Page 12 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
“Your irises appear to be the same shade of blue with your glasses on. One is actually darker. And sometimes the darker one lightens, and then they’re the same shade of blue.”
“Yes. Not many people notice that, but it seems you miss very little,” I said keenly, and his eyes sparkled before lowering. His bashfulness endeared him to me. He exuded an innocence that reminded me of a clean slate; an opportunity to get things right. It tapped into the protective side of me, and started to awaken another part of me that had been asleep for so long. I rubbed at my chest.
“What do you think happened to Shakespeare during the lost years? He just vanished?”
“Hiding in a bunker maybe?” I answered.
He grinned. “I’m serious.”
“He was rumored to be a soldier during that time.”
“I personally believe the tales of him being a libertine.” He flourished in his intellect, not a nervous bone exposed. “Think about it. He wrote some of his greatest sonnets and plays after ‘reappearing,’” he said around air quotes. “All involving love in its most radical and raw form, yet he never spoke of his wife. The wife that trapped him into a marriage—”
“Allegedly,” I warned, and he gave me a look that begged for me to get real.
“Anne was twenty-six and unmarried, practically considered a witch because of it, and William was eighteen. Anyway, no way could he have thought all that up without having first-hand experience.” He crossed his ankle to knee as well, exuding the confidence of someone well informed.
We debated the topic further and with Mr. Michaelson showing no signs of surrender, I gave in. “I see there’s no changing your mind, so I’ll stop trying.” How long had it been since I’d been this captivated and entertained?
“Wise man,” he said, entwining his hands behind his head, elbows out.
I mirrored his position with a lopsided grin, the action out of character for me. It appeared Mr. Michaelson worked wonders for my mood and took my mind off my own issues. I resisted gazing into the hollow house again. “I’ll accept the compliment, Mr. Michaelson.”
“You can call me Phoenix.”
“A mythical bird born from its own ashes. The phoenix is a symbol of renewal and never giving up.”
“Yeah, I’m sure my parents just liked the name,” he said around an awkward laugh in an attempt to brush off my interest.
“Do you truly believe that? From what I’ve heard, your father doesn’t strike me as a man to have fallen victim to coincidence.”
His face took on the same look it had in my office when I broached the subject of his father. “No, I don’t believe it. I don’t know why I said it.”
“To downplay your greatness, perhaps? We’re all prey to being human at times. To want to appear smaller than we are. How old are you, Mr. Michaelson?”
He went quiet before admitting, “I’m eighteen—but I’m mature for my age,” he rushed on to say.
“It’s okay, Mr. Michaelson.” Our gazes met, and I sighed, giving in to his earlier request. “Phoenix. I simply wanted to say you’re mature for your age—which you helpfully noted.”
“Thank you.” We fell into another silent lull until he checked the time. I was beginning to think the habit stemmed from him wanting to be the one to leave instead of the one left. “I should go.” He didn’t move. “Is Emily not home?”
“She’s working,” I said, and his brow pinched. “She’s an attorney vying for partnership. She’s out there proving herself.” I had a suspicion he knew there was more to it. Of course there was.
“Oh.” The air around us went from breezy to stifling.
I wanted to ask him to stay. To continue to occupy my mind with his brilliance, and my view with his beauty. The thought scared me, so with a whisper of contrition, I said, “Goodnight, Mr. Michaelson.”
He didn’t bother correcting my using his surname and building back up the wall between us. “Goodnight.”
“Mr. Michaelson?” Why was it so hard to see him walk away? Why did I want him to face me one last time?
He didn’t prompt me like he had before. This time he waited like he had all day, in no rush for our time to end.
“I, ah, enjoyed our conversation.” That seemed innocent enough, but what did it say about me that our chats were the highlight of my day?
“Me too, Mr. Wicked.”
I waited for him to cross his yard, enter his bedroom, and for his room to plunge into darkness. Then, I did what I always did. Shed my layers and went for a swim.
