Risqué Discoveries
Keigan does not like it when I root around his shop. His shop? Does he own this place? If he does someone should really let him know that he doesn’t keep enough to drink around here.
“Maybe you should lay down for a minute,” Keigan suggests after telling me again that he’s not hiding any whiskey behind the check-out counter.
“Maybe if you come with me,” I say back, putting down a stack of paperback mysteries. I don’t know why I thought there’d be alcohol underneath or behind them.
Keigan takes my arm then, his skin hot on my bare arm. Which is cold. “Come on then.” The fairy lights in the ceiling twinkle at me as he guides me up the creaky staircase. I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips, and his hair is golden like stars.
A moment later we’re upstairs in probably his room--doesn’t matter--and I’ve gotten as close to him as I can. Arms. I touch the pad of my thumb just underneath the piercing in his top lip.
There’s something about his eyes when he pushes me to arms-length. I can’t quite read him. Suddenly there’s a bundled-up blanket between me and him. “I think we should both get some sleep, ok?” he says. I think he’s tired. I read it on the lines on his face.
We sit on the edge of the bed. I guess I’m tired too. I say something meaningless and put my head on his shoulder. Close my eyes.
It doesn’t take long for me to fall asleep.
I wake up confused. The small of my back is damp with sweat; I’ve had some kind of strange dream that I can’t quite remember but I can’t shake. All I can recall is the sky was black and I couldn’t move my legs.
I roll my head to the side and kick off the blanket that I’d twisted around my ankles as I slept. This is Keigan’s room. Keigan’s blanket. But no sign of Keigan.
I sit up and smooth my hair back, noticing then that my boots are sitting neatly at the side of the bed, which was definitely not something I did last night. I hear noises from beneath me as well, from the first floor. Muted voices and something, presumably books, being shuffled around.
Keigan’s room doesn’t have a clock. The wall space is completely filled with prints, posters, tapestries, fabric clippings, pressed leaves, strings with beads, and against the far wall, a massive shelf filled with books. I’d not really noticed any of it yesterday. The rest of the room is just as busy--piles of clothes on the dresser and floor, a row of boots by the door, a series of cubbies on the desk filled with pencils and chalk. An orange-y crocheted rug beneath my feet, and a matching faux-curtain draped over the small window above the bed.
I find my phone, hidden in the sheets at the foot of the bed, and frown at my notifications. A photo from Jamie, a missed call from my mother, and a text from my sister. So there’s all those messages I’ve been waiting for. I open the latter.
Coco died??
I type out: ‘yes, mom was devastated lol. Had a funeral.’ but don’t sent it. I delete the ‘lol’. I don’t ever chat with Rachael like this; my messages are usually more like: ‘money sent’ or ‘should be in ur account now’ or ‘just this one time’. I can’t deal with this right now. I hit send.
I open up Jamie’s picture next. It’s actually a series of selfies and they’re all extremely blurry, clearly taken while drunk. We have a lot of photos like this. There’s some random girl with him that I don’t recognize, and they’ve got to be outside a bar, grinning or laughing or making pouty faces, depending on the photo. Jamie’s wearing an intense amount of neon blue eyeshadow. The attached message is: 'its urr so called best friend remmeber me??? bar is crazy call u'.
I know Jamie well enough to be able to interpret the message. He’s mad I haven’t called him and is rubbing it in my face that he’s at the bar with some other girl as his wingman. Fine. I’ll call him later.
I’m in no mood to speak to my mother.
I stand up, rubbing my arms because it is actually cold in here. I think there’s a draft. My eyes catch on an open book on Keigan’s desk. It’s a sketchbook, and three-quarters of the page is inked with images of leaves and birds and twisting lines like tree branches all intertwined. It’s really good, like something you’d see at a tattoo parlor. I pick up the book and run my hand along the edges of the papers, and it falls naturally to a certain page.
It’s a face I know: Darian. Drawn at a variety of angles, showing off the cut of his jaw and his wide nose. He’s smiling in some, serious in others. All pencil sketches, some more finished than others. And his hair is different; it’s longer, a couple of inches of height to the small curls instead of the buzz-cut I’m used to.
I flip to the next page, stare at it until I realize my arms are no longer cold--not a single part of me is cold anymore--and then set down the sketchbook carefully, turning back to the original leaf drawing but seeing some other pages semi-accidentally in the process. It takes a minute for my body temperature to recover. There were more drawings of Darian, but full-body. Nude. I’m tempted to look at them again, but now it feels like a violation of not just Keigan’s privacy, but Darian’s as well.
I return to the edge of the bed and sit down to put my boots on, but can’t focus on the task. Those sketches weren’t just intellectual studies, I can tell you that. So that begs the question: are they fantasies, or did they really happen? Not that I care. Not that it matters.
It takes me probably about five minutes before I actually put my boots on.
Keigan’s standing amongst his books downstairs with a middle-aged woman I don’t recognize. They’re talking about which gardening books he has (it sounds like a lot), as well as the weather (cold for July), while at the same time gossiping about people around town (people have noticed that Walker has a cut above his eye but don’t know why). Instinctively I duck into a different area of the store, putting a few shelves between me and them for good measure, in case the woman learns that I’m the one violently assaulting the Windthrow locals.
And then someone rounds one of the shelves, and I’m face-to-face with a strong jaw, warm brown eyes, and a charming, though surprised, smile. Darian. Well, not face-to-face, really, because I’m a bit looking down on him due to our height difference, but that’s not what it feels like. It feels like I’ve just flipped through pages of erotic images. Of him. I’m not usually embarrassed like this, but oh god what I’d give to be literally anywhere else right now. I can feel my neck turning red.
Darian’s eyes skip across my face and bare arms--it’s possible they’re flushed too--and he says, “Hi, Masie.” I take too long to answer. Wow, I’m never this braindead. Darian’s eyebrows draw together. “You ok?”
“I should really…” I start, spinning in the opposite direction. And then there’s Keigan, blocking my way, the woman at his heels. I plaster on my award winning I’m-normal-and-would-never-commit-stair-related-murder-and-also-don’t-currently-have-naked-people-images-seared-into-my-brain smile. This does not work. The woman stares openly at me, like I’m a zoo attraction.
Oh god, just kill me now.
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pt 18: https://www.theprose.com/post/784816/fanatic-and-dramatic
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