Page 72 of Little Bird
And I’ve been doing it for years now, which has made it seem so normal that I don’t even think about it, really. But seeing Gabe’s face as he started to figure out what was going on, his eyes glancing from the blood on my palm to my own eyes, brought it all into stark focus. Using glass and razor blades on myself isn’t something anyone else is going to accept or understand.
Gabe was terrified at the very thought.
I groan at the range of emotions that brings up and am about to continue my flight down the hall toward my bedroom when a voice at the bottom of the stairs stops me.
“Little Bird.”
He sounds tentative, like he’s not sure he has the right to get my attention. Still worried, still confused, and it occurs to me that he doesn’t understand anything about why I did what I did. His heart is breaking with fear for me, and he doesn’t even know why.
That’s the part that gets me to turn around, because despite everything–—he’s bigger and stronger than me, and older than me, and perfectly capable of taking care of himself–—I don’t want him hurting. And if I can save him from the confusion he’s feeling right now, I’ll do it.
I gaze down the stairs at him, watching his face shift from uncertainty to relief to confusion to determination.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says quietly. “Want to escape with me?”
I’m so surprised that I giggle. When we were young, we talked about escaping all the time. Escaping the house to the roof, or escaping the town for the forest behind us, or for the city. Escaping our parents for people who wouldn’t boss us around. For us, life was an adventure. A fairy tale just waiting for its people, and we were the main characters. He was the hero and I was the princess, always looking our next great escapade.
I’d nearly forgotten about it, but now that he’s suggested it, I revise my needs for the night. I don’t need my room or anything sharp.
I just need an escape with my best friend.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “I’m all in. Where are we going?”
He casts a glance at the window, where the day is fading away. It’s not dark yet but the sunlight is disappearing from the yard.
“Up to the ridge for the sunset,” he replies. “Get a jacket.”
I’m surprised at that–—it’s going to be cold up on the mountain after the sun goes down–—but I don’t argue. Gabe Hawke has just asked me to escape with him. I don’t care how dark or cold or inconvenient it is out there.
When it comes to that boy, I’ll always be all in.
By the time we get to the ridge, it’s darker and colder and I’m wishing I brought my bigger jacket, but I’m not complaining. Gabe’s energy has gotten lighter since we left the house, and though I thought he’d be asking me about what happened in the shop, he hasn’t even mentioned it. Instead, he’s talking about everyday things: keeping the animals warm and making sure we have more firewood. Asking whether I’m going to get him Christmas presents and pretending he’s upset when I pretend I’m not.
The truth is, I am planning Christmas presents for Gabe and Gunner. But I’m not telling either of them that. Not until I know whether my plan is going to work.
We pull onto the flat top of the ridge, where Gabe turns the truck and backs toward the drop. We both get out of the truck without talking about it and move to the bed, in a choreographed process that we came up with long ago.
This isn’t the first time we’ve used the back of the truck as a hangout spot.
The moment we turn and slip into the bed of the truck, though, we grow still. In front of us, the sun is still peeking over the forest, its last rays cutting paths across the trees in golds, pinks, and oranges, and the view is so breathtaking, so stark and beautiful, that for a moment, I don’t want to breathe in case I ruin it. Gabe’s gone silent as well, and the world around us is so quiet that I can hear his breath, ragged and labored.
A second later, I feel his fingers tracing the skin of my left hand before they thread through my own fingers. He unzips his jacket and puts my hand inside, tucking it against his chest until his warmth starts to seep through his shirt and into my own skin.
I stare at where my hand has just disappeared into his jacket, then look up at him, confused. Is this where he suddenly reminds me of what he saw in that workroom? Is he protecting my wounds?
His eyes are soft and hazy, though, and he’s looking at me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever seen. “You were shivering,” he says, shrugging. “Want to give me your other hand too?”
I look down, only now seeing that I didn’t wear gloves. I hadn’t realized I was shivering, but I note the fine tremor running through my body and smile a bit. Gabe doesn’t know that I’ve had this tremor since my mom and I moved back to the city.
Though now that he mentions it, I am cold.
And I’m not above taking him up on the offer.
I hold my other hand out to him, but it becomes quickly obvious that he can’t have my right hand when we’re sitting the way we are. And though I could put my hand into my own pocket and warm it up that way, that’s not the game we’re playing. We struggle with the problem for a second longer, me trying to reach across my body to give him my hand and him shifting again and again to try to take it, and soon we’re giggling helplessly at the fact that it’s not working.
“This is like trying to play Twister,” I say, breathless.
Gabe snorts. “Only Twister is easier. Here.”
