Page 6 of Nights Without Night
“Sure you are.”
“Imma ninja-skills your ass.”
“Mmhmm.”
“God, you are so-” I go to stab him with the spatula I’m holding, but his hand catches my wrist before I can even blink. I ignore the heat trembling in the pit of my stomach.
“Say what now?” he smirks.
“Urgh. You are disgusting, get off,” I say, pulling my wrist from him. He lets me go.
“If I were a dog, I’d be, like…a cross between a golden retriever and a husky,” I say, turning back to the pan.
“That…kind of suits you, actually.”
“And you’d be a terrier.”
“What the fuck.”
“Kidding,” I laugh. “You’d be like…a boxer. All chest.”
“I’ll take that. Also, should I worry about your obsession with my chest?” he asks. I’m glad my back is turned to him.
“Yep. That’s what I have to go through to get to your heart.”
“Aaaaw!” he coos.
“Torip it out, asshole.”
“You want to rip out my asshole?”
“Oh my God. I’m going to kill you.”
“You are very violent today.”
“You inspire me,” I say, turning my head to stick my tongue out at him. He smiles wide and I feel weightless.
We eat in front of the TV. I put a movie on, trying to catch Isadoro up on what he’s missed. I don’t know if it’s necessary, but I avoid anything with explosions and gore. He wouldn’t tell me if it bothered him anyway.
After we do the dishes, I settle by the coffee table to do some homework, my back to the couch. The night is cold outside but here, it is warm and safe. The TV is on low, and I can feel Isadoro behind me, quiet and relaxed. The scene is so normal, I suddenly imagine myself doing this alone like I’ve done a million times before while he was half a world away. The fragility of this moment hits me unexpectedly, like it’ll crack under the slightest pressure. Fear, sadness, relief—it makes me dizzy, suddenly, and I take Isadoro’s hand in mine, trying to calm myself. I keep my face turned away until he squeezes my hand. I look then, and his lips are tilted in a smile. Small, but genuine. I breathe. I press against his legs for a moment and just feel his presence.
Here, with me.
CHAPTER TWO
We build a routine.
I go to college while he works out, or goes to the shelter, or simply stays home. I have a lot of homework, but we cook together often, and his presence is conducive to concentration. He goes to work with me on the weekends, him at the door and me behind the bar. Despite my fears, nothing bad happens. He usually goes straight home after any outing, but he socializes with me sometimes. What he never does is date.
Isadoro had been a labelled lady-killer when we were younger. When he got his first kiss when we were twelve from the coolest girl in the class, he’d rushed to tell me about it. I remember listening raptly, grossed out and fascinated by the mere mechanics of it. Isadoro’s good looks had always been obvious, but I’d had to grow into my body and face. I’d been all elbows and ears and would have been at the bottom of the food chain if it weren’t for Isadoro. As it was, I had my first kiss during a game of spin-the-bottle when I was fifteen. It had landed on a boy named Brandon, and he’d blushed when he kissed me. So had I.
The party had been nearLa Portera,and Isadoro and I had walked back in the balmy summer air. We had sneaked into my room, giggling and trying to pretend we weren’t buzzed. Isadoro slept over so often that the camp bed in my room was almost permanently unfolded and I’d thrown myself on my bed, looking giddily up at the ceiling as he sat on his.
“Spin-the-bottle kisses don’t count as first kisses, you know,” Isadoro had said suddenly, cutting through my high. I’d turned my head to glare at him.
“Says who?”
“Says everyone,” he said.
