Airel - Aaron Patterson [90]
Michael was standing with his back to me at one of the counters, downing a large glass of orange juice. I stopped and looked at him, feeling my heart rise and thump in my chest just at the sight of him. I snuck in and grabbed a stool, sitting on it.
“So, what’s the special?” He jumped at the sound of my voice. “Gotcha back,” I said. He smiled.
“You look amazing, Airel.” When he turned toward me, a large bowl of exotic fruits came into view behind him. He had arranged everything in the shape of a heart.
I clicked my tongue and said, “Awww!” It was such a nice gesture; and it had probably taken some time to do.
“There’s fresh bread, too,” he said, turning to the brick oven. He brought out a couple of gorgeous looking rounds of sourdough, and abruptly, my stomach turned.
Oh, no. I didn’t want to get sick again. Why was this happening? It was like a second puberty—no matter how you sliced that idea, it’s bad. I spoke, to try to distract myself. “You make your own bread, too?” I was genuinely impressed.
“Sure, why not?” He looked at me quizzically, cocking his head. “You okay? You look weird.”
“Oh, really?”
“Well! Not weird. I mean, you look great. But you look like you just smelled something gross…”
My mind fluttered, going into emergency procedures. Michael’s eyebrows lowered, making me wonder what he was thinking. “I’m fine, just hungry. It all looks so good.”
I guess I should have seen it coming. For the first time—well, the first time consciously—I heard something: It was Michael’s voice, but distant, as if it was coming from a thousand miles away. “I can’t go on like this; I have to tell her.” It was Michael, but not his spoken voice. I was hearing his thoughts. I was reading his mind; I remembered what Kale had told me about the ‘gift.’ It was a small voice in the fog, but it was all Michael’s.
“Well, good, ‘cause there’s plenty to eat here.” He seemed to lose some of his trademark spark. I hadn’t really noticed it until it had gone, but it had always seemed to be toward the back of his eyes, illuminating his gaze. I wondered what he was holding back from me, and what it meant.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He moved the bowl of fruit over to where I was sitting, serving me. “Just thinking of how crazy all this is. We’re in this beautiful house with everything we could want: food, clothes, great trails to hike. No TV or games, but I really haven’t missed ‘em all that much.”
I smiled; he was so cute. He was the one person I could never fear, or even see myself becoming fearful around, like some guys I knew. Deep down, I think a lot of girls have this underlying fear of a man they know could kill them, crush them with sheer strength or will. He was so strong, built like a rock. But I knew he could never use his strength to hurt me, no matter what. His strength made me feel—safe.
We sat and ate breakfast for quite a while, enjoying the luxury of one another’s company. I realized that we hadn’t really had much time to ourselves, for all that had happened. And if we had an easy time before the kidnapping finding common ground, our present situation was like double-sided tape between us.
We spent the day doing ultimately forgettable things, just enjoying each other’s company. My grandparents would say we were strolling, because life was slower then, more easily enjoyable, probably. Yeah, and there was horse poop in the streets, too. I guessed every age had its gilded edge. But it didn’t matter. I was finally, finally, getting to indulge myself in what I wanted the very most: Michael Alexander. And it was glorious.
The air was cool, with a hint of rain. The trees and the undergrowth seemed to open to it, as if enjoined to the sense that something was coming. The woods came alive with anticipation of the life-giving rain, and we stood silently in the midst of it, looking up from russet-colored earth through giant redwood boughs that reached to the darkening sky.
Michael looked great in his worn-out