Page 89 of Wild Eyes
I breathe in, and I breathe out.
I realize that the week without a phone has passed. Won that bet. But I smile because I’m not inclined to replace it.
I feel better than I have in my entire adult life.
It’s as I’m mentally running through the current state of everything that I hear soft footsteps. I’m certain that a week ago, I wouldn’t have been present enough to notice. But everything around me feels a little brighter these days. A little more in focus.
I don’t open my eyes, but I sense a small body folding down onto the log beside me.
“Got this for you.” Oliver’s voice is tentative as a weight is added to my lap.
My eyes snap open, and when I look down, I see a book. It appears to be a bird encyclopedia.
I run my fingers over the glossy cover. “Like, from the house?”
I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time browsing the bookshelves in West’s home, as if that might provide me with a window into his soul, some deeper understanding of a man who comes off so casual and carefree but is, in fact, lonely.
I’ve found everything from historical romances to biographies to Scandinavian murder mysteries. But no bird books.
“No. Bought it with my allowance. We just got back from the bookstore. It’s a gift.”
I blink at the blue-eyed boy. And then back down at the book in my lap. People have given me gifts my entire life. Expensive gifts. Over-the-top gifts. But this…
“This is my favorite gift I’ve ever received,” I tell him, my voice thick.
His chin drops and he smiles shyly into his lap. He’s got a brand-new graphic novel in his hand and a flush on his cheeks.
I nudge his shoulder, not trusting myself to speak.
He nudges me back.
Then we both fall into a companionable silence. Me, looking through my bird book and discovering what I saw last week was an osprey. Him, raptly flipping the pages of his graphic novel, top teeth strumming his bottom lip, as though he could inhale the story.
Eventually, I pull my notebook back out and stare out over the rough water. I tap my pen against the open page, deciding what I want to say.
Who I want to be.
“What are you doing?” Ollie asks.
I sigh and lean back into the roots behind us. “Trying to write a song. But I’ve never written one before. I don’t know where to start.”
“I love reading and writing. Feels a bit like talking to someone.”
I blink a few times, mulling over the greater meaning of what he’s just told me. This boy of few words who happily offers me his.
“Talking to people is hard sometimes. Scary. You know?”
I hum and dip my chin in recognition. “I know.”
“I worry about what to say. And how people will take it.”
“Highly relatable.”
I see a soft smile touch his lips. “But when I write, I can say whatever I want. And it doesn’t really matter what people think of it.”
My throat feels thick again as I choke out my response. “That’s very wise, Ollie.”
“Sometimes it feels like I have so many things to say. But I just can’t get them out. Or I can’t choose where to start.”
