Page 11 of Reckless Roses
“Someone should see me in this dress, Augustus.”
He chuckles. “Glad it’s me.”
I smile as he pulls me through the window, and I straddle one leg over the sill. August’s hands are warm and steady when they grab my waist, lifting me out and helping me to the ground. I shut my window almost all the way, leaving it cracked so I can get back in later tonight, before August and I quietly tiptoe through my backyard and out the side gate onto Oceanside Avenue.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he takes a sharp left, headed up toward the top of the cliff.
“I found a spot a few weeks back that I haven’t had the chance to show you yet.”
I follow him to the top of our street. There’s an empty lot at the end of the cul-de-sac, thick with blackberry bushes. August continues through the gravel of the lot, stopping just in front of the brush. “We have to get through the blackberries. I started to tear them out,” he says, pointing to a small clearing I can hardly make out in the darkness, “but be careful.”
When he reaches back for my hand, I take it without a word, allowing him to lead me through. He stomps down on large branches so I can step over them without snagging my dress or scratching my ankles before tearing through thickets that stick out in the trail he created.
“I promise, it’s worth it,” he whispers.
“I trust you.”
Finally, the sky opens above me as we pass through the bushes, and a vast cliffside appears. The soft green grass stretches endlessly beyond us, stopped only by the steep rocks that plummet into the ocean below. In the distance, the horizon goes on forever, late-night tides rocking gently beneath the glowing light of the crescent moon.
“Augustus,” I gasp, spinning around to face him as I cover my mouth with my hand. “This isinsane.How did you find this?”
He shrugs, hands in his pockets as he drops his head with a coy smile. Passing me, he strolls through the field of grass as he calls over his shoulder, “I was on a run one morning on that back road leading to the power plant. I noticed this field on the other side of the fence and realized there had to be a way to get to it from the neighborhood. It was likely just blocked by houses, so my next few runs, I went through the neighborhood instead and looked around until I found a way in.”
“This is beautiful.” I press on my heels, slipping out of each shoe before jogging up behind him. Looping my arm through his, I ask, “What have you been doing out here?”
“During the day, I come out here and draw sometimes. Or read.” He lifts his head, and I follow his gaze toward the sky. “At night, I look at the stars.”
All the air whooshes from my lungs as I take in the sheer number of stars sparkling above our heads.
“This cliff is high enough above the town that they’re much clearer out here.”
The sky is a never-ending vastness of darkness, brightened only by the sprinkling of sparkles across its canvas, the moon its centerpiece on the horizon. I let go of August, taking a few steps forward and turning in place as I absorb as much of it as I can.
It’s calming somehow. I’ve always liked night more than day. I like the cover of darkness and the soft light of lamps and candles. I love the feeling of finishing an incredible book and looking at the clock to find it’s three a.m., and you don’t even care because you were lost inside another world where time is of no consequence. I like the way the world feels quiet and peaceful, and being awake in the midst of that is almost like a secret.
I love the night sky—you can’t stare directly into the sun, but you can stare at the stars. You can study them as long and as intently as you want without fear they’ll burn you.
“I’m sorry Zach stood you up,” August says quietly, snapping me from my thoughts. “Leo was yelling at him in our group message, and when I realized what happened, I snuck out.”
I drop my head and meet his gaze, finding some unreadable expression on his face. I’m normally good at reading him—I always know what’s going through his mind—but every once in a while, he catches me by surprise when he puts his guard up.
“Thank you.”
I watch his eyes track my body, starting at my lips, down to my feet, and back up again. “You look beautiful, Elena, and it’s his loss to have missed it.”
My throat swells, my earlier emotions and the sting of rejection rising once more. “I felt beautiful,” I say, swallowing. “I felt…feminine, and you know that’s a rare feeling for me.”
He pulls his hands from his pockets and takes a step closer. “What were you looking forward to most?”
“Being pretty for once.” I snort. “And the dancing. Slow dancing.”
August nods, as if expecting that answer. He’s quiet for a moment. His hand rises to cup the back of his neck as he takes a deep breath. Shaking his head slightly, he finally holds that arm out to me. “Do you want to dance now? At least get one out of that dress?”
The most genuine smile I’ve mustered all day creeps onto my lips. Nobody else gets me the way August gets me. I’d never ask a boy to dance. There is no one else I’d even admit those thoughts to.
About two years ago, I settled into this alternative, dark-girl persona. I like weird books I’m way too young to read, and I don’t like having sleepovers. I don’t play sports, and I hate concerts because they’re too loud and crowded. I don’t do great in social situations, and I force myself not to care about appearances because I’m afraid if I did, I wouldn’t hold a candle to other girls. My favorite color genuinely is black—it’s the only color I think elevates all others, but when I explain that, I get accused of trying too hard to bedifferent.
Friends—and I use the word lightly—I’ve had in the past told me I was trying too hard tonot be like other girls, and I never understood it.
