Page 54 of Forever We Fall

When I step inside, the steady hum of voices ratchets my already pounding headache. Then I see him sitting in his usual spot as though nothing at all happened over the holiday.

His ruffled hair calls to my fingers. His sharp jaw and wide mouth are works of art. His shoulders are still wide, and his bulk hasn’t diminished much. About the same as mine.

He’s beautiful, and my heart gives a heavy thud against my chest.

I breathe through my nose, simultaneously relieved and irritated. He didn’t wait for me. He didn’t come get me. Hell, I’d miss out on a few hours of sleep for him. Fuck it, I’d miss out on anything for him.

“Good morning,” the chef says at the top of the line.

Is it?

A nod is all I can manage. Not even a smile. He urges me forward and points at the trays. I’m creating a traffic jam. Don’t care about that, but the quicker I’m through the line, the faster I’ll get to Arlo.

I pile my plate full, shocked I’m starved, and hurry to my spot opposite my only real friend.

The moment I sit, I notice his hunch. It’s as if he wants to fold over into himself. He doesn’t look up at me. He doesn’t look at anything. He just shovels food into his mouth. Smudges of purple and blue mar the skin at his collar, and deep, smudged circles cradle his eyes as though he didn’t sleep at all in the past two weeks.

My bit of food gets lodged in my throat. I let it sit there until he shifts to leave, grabbing his tray.

“I’ll take care of your tray.” I put my hand out to touch the clutch of his fingers over the thick plastic.

He jerks back as though I’d planned to stab him.

“Sorry.” I pull my hand back and stuff it in my mouth to keep from sobbing.

Arlo lurches as if trying to find the most comfortable way to stand from the bench.

I swallow my sorrow and choke. “I’ll get it.”

He offers the slightest nod, still not meeting my eyes. When he finally manages to stand, I’m ready to call the fucking cops and report his piece-of-shit uncle. To hell with this. I can take pictures of his body, and we’ll have all the proof we need.

But it’s not about proof. It never was for Arlo. It’s not for me anymore.

No, now I want that devil’s blood as much as he does.

He didn’t endure hell for two more weeks for me to pull the plug on his plan.

As he limps away, a gait so slightly abbreviated no one else will notice, I vow to help kill his uncle. After all, it’s the least I can do for letting him go back to that cursed place.

When I make it into our first class, he’s sitting in his usual seat. I take mine next to him and try not to make it too obvious how I drink him in. From his fingertips to his earlobes. From his scent to the cadence of his breaths. From the tiny freckle on the back of his left hand to the heat his body radiates.

Class starts, and that rolls into the next class and the next.

Sure, we’re in our usual seats, but there’s none of our usual communication. He doesn’t talk in front of people. So by all outside observations, nothing has changed. By my calculation, the earth has split down the middle with him on one side and me on the other.

I’m willing to throw myself into the chasm to get to him.

His eyes stay locked on the front of the various classrooms or on his lap, where any reasonable person would suspect he’s looking at his book or studying his notes. But he stares into nothing.

In our last class of the day, before he retreats, like I know he will, I slip a note into his book. His eyes track my movement, but he doesn’t grab the note and read it. He simply closes the book on my heart, gathers it into his stack, and then stands and leaves.

I watch him walk away, and I know in the hollow of my heart that nothing will be the same again.

I think about the note often over the next few weeks, wondering if he ever read my words, if he threw it away, or if he left it in the book untouched. Somehow, the latter seems the worst option.

Each meticulous word was written in Japanese characters.

He’s resourceful enough to translate them if he wants to.

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