Landon #2
The darkness retreats, making room for my excitement as the sound of boots against the wet ground makes my heart pound. My palms become sweaty as I sit neatly on the couch with my legs crossed and my arms laid out across the back cushions.
As if nothing was ever wrong.
A key turns the lock of the door, dreary light bleeding in momentarily before he shuts it behind himself.
As if he’s teasing me on purpose, Nathaniel slowly removes his helmet, like he’s just remembered it’s on, dripping wet as he places the protective wear and his backpack onto the counter next to him.
He sighs, resting his palms on the surface as his shoulders sag, his hair dry despite the rain. He looks defeated.
It’s beautiful.
“Hello, Nathaniel,” I call out, my voice soft and teasing as he stands up straight, slowly turning to face me.
Wide, cat-like honey eyes lock onto me, his black hair disarranged, and the muscles of his body flexing as if anticipating a fight. Good.
Nathaniel stares at me like he’s scared he’s making me up—like I might be an extension of that incredible power of his.
“Why… why are you here?” he asks, and he sounds startled. That’s new.
“I made you a promise,” I tell him. “I’m here to make your life a living hell.”
Nathaniel turns fully toward me, his shoulders squaring as he glares down at me. “And how do you intend to do that?”
Funny, haven’t I been asking him something similar? If he won’t tell me what about my power interests him so much, I won’t be sharing my diabolical plan either.
A slow smirk forms over my lips. “I’m going to infiltrate your life, just as you did mine.”
He can tell I’m not being completely candid; I can see it in his eyes. But Nathaniel doesn’t push the topic, only saying, “It’s a pointless endeavor, and you know it.”
“Ohh, pointless endeavor. Look at you with your big fancy words, mister private chef,” I mock, leaning further into the cushions behind me.
Nathaniel’s eyes darken, his fists clenching at his sides.
But before he can speak, before he can shoot back with something just as vicious, I keep speaking.
“Why aren’t there any photos around here?” I stand as I ask, walking slowly around the room. I’ve been curious since I walked in, and I really hope he actually answers me.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“No family to display?”
“No. I’m not close to my family.” As he divulges this information to me, I turn to look at him, taking in his hard stare and the stern press of his lips.
Again, that pity I felt earlier rises within me, and I hear myself saying, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
It shocks us both just as much as his actually sharing the information seems to make the two of us slightly… disoriented.
We’re supposed to be fighting by now. Or maybe I’d be seducing him and leading him to bed. Either way, emotional sharing was never a part of the plan.
Nathaniel’s shock fades into anger. “Leave. You shouldn’t be here. Now you’re acting like a stalker.”
I shrug. “Fair is fair.”
As he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes to gather himself, I turn back to the cottage, dragging my fingertips over the walls, the furniture, marking this space as my own.
“So,” Nathaniel suddenly says, and his voice sounds shaky and hesitant. “When did you begin to manifest your coercion?”
The question takes me by surprise, and I watch him for a moment, but his expression gives nothing away.
“Why are you curious?” I ask, and he shrugs. “When I was fifteen.” Giving him that little piece of information can’t hurt, right? “My father always told me to make the most out of life, so I do. One day, I’ll be a corporate robot, and all of this freedom I have? It will be gone.”
Now I’m spilling secrets for my own benefit. For the desire for someone, anyone, to know me. Even if it’s someone I hate. I want him to see me, to look into my brain and understand why I’m built the way that I am.
“You don’t sound very excited about that last part,” Nathaniel observes, and that alone makes me feel so seen it’s intoxicating.
Instead of admitting that, I shrug again, saying, “I’m very lucky to have the life I was given.”
He watches me as I float around the room. I can feel his eyes without looking—they follow me around as if looking away means I disappear. Or lunge.
After a beat or two of silence, I turn all of my attention his way, taking a step toward him.
“Do you believe in God, Nathaniel?” I ask softly.
I’m feeling too melancholy, too out of sorts. It would probably be best that I leave right now, just as he originally asked me to. But I can’t seem to stop talking, to stop craving his observing eyes and his ability to see into me.
“I’m not sure what I believe,” he replies honestly.
The open way in which we’re speaking—it’s doing something to me. It’s lowering my guard.
“If there was a God,” I start, taking another few steps toward him, “do you think he’d give mere humans such extraordinary powers? One that could be used against him?”
Nathaniel says nothing, only watching me with those warm, angry eyes as I take the final step, standing right in front of him.
“Let me tell you a secret,” I continue, and his lips twitch slightly as he stares down at me. “I don’t believe in a god. Because if he were real, I wouldn’t feel…”
I can’t force it out. This last bit of truth is lodged in my throat as alone, sad, and misunderstood clogs my airway.
“Sad?” Nathaniel asks quietly, and the word reaches straight into my chest and yanks at my barely beating heart.
Instead of saying yes or letting him see how this is affecting me, I smirk.
Nathaniel Barfred sees me. What a dangerous and yet impossibly beautiful thing it is to be seen fully by someone else.
It makes me hate him even more, and also, maybe a bit less.