Page 23 of Haunt Me

“Now that you’re here it is,” I murmur, my voice cracking with the need to fold her against my chest.

“Barf,” she says.

I freeze. Take a step back. She looks like she means it. So I cut out all the flirty stuff, cold turkey. I wrestle that beast of devastating need back inside me, and keep it zipped. Tight.

“Come on,” I say and it sounds all strangled.

We take shelter under a huge beech tree, and she shakes the raindrops from her hair.

In order to not go insane, I try to distract myself with music.

“Here, want to listen to this?” I hold out an earphone to her.

“What is it?”

“Something that will make the rain better,” I reply.

“It’s already perfect.”

“I know.” She’s looking at the rain, and I’m looking at her. “But this will make it perfecter.”

She scoffs, but she puts it in her ear.

We listen to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in C Minor together as the rain dances around our tree, and then I make her a bracelet out of a broken guitar chord.

I will write about this. People all over the world will memorize the lyrics and sing along with my voice:

Our jewelry a broken string

Beethoven was our song

and rain was the melody.

But right now none of this exists. Nor does the pain that will result in a song as powerful as that one will become. Right now, it’s just us and the rain. And my man, Beethoven. It doesn’t get much more perfect than this.

Book Margin

The book:Eden’s copy ofPersuasionbyJane Austen

I have my dad’s eyes. He said my mom’s favorite book was Persuasion, and that’s why my middle name is ‘Persuasion’. But I don’t think it’s right for him to call me ‘Pet’. Or for him to forbid me to eat gum.

Gum is awesome.

I’d better scratch that out, in case he sees it.

And the part about my name.

And this part.

Actually, you know what? I think I need to tear the whole page out and then burn it in the fireplace—I hate destroying books, but I can’t afford having Dad read these lines. No, wait, scratch that. Literally. He’s searched in the fireplace before, so it’s not safe. Hmm.

I know. I’ll flush it down the toilet.

It will be as if these thoughts never existed.

But I’ll know they did. No one else will know, no one except me.

But my copy of Persuasion will always be missing a page, and I’ll know I wrote my thoughts in the margin. I once thought these things, and I wrote them down. They were real. They will not be erased from my brain like they will be erased from this page.

---