Chapter 45
Damien
Play - State Lines by Novo Amor
Warmth from cold hands
I haven’t managed to think about anything else since halloween, which is pretty irritating.
A scared mind reaches for whatever feels familiar and I know that much. I reached for Bobby when I started being more tired than angry after my mother left.
There are dozens of perfectly rational explanations for why she called me instead of anyone else, instead of her friends, or even the police. I’ve repeated every single one of them to myself during the first two days. But none of them explain why I keep hearing my name in her voice.
And now, I sit where she usually does, at the very edge of the cliff. My feet hang over the void, and the lighter is between my fingers, opening and closing over and over again.
This morning I folded a little piece of paper and placed it between the pages of her assignment before class. The problem is I still remember the exact moment she found it, the way her eyes moved as she read it and the smile she offered.
Apparently my mind decided it was worth replaying as I’m waiting for her.
The cigarette sits between my lips as I flick open the lighter. The wind immediately tries to take the flame away, forcing me to shield it with my palm. I lean closer, protecting it long enough to light it up. I take the first drag, letting the smoke invade my lungs as my eyes return to the ocean.
I should be thinking about the case, and the possibility that the person responsible for what happened is closer than we realize. Instead, my mind returns to that night.
The cigarette burns, and that’s when I notice the change in the ground beside me. A shadow stretches on it and as I turn my head, I see her holding her sketchbook.
Dark long hair dances in the wind and a faint smile is on her lips.
She sits beside me, silent, the sketchbook resting on her lap. I look at it before fixing my eyes on hers. A smile appears before I can stop it.
“You brought it.”
Her eyes move toward me. “Are you smiling, Mister Caldwell?”
“I was appreciating the rare occasion where you actually listened.”
She looks down at the sketchbook, thumb brushing against the edge of the cover, then she takes a breath and flips it open. “Fine.”
I glance at her, taking another drag of the cigarette. “Fine?”
She picks up her pencil and smiles at me, “You wanted me to draw.” A pause. “So distract me.”
I look at her, then at the empty page, and before I can stop it, I laugh.
Her eyes immediately moved toward me. “Did you just laugh?”
I clear my throat, letting the smile stay as I look at her, “Apparently.”
She shakes her head and looks briefly at me before giving her entire focus to the pencil in her hand. “That’s unsettling.”
“You’re easily disturbed.”
This time, she’s the one laughing softly. She’s looking down at the page, and the pencil moves finally. The first lines are hesitant at first, as if she’s still deciding what her mind will create.
After a few seconds, she says, “I caught you being human.”
I tilt my head, following the stroke of ink on the page that seems natural and almost automatic, the shape is abstract for now so I’m not really sure about what she’s drawing.
“A dangerous discovery, Miss Vitelli.”
She chuckles softly, putting a strand of her hair back, behind her ear. “For me or for you?” she asks.
“For both of us,” I reply as her eyes leave the page to look at me instead.
She then reaches for my cigarette and steals it.
“Really?”
She takes a long drag and smiles as she exhales the smoke. “Sharing is caring, Damien.”
Hearing my name again catches me off guard. But she doesn’t seem to care, because she takes another drag before tuning toward me, holding the cigarette between two fingers.
“Here.”
Before I can reach for it, she slides it back between my lips. This lasts less than a second, she’s already back to looking at the page.
“Student,” I say, still looking at her, because I’m still realizing what she just did. “You’re making this unnecessarily difficult.”
Her hands keep moving, a lily appears again on the page, petal by petal, and she replies, “Sharing?”
“Boundaries.”
She doesn’t speak for the next few seconds, focused on her art, then, “Thank you, for taking care of me that night.” The pencil scratches softly across the paper. “For coming too.”
I didn't answer immediately. I’ve never been great at expressing myself. So instead I smoke, letting the steam fill the silence. And after a while I finally replied.
“I did what anyone would’ve done.”
Her attention stays on the page balanced on her knees, the pencil moves, but her eyes don’t. “No. You didn’t.”
For some reason, I don’t understand why my chest feels warm. She shades her flower, petal by petal before speaking again. “I don’t remember much after I fell.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I remember your voice.” The pencil pauses for a second and I tap the ash off the cigarette, “So clearly.”
I close my eyes then. Of all the things she could have carried away from that night she chose to keep this.
“I kept thinking,” she says, a faint smile touching the corner of her mouth. “He’s going to be so annoyed at me calling him.”
“You got drugged, and it was not your fault,” the words left my mouth without permission.
She doesn’t look at me and I don’t look at her. For a while, there’s only the scratching of the graphite against paper and the waves breaking beneath our feet.
Eventually I cleared my throat and spoke again, “If anything like that ever happens again, I won’t be far.”
She smiles without lifting her head, “I’ll count on it, Damien.”
The pencil moves again and I let her disappear into it. Minutes pass without either of us feeling the need to talk. Every now and then, she reaches toward me without thinking, taking the cigarette between my fingers before passing it back again a few drags later.
And I become absurdly aware of it. Of the cold her fingers leave behind against the filter, of the fact that she’s no longer asking for it, of how slowly she’s drawing now. As if one wrong movement might collapse the entire thing if she’s not careful enough.
The flower looks different now. The petals folded inward instead of opening toward the light, the stem twisting against itself, growing in impossible directions.
Stubborn enough to survive but incapable of blooming.
It’s beautiful.
“You press harder when you’re overthinking.”
The pencil stops as she blinks at the page. “You’re studying me, again.”
“It’s noticeable, you’ve been doing it for the last ten minutes.”
She studies the unfinished flowers, missing a few petals and sighs. “It doesn’t feel finished.”
I look from the drawing to the ocean existing angrily beneath us and take my lighter out of my pocket. I open it then shut it down again. “It doesn’t have to.”
She closes the sketchbook, rubbing her hands against the cover before replying softly, “I keep leaving things unfinished.”
“You’ve got a year,” I say as she turns toward me.
“A year?”
I nod, “Yeah, a year of classes.” The wind catches a free strand of her hair. “A year of coming here if you want.” I keep my eyes on the ocean as I continue. “A year to finish one drawing.”
She watches me for a long moment, then her gaze falls back to her hands. “It’s way too dark in my head sometimes.”
I stare at her, memorizing something I have no reason to memorize and reach into my pocket, pulling out the lighter.
“Good thing I have a lighter, then.”
She smiles genuinely for the first time as I turn it over once in my head before holding it out. “Take it.”
She hesitates before taking it. “Why?”
I look away toward the ocean and exhale quietly. “Whenever it gets too overwhelming, open it.”
Her sad blue eyes fell over my face as if it meant everything to her without her understanding why.
I stand and look at her one last time, “Go back in.” She looks up as I continue, “And don’t forget your assignment is due Monday.”
Her confusion turns into joy, and she laughs. The sound follows me before she turns back to the ocean.
“Good night, Damien.”
I don’t turn back and pause briefly to reply, “Good night, Mireya.”