Chapter 14
Ophelia
There’s nothing wrong with me. He’s just being polite. Lanston doesn’t come off as the kiss-you-hard-on-the-third-day-I-know-you type of guy.
I blow out a breath.
I have to tell myself that a few times as I look for a fifteen-year-old satchel in the dark. We search for over thirty minutes before ultimately joining back at the top of the stairwell. The only source of light is from the lamp posts. Lanston waits, leaning over the edge with his forearms against the railing.
He really is stuck in his past. I observe him before getting closer, trying to picture him before. He seems like someone who used to smile constantly, the light of the party.
A smile pulls at the corner of my lips as I think of something that might cheer him up.
I walk straight by him and start walking down the stairs to the neighborhood below. I cast a look over my shoulder up at him, finding his gaze heavy on me. Confusion pulls at his features for only a second, then he catches my wicked grin and shoves off the rails.
“Where are you going?” he calls after me, but I quicken my pace down the stairs and his footsteps hasten.
It’s hard to keep in the laughter that bubbles up from my throat, but I manage as I try to focus on each step. The second my feet hit the ground level of the dark neighborhood, I’m racing off toward the alley.
I slow as I pass a small yellow house with a trashed backyard. There’s an old swing set at the center. My feet falter as I take in the familiar setting—the carelessness of the home’s appearance and the clutter that’s been left to the elements and time.
My family had this exact swing set. The two chain-link swings slowly glide back and forth in the breeze. Lanston’s footsteps draw closer, but I don’t look at him as he slows. He stands beside me, only his breath disturbing the cold evening air. Warmth rolls off his skin and his lovely scent of torn pages invades my senses.
My jaw sets as I refuse to let my gaze lift from the swings.
“What’s wrong?” Lanston dips down, setting both hands on either of my arms so his face is level with mine. He inspects me for any harm, but when he finds none, he focuses on my eyes.
I force my jaw to unclench and bury my teeth into my lower lip. Why do I find the swing set so upsetting? My gut twists.
He follows my gaze and looks at the swings. His hands loosen but he doesn’t let me go. Instead, he pulls me in for a tight hug. I’m so surprised by it that I let out a small gasp that gets caught in the fabric of his sweater. One of his hands braces my midback, securing me close to his chest, while his other cups the back of my neck. He rests his head on mine and my eyes widen.
Tears roll down my cheek and fall on his sweater—I hadn’t realized they’d even formed.
“It’s okay to be sad, my rose,” he whispers, and the sound of his voice is all I can hear in a world so dark.
How long has it been since I’ve been embraced like this? I let my eyes fall closed and decide that I don’t care. I don’t want to remember anything except this—only him.
I raise my hands and press them to his shoulder blades, embracing him as endearingly as he does me. The warmth of his chest draws a sensation of security into my heart.
He pecks a kiss on the top of my head and slowly pulls away, grinning sadly and shaking his head. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”
It’s impossible not to smile back at a man such as Lanston Nevers.
“I’ll tell if you do,” I say quietly, as if someone might hear us.
Lanston brushes his thumb over my cheek; heat follows in its wake as my cheeks flush.
“Deal.” He looks up at the roof of the house, then back to me. “Ever sit on a roof before?”
I crack a half-grin. “Of course.”
“Here, I’ll help you up.” He doesn’t even bother asking as he grabs my hand and guides us over to the side of the yellow house. He lifts me up on top of a garbage can and I manage to climb up from there. Lanston doesn’t have any trouble climbing on his own, and he nods to the center of the roof where the peak resides.
We sit together with our shoulders touching, hands gently entwined. I’ve half forgotten what we even came up here to discuss before he breaks the silence.
“I keep thinking about how I’ll never be able to make new memories with them.” My heart breaks with the sorrow in his voice. I stare down at our hands joined, fingers interlaced and gently brushing together. “I never got to be anything but the fuck-up son. The friend who died.”
I take a deep breath and look up at the sky breaking with clouds and stars.
“I’m certain that’s not true,” I tell him gently.
He leans his head against mine and murmurs back, “How can you be so sure?”
“Your mind will lie to you more than anyone else will, Lanston. You weren’t a fuck-up and you were not just the friend who died.” I pause to let that sit with him a moment. “You are a hero. Why are you the only one who cannot see that?”
He lets out a weary laugh. “Because I don’t feel like a hero. I’m just… me. Sad. Depressed… dead.”
