Page 68 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
I ran my knife down the trout’s shiny back, tracing a slit down its lateral line as cleanly as in a pat of butter. “Not me.”
“No?”
“Nope.” I flipped the fish over and lined the knife up just above the pectoral fin again.
“How do you know how to fillet a fish like such an expert?”
“You don’t remember?” I asked, looking up at Manuel, genuinely surprised.
“Remember what?”
“Dad put a knife in my hand when I was like four years old. Said it would teach me ‘safety.’ ”
Manuel burst out laughing. “Hewhat?”
“Oh yeah. I always filleted what the boys brought back. In middle school, you sat beside me while I did it.”
“I did?”
“Definitely. You didn’t want to touch the fish yourself, but you liked watching me pull it apart.”
Manuel tilted his head. “I don’t think so.” He frowned. “In fact, IknowI didn’t. I remember now. I remember you liked filleting. And I remember you inviting me to come watch, that first summer I was up here. But the idea of looking at fish guts grossed me out. I thought you were sort of insane for enjoying it.”
“That’s so odd. I swear to God, I have this memory of you sitting right here, right next to me, same as you are now, watching me do exactly this. Your eyes were as wide as saucers.”
He shrugged.
I closed my eyes, running a thumb along the knife’s handle.Wasthat Manny in my memory? Or was it Henry? The boy in my memory has tan skin, like Manuel’s, or like Henry’s after a long summer under the sun. His eyes are brown. No—hazel. No—brown.
Agh. It’s happening again.
I pressed my fingers to my temples, forgetting about the knife. The blade nicked my forehead. “Ouch.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Manuel. He grabbed my wrist. A thrill of sparks shot up my arm, completely distracting me from the pain of the cut. “What the hell was that?” He took the knife from my fingers and laid it next to the half-carved fish carcass. “I knew you were crazy, Beck, but I didn’t think you were suicidal.”
“I’m not,” I said too quickly. “I’m just…that was stupid.”
“No kidding.” Manuel reached out a hand and brushed his thumb below the scratch. He touched my skin gently, tenderly. The gesture sent little shivers down my body. When he pulled his thumb away, red pooled on its surface.
For a long moment, we just stared at the sight of my blood—which came from within my veins, which pumped through my heart, which represented the most private, hidden part of me—resting on his finger.
I averted my eyes. Picked up the knife and started filleting again.
“You’re okay,” Manuel said as he wiped off his finger, even though I hadn’t asked. “I’ll get you a Band-Aid.” He stood up and disappeared through the back door of Sunny Sunday.
I didn’t touch the fish the whole time he was gone. I couldn’t. I was stilled by nerves, knowing what would happen next.
When Manuel returned, he said nothing, just crouched by my side and dabbed at my forehead with an alcohol wipe. He tossed the wipe aside and peeled the Band-Aid from its wrapper. His fingers worked quietly, deftly. I watched them dance along the paper and cardboard, feeling oddly jealous of inanimate objects. When the Band-Aid was extracted, he raised it high and pressed it gently to my forehead. I stayed perfectly still throughout the whole process. It was a regular, everyday act—a friend putting a bandage on another friend’s cut—but it felt oddly intimate. Every shift of his body brought him closer. Every dart of his eyes was a secret glance. Every touch a caress.
I had to still my very skin to keep the shivers from showing.
When he was finished, he left his fingers on my skin a beat too long. They lingered. Luxuriated. Then—slowly, so slowly, as if waiting for me to stop him—he brought them up to my hairline and drew them down my cheek, tucking one long strand of hair behind my ear.
I was no longer breathing.
“Eliot,” he whispered.
No. That look in his eyes—God, I desperately wanted to tell him not to stop. To keep touching me, even if it was only right there, at the base of my ear, where my jaw met my neck. Anywhere would suffice. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t let this go on. It wasn’t fair to Manuel.
