’t deny that I was crying. It feels surreal, talking to a girl who looks like she might be a ghost. Admitting to her, of all people, that I was hurting.

“I could,” she shrugs. She does that a lot. It drives me crazy. “Are you in pain now?”

“Kind of, yes.” What is it with this girl? Why does she get the truth out of me so effortlessly ?

“I am too,” she admits. “But not from my knee.”

“I know what kind of pain you’re talking about. I think.”

She looks down. “If you know anything about pain,” she says, “I’m sorry.”

The familiar dull ache begins behind my eyelids. No. She can’t do this to me. She doesn’t get to break me just like that. But, man, that ‘I’m sorry’ she said. And the way she said it. As if she saw me. As if she saw my pain.

As if she can feel it.

As if like recognized like.

God, I hope that’s not true.

I get up, but then I hesitate.

“Can I sit down next to you so we can maybe… do this together?” I ask her.

“Do what?”

“Hurting.”

She looks at me for a really long time. Her eyes are so unnerving, I’m sure I flinch about a million times. But I don’t look away.

“Yeah,” she says finally, making room for me even though there’s a literal forest available. But I want to sit next to her. Almost touching her arm, but not quite. Almost feeling her warmth but not quite.

So we sit there for the next two hours, hurting together.

I could spend the whole week like this , I think. The whole year.

I don’t know it yet, but I will.

…

I meet her on Monday after classes are over.

I bring my violin with me again, and I play the music I wrote that night for her. Eden just sits there, quietly, listening to me try to figure out how the music goes, without being awkward and impatient, as if we’ve known each other forever.

“It’s nice,” she says at some point. “This version.”

“What?” my head spins around so fast I get whiplash. “What do you mean this version?”

“You’re composing the melody, right? The song is not finished yet—you’re trying different endings.”

“You know music? ”

“Nope. But it’s obvious.”

“It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who hasn’t studied music,” I observe.

“And you have.”

“Boy, do I have. Since I was born. Have you studied music at all? Even as a kid?”

“I told you, no,” she sounds a bit irritated and I backtrack quickly.

“Sorry, I just… I don’t know how you could tell that it’s a better version, if you haven’t studied—”

“By your face, you idiot,” she snaps. “I could tell by your face. It looked transformed when you were playing it right.”

Oh.

“Who are you calling an idiot?” I’m smiling so widely my cheeks are going to hurt in a minute. But there’s just this triumph of joy running through me. She called me an idiot. Maybe she likes me. Then again, maybe she just realized what everyone else already knows: how huge of an idiot I am.

“You,” she replies without smiling. But her voice does not sound irritated anymore. “Play it again, you idiot. With the last ending you came up with.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, and put the violin under my chin.

I play on.

The next day, she brings a different book. She just sits under a tree and reads while I play my violin for two hours. The church’s clock tower, barely visible over the orange treetops, chimes in the distance. It’s time for me to go back, and it takes me by surprise. I don’t think we have exchanged a word between us the whole time, and yet I didn’t feel alone for a second.

She doesn’t come the next day.

On Thursday I sneak out to the woods during lunch break—I can’t wait until after all my classes are done. It’s raining and I stand under the trees, head tipped up to taste the rain.

“You could drown like this. If you were a cat and it was raining,” a voice says behind me. I turn around so quickly I get light-headed.

“You’re here,” I say stupidly.

Her face falls, and before I know what’s happening, she is turning around to leave. There is this look on her face, as if she thinks she is not wanted or something. I lift a hand to stop her.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t be,” I add .

“Oh.”

Her hair falls long and black down her back. It sticks damply to her sweater, as though she has been walking in the rain. Up close I can see that her nose is tiny and freckled. Her lips are a vibrant red, and diamond-shaped raindrops stand on them. My heart beats in my ears and my legs nearly melt under me, making me stumble, but I keep my eyes on her. If I look down, she’ll run away. She is still looking skittish, so I touch her white wrist, tracing the outline of a delicate bone there with trembling fingers.

I close my eyes, almost in pain.

This. This. This is more powerful than music. Who would have thought anything could ever be?

“Stay,” I whisper.

