Page 3 of Silent Is The Heart

We stole a few of his dad’s beers later and camped out in the woods behind his house. I can still remember the feel of his hair against my arm when I wrestled him into a headlock while teasing him over his fear of the cracking pop noises from earlier.

I knew he was curious. I think I’d always known. Our tit-for-tat dares and talking shit over the previous school year when he moved to town had escalated to the point I knew it was only a matter of time until one of us caved in and took the leap. All our joking and feigned brotherly love pecks to the other’s head or cheek for months weren’t the mockery we played them offto be. At least not to me. I was just waiting for him to find his nerve.

I can still feel the way his trembling hand cupped over my fly as we lay in our tent. That was the start of it. The real start—the beginning of no more lying, no more pretending to be people we weren’t.

I wonder what he’s doing now. Unlike me, he’s always had the chance to go to college. Is it wrong that I feel bad, though, for not being at his sexual-discovery disposal for the rest of senior year? He’s too damn shy about it to try with anyone else at Wayside High.

High school. Another memory.

I never expected to go to college, but I at least thought I’d finish high school. I’ll be even further behind the curve than I thought whenever I get the hell out of here. As long as they don’t dump me off in Wayside when they evict me, I’ll make the most of it. There’s nothing for me there.

“You like him a lot, don’t you?”

Studying Mom’s mouth, I can almost imagine it moving as she vocalized that ridiculous assumption. Yet, I think she knew even then that Ben and I didn’t spend time together because of some teenage infatuation.

“He’s all right,” I’d told her. I’d boldly elaborated then—because I suspected her curiosity—the way I always did, “Cute butt, even if he does scream like a girl.”

Maybe it’s the honesty I miss the most. Because right now, I’d love someone I could be completely honest with the way Mom and I always were with each other. Being honest with yourself doesn’t feel as good as it does with someone you can trust.

A clatter near the door to my room has my hand flinching. My discarded tray slides across the floor amid the soft exhale of a man’s voice cursing, “Oh shit.”

Following khaki slacks up to a belted waist and a neatly tucked in green polo shirt, my eyes take in the way its snug fit spreads over its owner’s chest. The way it clings to a set of broad shoulders. How the sleeves hug his biceps. I didn’t know ridiculous clothes could fit someone so well, but it might have something to do with the head attached to the most enticing body I’ve encountered in my seventeen years.

A faint shadow of stubble frames his jaw and his… smile. Fuck. Maybe it’s because I was just reminiscing over my romps in the woods with Ben, but a tingle trickles down to my dormant cock like his smile is sending a radio signal to it.

Ben’s lips made me curious about kissing, simply because I knew he was into guys and would let me. This guy’s mouth, though? It’s an education because I’m suddenly imagining how well everything else would go with kissing it, letting me know anything I’ve done before was just child’s play.

Side-stepping over my pudding like it’s an afterthought, the fuck-me smile, the sparkling jade-green eyes, thick brown hair, and the sexy, youthful face that can’t be too much older than me approaches. One hand extended, the other holding a takeaway cup fromThe Shake Shack. The mouth moves in a way that shouldn’t be so hypnotic.

“Hi. I’m Aaron. Aaron Manicki.”

Somehow, my palm ends up connecting with his like I’m a robot that has no control over my body. It defies every rebellious behavior I’ve exhibited during my stay at Hampton ‘Hell Hole’ Hills where I’ve been shipped to in the armpit of northern Maine. I don’t consort with the enemy. My brainseems to be ignoring the fact Hampton’s logo is embroidered on that well-fitting polo shirt. His warm grip makes my heart flip.

What the hell is that all about?

“Oh, my God,” he whispers, his face going slack.

Can he feel it too?

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Instinct has me wanting to check if my dick has gone hard beneath the hospital bed sheets and I’ve been caught, but I remember my folder is open on my lap. He can’t see anything, even if my teenage hormones decided to make their first reappearance since before the accident right now.

Except, he seessomething.Mom.My drawing of Mom.

“Jesus. That’s absolutely incredible,” he whispers.

Those ashen eyes flick to mine like I’m a world wonder. It’s the first time someone here has looked at me like they’re trying to figure me out, but in a way that doesn’t make me want to punch them in the throat. It’s a look that makes me think his statement meansI’mincredible. That I’m not some unfortunate kid who lost his mom because his dad is a piece of garbage. That it’s completely irrelevant for once that I had a traumatic brain injury, smashed my lower leg to smithereens, and am just a number waiting to be ejected out of here and into the system.

A sliver of guilt threads its way through my marrow over how good that makes me feel. I’m not supposed to feel good. I’m supposed to be miserable. Mom can’t feel good, so I shouldn’t either.

Except, the longer I stare into those eyes that seem mesmerized by me and feel that strong, warm hand surrounding mine, the more I don’t want to let go or look away.

“Um, sorry,” he stammers, releasing my hand and shaking his head like he was lost. It’s a heady idea, the ability to make someone feel lost over me. “I tried to draw when I was in high school art class, but I was terrible at it. Not a talented bone in my body.”

By all that’s holy, I think I’m smiling. Who am I?

“I’ll be your new speech pathologist,” he adds.

Fuck.

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