Coraline #3
“So, there is someone! Who do you wa—”
“And you? What do you do for work?” he intercepts.
“I’m…well…”
How am I supposed to top that? He literally risks his life for a career. It’s a very physically demanding job. Is he going to laugh when I tell him I paint for a living? Will he say it’s stupid and impractical, just like Liam would?
“Spit it out.”
Here goes nothing.
“I…paint. I’m an artist.” I shut my eyes tight, waiting for him to degrade me. Twisting my face, I wait for the cruel words I’ve grown so accustomed to; they linger in my head with my own voice instead of Liam’s.
You’ll never make it.
No one cares.
You’re not good at this.
It’s just a dream. It’s never going to happen. You’re not good enough.
Give up. Quit.
Colliding with a hard wall interrupts my thoughts.
Shit. I open my eyes to find out that the hard wall is actually Gavin’s chest. I lose my footing, letting out a high-pitched yelp.
I’m falling over; the pile of sheds I was holding onto is now airborne—getting flung into the air.
Gavin slings his arm forward, firmly coiling around my waist. I lurch for his other arm, barely able to hook my hand around him when I’m anchoring him down with me to the floor.
Before I can hit the ground, his hand curls around the back of my head, so I land in his palm instead of a log.
Grunting, the air gets knocked out of me. Gavin’s on top of me, his chest on mine, his knees settling in between my inner thighs, the tip of his nose softly brushing against mine.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, suddenly unable to breathe when he’s this close. I can’t think straight.
“You’re an artist?”
“Mhm,” I hum.
“I think that’s amazing, Cora. You have a gift. Don’t ever stop.”
“But you haven’t seen any pieces.”
“Don’t need to.”
Hearing those words fall out of his mouth so effortlessly feels so good. A sting hits my eyes. I try so hard to create—to be different. Art is how I stay alive when I feel so dead sometimes.
“I don’t want to stop,” I breathe, zeroing in on his full lips, practically begging him to make a move. Screw it. I want to let myself be happy.
Kiss me.
As if he can read my thoughts, he leans closer, his cool breath ghosting over mine. His lids lazily fall over his deep blue irises. They’re glowing, but this time, I don’t see pain.
He pushes his fingers through my hair, and just when I think he’s going to seal his lips on mine, he pulls out a twig from my curls, killing the moment.
“So adding clumsy on top of stubborn and amazingly talented.” He sighs, falling to his side so he’s off me and lying next to me instead.
“Gavin?” I quirk a brow.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He turns to me.
“Thank you for talking to me.” I reach for his hand. When our fingers connect, he doesn’t pull away. He watches me thread my fingers with his and squeeze. He doesn’t fight it, but he doesn’t squeeze back. “I have the urge to pick up a pencil now.” I scoff with a smile.
We lock eyes as the air around us buzzes.
Does he feel it too?
“You know, I used to have a passion, just like you. An outlet. Something that gives me life and excitement.” His blue eyes light up differently as he shares.
“But after my injury,” he sighs sadly, “I quit. I quit everything that once made me happy until I found something that inspired me again. Something that gave me hope to at least try.”
I quirk a brow, wanting to know so badly what his ray of hope was.
Depression is like that sometimes for me.
When I feel like I’m lost in the dark, I search so badly for something to remind me of the woman I’m meant to be. I cling to it like an anchor in a deep, chaotic ocean. Watch it like a shooting star in the night sky. Cherish it like the only sunflower in a badland.
“What was that thing for you?” I ask, getting closer. “What gave you hope again?”
He smiles, tucking a hair strand behind my ear.
“You know, Coraline, you should be afraid of me. Everyone in this town is.”
I hesitate, my brows furrowing for a moment, then I relax.
“I’m not.” I frown.
Why does he think that about himself? I want to ask a dozen questions, but I want to hold onto this rare moment more.
“I’m afraid of you.” He holds my hand tighter when I try to retract. My heart begins to pound harder, louder.
Can he hear it?
“Why?” I ask, fighting back the curve of my lips.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?” I ask, confused.
“Not yet,” he parrots calmly.
With the way he’s staring at me, I get the hint that there’s a deeper meaning behind those two words. He doesn’t want to talk; he just wants to savor the moment and be in the present.
I smile, wondering what his past holds. I want to know all about it and his injury. I want to keep asking him questions just so I can hear his voice, full of hope, but I don’t want to push it. I like watching him open up to me. It feels freeing to be here in the wilderness with him.
He looks everywhere—my eyes, my face, my nose, my cheeks, my hair.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“I’m looking at you, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t seem to stop.”