Page 63 of The Spider & the Storm

Her love for a pair of platform boots she’d seen at a local clothing shop and not stopped thinking about since.

It was all so mundane and pointless. I had no idea why she was talking to me about any of it. But I sat there and took it all in because I was also listening to what she wasn’t saying.

She was anxious and nervous, displayed only in her penchant for rambling and bouncing her legs beneath the full, lacy skirt. Her words flowed easily enough; she didn’t stutter the way I sometimes had a tendency to do, but there was something about the night that left her feeling uneasy.

Is it me?

I speculated as she went on about her appreciation for Luke’s bike and how she’d always wanted a motorcycle, but never gotten around to getting one.

No, I thought, narrowing my eyes.If it were me, she wouldn’t have invited me. She wouldn’t have allowed me to sit with her all this time.

I wondered if there was one person inside who made her feel this way—nervous, internally on edge. I wondered who it might be and if there was anything I could say—or do—to put her at ease, finding that I wanted to be that person to make it better.

But then again, maybe it waseveryonewho made her anxious. After all, she had mentioned that she hated parties, so perhaps that was all it was.

DoImake her feel better?I wondered as she laughed at something she'd said, something I'd missed while navigating through the twists and turns of my stupid brain.Am I arrogant enough to believe that I could?

I wasn't sure about that, but as I watched the jittering of her knee, concealed only a little by the layers of black and tulle, I was sure about something.

She was far more like me than I’d initially expected.

And perhaps not allowing this to develop into anything more was going to be harder than I’d thought.

***

Blake wandered outside with the blonde Dorothy in tow. She was on the phone, veering off to stand in a quiet corner of theyard while Blake approached. He walked in a way that reminded me instantly of Luke—casual and effortlessly cool—with his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. He stopped beside the mystery woman I'd spent the night with and playfully patted the bouncy, knotted mess of hair on the top of her head.

“You good out here, Stormy girl?”

My eyes narrowed beneath the cover of my mask while my heart galloped at an alarming speed as another bit of information fell into my lap. I curled my fist at my side, as if to hold on to the nickname, pressing the letters and syllables against my palm and forcing them to burrow beneath my skin.

Stormy girl.

“You came out to check up on me, huh?” she replied, tipping her head back to look up at the man who looked as at home in the shadows as I did.

“Me? Never,” he denied, shaking his head, then flicking his eyes in my direction. “Just needed to get some air.”

She jabbed her elbow against his thigh. “I'm a big girl, Blakey boy. You don't need to watch over me.”

Their penchant to use nicknames—petnames—bristled a part of me that had no reason to be bristled at all. Jealousy was swift to kick in though, and I didn't have time to tamp it down before it reared its ugly head. I didn't like how close they seemed, how familiar and openly affectionate. Questions of what their relationship entailed bit ferociously at my tongue while my brain screamed reminders of how it was none of my damn business, and why the hell did I care anyway?

Blake pulled in a deep breath and pressed his lips into a flat, thin line. He wasn't happy with her response. He wanted to protect her, like she needed to be guarded at all costs. Whether it was for romantic or platonic reasons, I couldn't tell, but there was something in the way he glared at me with question and skepticism that made me realize he didn't trust me.

He was right not to, yet, suddenly, there was nothing in this world I wanted more than for this guy to know I wasn't someone he needed to worry about. So, in a fleeting moment of furious determination, I pulled off my mask and was greeted by a flurry of crackling static as the knitted material ran over my mess of ponytailed hair.

The mystery woman—Stormy girl—stared intently while her body remained still; even the jitters of her legs had ceased through the duration of my unveiling.

Blake watched, too, but his stare was less excited and more satisfied.

The night air was cool on my face, and my skin began to breathe again, even as my lungs were already on their way to anxiety-induced failure. Now bare and vulnerable, I forced my gaze to meet Blake’s, and he acknowledged the gesture with a subtle nod of his chin.

A man up to no good was unlikely to reveal himself to witnesses.

“There you are,” Stormy girl said, finally introducing a voice to the moment.

I felt her green gaze on me, and my eyes dodged toward hers before looking down at the mask wrenched between my hands.

“It was getting hot in there,” I felt the need to explain, my voice barely above a whispered mutter.

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