Her eyes are wild as they search mine. What are they searching for? I would give anything to know what is going through her head right now. But I can’t find the words to ask her. I have to find the words.

“Did you think that—?” I try, but I can’t continue. I don’t know how to ask her. Instead, I chicken out. “Were you ok yesterday?”

“I was lonely,” she replies. “But I couldn’t get away.”

“D’you want to give me your number?” I ask her. I have never asked a girl for her number more awkwardly before, and I don’t even care. I just need her number so that I don’t freak out again if she’s not under our tree.

“My number?” she kind of freezes.

“Yeah, so… erm, so we can talk about when to meet.”

“Look, I missed talking to you too,” she says, and I’m weak with relief. How can she be so honest and direct, just like that? So unembarrassed? I second-guess every word I say to her. “But it’s… it’s too early for phones yet, don’t you think?”

I smile. “It’s never too early for phones.”

“I only got mine a few days ago.” She looks away. “I’m too old to only get my own phone now, I know…”

“No no,” I quickly interrupt her. “Well. How old are you?”

“Fifteen. My dad…” she tenses a bit at the word. “He is very strict.”

“Oh.” I’d forgotten there are parents like that, parents that wrap themselves like a noose around their kids. In my grief, I had forgotten that not everyone’s parents are a treasure.

“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it.

“It’s whatever,” she shrugs .

That shrug again. Suddenly, I wonder if her having strict parents is related to her knee was bleeding when I found her. Maybe she had run away.

“Don’t let it bother you,” she says, as if she can tell what I’m thinking. Again. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” I ask gently.

“Yes,” she replies, faking confidence. My lips curl into a smile. “So, no phones, ok?”

“Ok,”

To me, it sounded less like ‘no phones’ and more like ‘no phones yet’ . A shiver of anticipation travels down my spine, and I haven’t felt that in months.

“I’m almost sixteen,” I offer, “and you’re probably right. We only just met, I get it.”

She doesn’t say anything, presenting me with a nice view of her neck. I sigh, frustrated. I made her want to hide again, dammit . Maybe her dad is right: it is too soon. If she gave me her number now, I would not stop texting her—I would do nothing but text her. And she’s probably too young to be giving out her number to boys anyway. She is definitely inexperienced. I need to slow down. I need to calm down. Except I can’t. My skin is buzzing, too tight for my body. I don’t know what to do with myself.

I grab a piece of gum out of my pocket and put it in my mouth. I offer her some, holding out the package. She looks at it as if it’s going to bite her.

“Want some?” I say awkwardly.

I imagine her taking the piece from my fingers and immediately I go weak in the legs. What is wrong with me? It’s the exact same thing that happened when I put the bandage on her knee. I barely touched her skin then—and now, I’m not even touching her.

The very idea gets me all hot and bothered. Which is ridiculous, isn’t it? I barely know this girl. The fact that this tiny person is affecting me so much by saying so little scares the crap out of me.

I want to get to know her and to stop being a complete moron around her. But for that to happen, my legs need to stop turning to mush and my mouth needs to start communicating with my brain asap. And neither of these things seem to be happening right now. I’m just standing here, holding out a piece of gum without saying a word, and she is staring at me as if I’m having a stroke.

Which, fair point, I think I actually am .

You are the only thing that pulls me out of the sadness , I want to say to her. Save me, and I will save you back , I want to scream to her. Instead, I repeat:

“Want some?”

“What is it?” she asks, looking down at my hand.

Weird question, but I might have misheard her due to all the strokes I’ve been having.

“Gum?” I reply uncertainly.

“Oh ok.” She takes it in her slender fingers. Looks at it, turns it this way and that. “Seriously, what is this?”

“You know, gum. You chew it and stuff.”

“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen it up close,” she says. “It’s… way thinner and harder than I thought.”

“Wait, do you have an allergy to gum or something?”

“No,” she replies, unwrapping it as if it’s a ritual. I watch her, mesmerized by her every move. “Wow!”

She looks so impressed and I don’t know what to do. She puts it in her mouth and I watch her lips close around the pink piece of gum. I think I know what suffocating actually feels like. I keep looking at her mouth moving around the gum and I completely forget how to breathe.

It's completely worth it, too.

