Sublime(4)
Author: Christina Lauren

And he seems to want it, too. Colin follows her everywhere, and where she feels as if she’s built of a million questions and doubts, he seems to be only instinct, happy to simply be near her. His presence raises a warm, soothing hum beneath her skin. He’s behind her as she walks down the halls between classes. Sometimes he walks beside her and talks about—everything—even though she rarely answers what he asks. He’s stopped offering to share his lunch. He’s stopped offering to share his books. Since that first day in the hall, he’s never tried to touch her. But he hasn’t yet revoked his company.

She isolates herself at school because she feels so other. She’s unable to throw away the clothes she woke up wearing, but they feel like a hook to another place, piled in the corner of the old shed she’s found. Every time Lucy looks at them, she knows she wore them when she lay buried somewhere. The new, stolen uniform hangs limp on her bony frame. She tells herself to keep going to classes because, really, what else does she have? At least here, she can be near him. And the closer he is, the more she relaxes. Is it dangerous to want so much to know someone without first knowing yourself?

She pretends she’s wandering the campus—not seeking him out—but is flooded with a wild, charged excitement when she finds him in the parking lot near the security gates, riding a BMX with the other guy she always see with him. His friend—Jay, she remembers—is good-looking, a bit shorter but wiry, with a constant smirk. His gaze slips past her to focus on Colin’s reaction as Lucy approaches. Then Jay stands on his pedals and moves away.

“Hey,” Lucy calls, and she thinks she’s said it too quietly, but Colin’s head snaps up and his eyes go wide. She sees his face every time she closes her eyes, but the reality of him in person still surprises her.

He pedals over, too-long limbs and too-long hair, hopping off his bike while it continues to come to a skidding stop only inches from her legs. He looks impressed that she hasn’t stepped back. “Hey, Lucy.”

She swallows, unprepared for how intimate it feels when he says her name. “How can you bike with a broken arm?”

He shrugs, but something is illuminated behind his eyes, and she recognizes it as joy. “We’re playing around to see if I’ll be able to hit a trail later this week.”

A small tug in her chest. A flutter. “With one arm?”

“Yep.” He grins, and the combination of the wonky bottom tooth that overlaps its twin and the small metal ring hugging his lip make her blink and look away so she can process his answer. “My legs are fine, and I only need one good arm to steer.”

She nods and smooths the wisps of hair off her face. “Are you following me?”

She expects embarrassment or defensiveness, but he laughs, wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his noncasted arm. “Am I following you?” His eyes move to his bike and then back to her, playful. “Not at the moment.”

She’s embarrassed, fighting a smile. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says. “And yeah, I guess I have been.” He pauses while he looks at every part of her face. “I mean, we both know I have been.”

His smile widens then, invading every feature and making his eyes brighten last, and best. She wants to stare at him. Long lashes drop slowly as his eyes close, as if developing another image. She loves his blink. It’s a strange fascination she has, but she wants to ask him what he sees behind his lids.

“Why?” she asks.

“Why am I following you?”

She nods, and his playful smile disappears. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t look at me the way the other students do,” she says.

He studies her in that way he has, like every day is made up of hundreds of hours and he’s not in any hurry to wrap up his inspection. “How do other students look at you?”

“They don’t.”

He shrugs and his eyes soften. “Then they’re idiots.”

Every inch of her skin aches to be near him, but the doubts roll back in, gray as rain clouds. He has no instinct to protect himself from the strangeness of her. Is she supposed to believe he hasn’t noticed that she’s different? “You shouldn’t follow me. I’m not who you think I am.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s kind of dramatic.”

“I know it is. That’s my point.”

He moves closer, expression soft. “Did you come here to find me and tell me to stop coming to find you?”

She shrugs, fighting another smile.

“That seems like a poor use of your lunch break. You could have waited for me to find you later. It’s in my plan, right after chemistry.”

“Seriously, Colin. You shouldn’t—”

“It isn’t that easy,” he interrupts. All teasing is gone from his eyes as he looks up to the sky, and he’s blushing hotly, slowing himself down. His voice drops to barely a whisper, and he admits, “I don’t know why, okay? I just want to get to know you, and I can’t seem to stay away.”

Lucy drinks in his full lips, his hungry expression, and his earnest attention and tries to keep it safe somewhere inside. “Colin.”

He exhales a puff of air, saying shakily, “What?”

She looks away, up at the dense autumn storm clouds now beginning to form, green with electricity and heavy with rain. “Like you said, I’m a dramatic girl.” She smiles, feeling her skin hum with electricity at the way he’s hanging on her every word. “Don’t boys hate that?”

“Usually.” He licks his lips, tracing the shape of the silver ring.

“Seriously though,” she says, dragging her gaze away from his mouth. Her chest, it aches. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

He sees something in her eyes that keeps rejection from clouding his face. He blinks once, nods slowly, as if he already knew this about her. “Okay.”

He stares at her as she walks away; his focus is like a point of heat on her back. Did she really tell him to stay away? Now, as if there’s a magnet behind her and she is composed of shards of scrap metal, she feels almost irresistibly pulled backward. Ahead is the cabin at the edge of campus, and a man in khakis and a sweater stands on the porch, stretching in the crisp air. A small plaque at the foot of the walkway leading to the home reads:

WILLIAM P. VERNON MEMORIAL RESIDENCE Joseph Velasquez, Headmaster As she passes the path to the steps, the man she assumes is Joseph R. Velasquez doesn’t even nod or smile or somehow acknowledge her. His focus is on the lot behind her, where she’s left Colin and Jay horsing around on their bikes. His eyes narrow, and what looks like exasperation moves through his body, deflating him.