“I’ll remind you forever if I have to,” I threaten. He doesn’t make a sound, but I can feel his grin against my shoulder.
“I could get used to that.”
“I’m sure you could.”
“Now you.”
My stomach churns and my gaze falls back to the swings below. I think for a long moment, trapped in a place I’d forgotten or rather chose to leave behind.
Lanston shifts, his chin now resting on my shoulder and his lips coasting the tender flesh of my ear. Our interlocked hands on his thigh burn hotter.
“Does it have to do with your murder?” he asks sincerely.
My eyes wince instinctively at that word. “Not really, but I guess it’s where it started.”
This close, I can feel each breath he takes, drawing cool spells over my skin. I crave this sort of affection. The kind that is patient and attentive. Quiet but so loud in every other sense.
I swallow.
“My parents had a swing set just like that one. A yard just as trashed too. When I was in trouble, my stepmom would lock me out of the house and leave me outside for hours alone. I would sit on the swings for so long that I had indented lines on the bottom of my thighs.” The knot in my throat builds and I know I can’t swallow it. “After the years passed and I grew older, I’d just leave and go crash at a friend’s house instead. But I never forgot about the swings and how long I sat there, wondering why I was so bad. I really tried, you know. I would tell myself, tomorrow I’ll be better. I can change.”
Lanston lifts his head off my shoulder and I know he’s looking at me, but I’m not ready to meet his gaze.
I let out a sad, bitter laugh. “Do you want to know the fucked up part? My being bad was stupid shit that kids are supposed to do. I grew to hate the things I couldn’t change about myself. The way I craved to sing and dance more than anything. I grew to hate myself.”
He squeezes my hand harder and only then do I meet his eyes. They’re filled with many words, many apologies that no one else would say when I truly needed them.
“The swings remind you of your stolen childhood,” he finally says.
I ponder the statement, then nod.
From up here, I’m beginning to see how small the swings truly are. How insignificant and unimportant, and yet they manage to trigger me in many ways. Loneliness, mainly, I think. The hours of dried tear stains and cold fingers curled helplessly on the chains.
“When I look at them, all the rejection and abandonment return. And all the partial healing I’ve managed is gone.”
Silence.
Lanston springs to his feet. My head snaps up to his, automatically following his motion. The tears that had started to brim in my eyes are swiftly blinked away. He’s pulling me up before I can even utter a word.
“Let’s fuck up that swing set!” he shouts to the universe, chin raised dramatically, before looking back down at me and scooping me up into his arms, then running down the roof.
I instinctively let out a scream and cling to his shoulders. “Lanston!” I laugh-shout.
But he doesn’t stop. He leaps off the roof, laughing like a complete psycho, and lands on both feet with a small grunt. As the cold night air recedes, a playful heat rushes through my veins.
He sets me down and grabs a bat from one of the piles of trash in the yard. “Here—Fuck. It. Up.” His smile is bright and void of any thoughts.
“Why? That’s insane–”
“I swear you’ll feel better.”
I consider him for a moment and then sigh, taking the wooden bat from his outstretched hand. “Fine. But you have to help.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Like I’d sit this one out.” He winks and grabs a long pipe.
The following five minutes are the best of my entire life. The absolute rush of adrenaline that pumps through my veins is intoxicating. Blood rushes to my head and laughter escapes my lips without any effort. I swing the bat like I’ve never swung before. The chained swings shatter and break into pieces across the yard.
Lanston laughs beside me, swinging just as hard and breaking the legs of the set. His shirt lifts with each swing and I watch as his muscles flex and move so flawlessly. His spine is defined and one small, round red spot at the center of it stops my heart.
His trace of death.
The sad thought only lasts a second because his maniacal, larger-than-life grin grounds me back into the moment. He tosses his pipe and grabs the bat from my hands, throwing it behind him and reaching for my hand.
I burst into laughter again. “What are you doing now?”
He pulls me behind him, two phantoms running down a dark alley in the middle of the night, and shouts, “We just destroyed personal property! We have to get the fuck out of here.”
Lanston knows as well as I do that the swings are intact on the living side. Our debauchery has no consequences, but I play along because this is easily the best night of my life.
We don’t stop running until we reach his crotch rocket back on the main street. On the ride back to Harlow, I squeeze him tighter than I usually do with a smile that warms my soul.