“Gum is so worth the hype,” she says, her mouth full.

“There is no hype surrounding gum,” I murmur, hardly knowing what I’m saying. I should be saying, help, I’m losing my mind over here, watching a girl chewing gum in the woods. But I don’t say it. I don’t care that I’m losing my mind.

“Oh, there’s definitely hype around it, trust me.” She is chewing with vigor. “And this is coming from someone who had no idea it existed until a year ago, when I randomly heard about it in a movie.”

Ok, she’s definitely kidding.

“Who has never had gum before?” I burst out laughing.

She tentatively joins in the laughing and next thing I know, I’m teaching her how to blow bubbles. We end up sitting on a tree stump, chewing gum like a couple of five-year-olds. I think this might be the best day of my life.

A wave of joy and protectiveness grips me and I don’t know what to do with it. Except I do know. I need to stay the heck away from touching her and be more careful with her than I’ve ever been in my whole life. She is fragile, possibly broken, although not as broken as me, thankfully. She can’t be. No one is .

But she is a little na?ve and sheltered, she doesn’t know a lot of things, and I don’t want to scare her away. I want to keep her , I realize. I will keep her. I don’t want to do anything to scare her away. The one thing more important than sitting next to her right now is making sure she will be here again tomorrow.

So, naturally, I go all sullen and silent.

Being happy is synonym with feeling guilty now. My brain won’t allow it. So my laughter is cut short, and I look stonily straight ahead; it doesn’t seem to bother her.

This is the best day of my life, and I can’t even smile about it .

But for once, here in the woods, with her, it’s ok. It’s ok not to smile. No one is expecting me to, and that makes it easier to breathe. No, not easier: possible. I steal glances at her—I can’t help it. She isn’t smiling either anymore, but she stays. She picks up her book again, and chews the gum while reading it.

I stop pretending I am not looking at her.

I think: A week ago, I came here with lungs bursting, gasping for air like a drowning man surfacing from the darkest depths of the ocean, and I found oxygen. I found air. I found her.

I take in a breath so deep I almost keel over.

She, absorbed in her book, doesn’t even appear to notice. We don’t talk for the rest of the day, but that’s ok. I know now that she isn’t here because she’s expecting me to talk to her, to entertain her, or to do anything specific.

She is here because I am here.

I am enough, just by existing.

…

Two days later, it’s raining again—really pouring down this time. Her braid is dripping, her lips pink with droplets. I take off my blazer and drape it around her shoulders. It drowns her.

“Are you soaked all the way through your sweater?” I ask her. “Are you going to get pneumonia on me?” She shakes her head. “How long did you walk in the rain to get to me?”

My voice is hoarse, clogged with emotion and need. My lips are brushing the top of her hair as I lean over her, and she smells like rain and woods, and I am about to lose it. I am about to lower my head and kiss her until I pass out.

“Kind of,” she replies, oblivious to the haze that’s taken over my mind. “I had to walk far to get to this part of the woods. But it’s the prettiest, don’t you think? ”

“Now that you’re here it is,” I murmur, my voice cracking with the need to fold her against my chest.

“Barf,” she says.

I freeze. Take a step back. She looks like she means it. So I cut out all the flirty stuff, cold turkey. I wrestle that beast of devastating need back inside me, and keep it zipped. Tight.

“Come on,” I say and it sounds all strangled.

We take shelter under a huge beech tree, and she shakes the raindrops from her hair.

In order to not go insane, I try to distract myself with music.

“Here, want to listen to this?” I hold out an earphone to her.

“What is it?”

“Something that will make the rain better,” I reply.

“It’s already perfect.”

“I know.” She’s looking at the rain, and I’m looking at her. “But this will make it perfecter.”

She scoffs, but she puts it in her ear.

We listen to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in C Minor together as the rain dances around our tree, and then I make her a bracelet out of a broken guitar chord.

I will write about this. People all over the world will memorize the lyrics and sing along with my voice:

Our jewelry a broken string

Beethoven was our song

and rain was the melody.

But right now none of this exists. Nor does the pain that will result in a song as powerful as that one will become. Right now, it’s just us and the rain. And my man, Beethoven. It doesn’t get much more perfect than this.