12. June #3
“But I won’t pretend I’m sorry I saw the text, because it confirmed that someone is serious about hurting you. This isn’t just a prank or someone lashing out. It’s escalating. After class…” His words suddenly cut off and he’s staring into the trees again.
“What?”
“I couldn’t let it go. I ran some searches on the number.
As much as I could.” He reaches for his right glove and pulls it off, working the leather free finger by finger, and the gesture is casual but it isn’t.
Dorien’s gloves are his armor the way sarcasm is mine.
Taking one off is a decision. “It looks like a burner phone because there’s no traceable owner. ”
I stare at his bare hand and those long fingers. He’s got calluses on the palm from sculpting tools, and a thin scar across one knuckle. I’m so used to him wearing gloves that his hand looks vulnerable without them. Like he’s showing me a version of himself he never shows to anyone.
My anger is losing its footing because he didn’t just invade my privacy. He did but… he also wanted to help. He spent his own time trying to find whoever is hurting me, and the intersection of those two facts is so Dorien that the ache blooms in my throat, right where words get trapped.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
The fire in my voice has thinned so now only hushed tones remain. “You still should’ve asked.”
“I know.” He reaches toward my face and I flinch.
His bare fingertips press against my cheek, just below my left eye.
They linger there and brush away the drying tears.
His lips move, barely, and I catch a word I don’t recognize.
It sounds French. Then he says, “I don’t like seeing you cry. I don’t like causing it.”
My entire face is flushed and all I can focus on is the pressure of his bare fingers against my skin. I sniff. “I’d never cry because of you.”
“Yeah,” he says. The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Yeah. I guess not.”
His fingers are still on my cheek, and neither of us moves.
It feels warm and slightly rough and I can feel my pulse thrumming under the touch, a single square inch of contact that sends a current down the side of my neck, across my collarbone, and into my heart.
His eyes are that coppery hazel with the gray ring, and I’m close enough to see the flecks.
There’s a moment where neither of us speaks and neither of us pulls away The space between us feels electric, terrifying, and entirely too small.
I don’t want any space between us. I want…
He drops his hand and steps away. He pulls his glove back on, finger by finger, and the leather swallows his skin. The moment is over.
My cheek will feel warm for days where he touched it.
“There’s something else.” His voice is lower now. He takes out his phone and turns the screen toward me. There’s a text from the same unknown number.
The message is aimed at him this time: Poor little rich boy. It’s clear Daddy’s money is the only reason you’re at Alaria. Your sculptures are trash. And you’re so oblivious it’s pathetic.
The anger inside me is back, just with a different target. “When did you get this?” I ask.
“Yesterday.”
I do the clenchy thing again and return his phone. “So they’re coming after both of us now. It seems they’ll eventually target everyone in the exhibition.”
“Looks like it.”
The panic in my chest starts to rise, but I bury it under the anger because anger is familiar. Anger I know how to hold. Fear just makes me feel small.
I turn away, toward the path back to our friends. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”
I can’t think with you so close and your touch lingering on my skin.
He nods and follows me out. I return to Cinna and Aubrey. Dorien goes to Carter’s end of the table.
For a few minutes, everything is fine as I do my best to ignore everything except the present moment.
The gold light through the maples is dimming to dusky purple and the lot is filling with other Friday groups.
The noise of strangers laughing is comforting.
And my friends are talking. I’m half-listening, half-decompressing, letting the ordinary sounds wash over me so I can feel normal again.
Then I hear Dorien’s voice from the far end of the table.
He and Cinna are talking about projects because she’s serious about turning in everything a day early. Dorien is more of a “turn it in a day late” type of person. His work is good, so he always has passing grades.
But Cinna doesn’t get good marks or art assignments, which confuses me. She’s so technically skilled, yet teachers say she’s not “showing emotion” or “saying anything meaningful” with her art. It’s a real sore spot for her.
“You’re probably just lazy, aren’t you?” Cinna says to Dorien with a smile. It’s her flirty smile, but I think I’m the only one at the table who recognizes that.
He knows she’s teasing since he smiles back. “Probably. But my work is awe-inspiring so I get forgiven. You should try it with your art some time.”
Cinna continues to smile, but I can tell she’s hurt. The edges of her eyes are too pinched, her cheeks too drawn in.
I don’t think Dorien was being deliberately mean, only careless with his words.
He thought they were joking around and he was being playful, the way he is with Carter.
But Carter has tougher skin. Cinna hides it well, but she’s a little…
fragile. Besides, Dorien knows Cinna is touchy about her art, so it was a stupid thing to say.
“What an ass,” I say to Cinna. “Ignore him.”
“Why?” she says, turning her attention back to me and Aubrey. She’s still smiling, like it’s frozen on her face. “He’s right. I’d get better grades if my work was…” She shrugs and starts talking to Aubrey about going shopping this weekend.
Why is it so hard to make it more than ten minutes without being irritated with Dorien?
I pull out my phone under the table and text Cinna: You sure you’re okay? He shouldn’t have said that.
I watch her phone light up beside her cup. She glances at the screen. Her eyes move to me for a fraction of a second. She picks up the phone, shrugs, then types back: I’m fine. It was just a joke.
She puts the phone down and laughs at what Aubrey says next. It’s convincing, and anyone who didn’t know better would believe it entirely.
But I know better.
I look at Dorien at the far end of the table. He’s pulled his collar up against the cooling air, half-smiling at Carter, completely oblivious. The man who spent time researching a burner phone number to protect me can’t see the girl sitting six feet away, trying not to fall apart.
So typical.
I don’t look at him again for the rest of the night.
But I can’t stop myself from touching my cheek, because I can still feel his fingers there.