“Colin Novak!” he yells, irritation thickening his voice. “The doc said no riding!”

Pressure builds inside her chest, a balloon that fills with some indescribable need until it’s so strong, so full, she fears her ribs might crack beneath the strain. She feels angry. But she has no idea why. And as his words echo past her to the quad, bouncing back and joining the whispers of Colin’s name that repeat in her thoughts, the man glances at her, horror appearing on his face before the sturdy porch groans and in a sharp snap, wood planks splinter. It happens so fast, but in Lucy’s mind it feels like each event occurs in slow succession: wood cracks, Velasquez pitches first forward and then back as his legs break through the porch and he falls beneath. His surprised cry echoes across the lawn.

The balloon bursts, and relief seeps into each corner of her body. She breathes again, gasps as if it’s the first breath she’s ever taken. And she’s horrified. Lucy scrambles up the steps and reaches for his hand before immediately pulling back. She’s never touched anyone, not in this body. She doesn’t even know if she can be touched. Instinct presses her back. He looks up from where he landed, waist-deep under the porch and grimacing in pain.

“Go away,” he says, pleading with her.

She takes another step back, hands moving to cover her mouth in silent apology. But her face is unrecognizable beneath her fingers, like heat and anger have torn away her skin.

“I don’t think I can pull you out,” she says, too quiet, aching with apology but unwilling to move closer, almost as if an invisible wall stands between her and the wounded man. He looks at her in awe, and she steps back, holding her hands up. “I’m afraid to try in case—”

Shouts from the lot reach her, and footsteps pound down the sloping lawn. Colin, with Jay close behind him, shouting, “Joe! Oh, my God, Joe!” Colin buckles when he reaches the gaping hole in the porch, and he and Jay struggle to heave out a dusty and injured Mr. Velasquez.

There’s blood and torn fabric, and Lucy is oddly fascinated with the way the red blooms thickly through the fibers of his pants and pools beside Colin on the porch.

“I’ll . . . go get someone,” she says.

“Get Maggie,” Jay says to her, tearing a bit of his shirt and tying it around Mr. Velasquez’s leg.

“Maggie?”

“Campus nurse. Hang on. I’ll go with you. You got this, Col?”

Colin nods numbly and watches as she steps away and begins backing down the stairs. “What happened, Lucy?” “He fell through,” she answers dumbly.

Crimson blood almost reaches Colin’s leg, and he scoots back before it touches him. Looking back down, Colin says quietly, “We’ll get you fixed up, Joe.”

Lucy turns to leave, uneasy with the odd sense of responsibility she’s feeling, remembering the way Mr. Velasquez reacted as if her face told him something terrible was about to happen. Beside her, Jay is already scrolling through a list of names on what she’s learned is a phone with a bright, colorful screen. “I’ll walk with you,” he says.

Lucy had been confused at first when she’d seen students staring down at and tapping the front of what looked like a tiny TV. She’d never seen anything like it in her life. I’m not from here, she thought. I’m not from now. She wonders what would happen if she tried to take one, to use it to call outside the school. Would the dialed call bounce back into the school grounds, too?

They head back down the trail in an uneasy rhythm as Jay passes on the details to Maggie, and Lucy works to match his frantic pace. The lawn rolls ahead, stark and so green it almost looks unreal. Will they walk to the infirmary together? Will she be required to explain how a seemingly sturdy porch simply caved in under the weight of a small man? For once, Lucy wishes the earth would open up and reclaim her, the girl with no answers.

She turns and looks over her shoulder to where Colin remains bent over Mr. Velasquez, speaking quietly.

“Why is he so worried?”

“Did you not see the man up to his chest in porch? The blood?” Jay asks, a hint of sharp amusement in his voice.

Lucy nods, tucking her chin and staring at the brilliant green grass bending only slightly beneath her feet. Her words echo back to her and sound ridiculous. “Of course. I didn’t mean he shouldn’t be worried.”

“No, I know what you mean. He’s more worried than most students would be, I guess.” Jay ducks to meet her eyes. “It’s just that Colin miraculously survived this horrible accident that killed his parents. So accidents kind of freak him out. Plus Joe’s his godfather and, like, his one remaining semi-family member left on the planet.”

Chapter 6 HIM

COLIN’S BEEN IN THE INFIRMARY MORE TIMES than he can count, but he’s rarely been the one sitting beside the bed while someone else babbles under the influence of painkillers.

“Like a demon. Or a ghoul. Or . . . something whose face melts,” Joe mumbles.

“Everything’s okay now,” Colin reassures his godfather.

Joe has been rambling about demons for almost an hour. “It’s the morph**e.”

The door from the hallway opens and Maggie comes in, carrying fresh bandages and a glass of water. She’s barely in her thirties but carries the wisdom of a much older woman. It shows in the deep set of her frown and the persistent worry lines on her forehead.

“How’s he doing?” she asks Colin.

“Still going on about a face-melting demon, but he seems better.”

Maggie hums, lips tight, and pulls the sheet down to check Joe’s bandage. “We should take this one to the hospital, to be sure.”

“I’m fine,” Joe growls, suddenly coherent. “We’re not driving two hours for something you can do better here.” “I can stitch you up, but this is deep. You’ll have a nasty scar.”

“I’m staying put. Don’t have anyone to impress with my flawless skin.”

“Chicks dig scars,” Colin says, trying to distract him. Joe groans when Maggie peels away the blood-soaked bandage. Colin looks away, wincing. The cut is deep, but clean now, and Colin swears he saw a hint of bone. Maggie shoos him to the other side of the room while she stitches Joe up. His stomach turns at seeing Joe like this: obviously old, vulnerable.