All Things Considered [🗸]

19. energy

THE NIGHT IS ON FIRE.

The bonfire is aflame from the center of the beach, people's bodies pressing against each other, blue cups clinking and spilling over and held in the tight grips of each person.

Flames burn up in their eyes, laughs fill the air. The sun has sunk beneath the horizon, just enough to allow a hazy glow of orange light. 

"Damn."

Esteban is standing next to me, his arm flung over my shoulder with ease as we both inhale the space. My feet keep tapping against the sand, fingers drumming against the sides of my denim shorts. Inhale, exhale.

My eyes flick over to Esteban and follow his gaze to where Ximena Ruiz stands. She's near the bonfire, decked out in a mesh top, dark skirt and ankle-high boots. Esteban's eyes are screaming awe. 

And really, I understand his whole Ximena thing. She wields a sort of power that's hard to put to words. 

Esteban grabs onto my arm and yanks me after him, toward the food stands where Ximena has now wandered off to. There's a vivid blue cooler sat on one of the stands, and Esteban rummages through it, grabbing two sodas and passing one back to me.

Ximena's leaning against one of the stands, and Esteban watches her completely uselessly. She's talking to a girl with a half-shaved haircut. A few moments later, the girl with the haircut is gone and Ximena's left behind, taking a sip out of her drink.

I glance at Esteban from the corner of my eye. "You going to talk to her?"

Esteban exhales briefly. He then proceeds to trace the cross over his chest, eyes fluttering shut for a few moments. "Wish me luck," he finally says before making his way over to her, hands slipping into the pockets of his shorts.

"Good luck," I call out behind him. My eyes follow Esteban as he approaches Ximena. Seconds later, she's laughing at something he said and the entire conversations seems to be smooth sailing. 

I take that as a sign to wade back toward one of the chairs sprawled onto the sand, my mind running with a million thoughts about how exactly Paxton and I are going to showcase our fake relationship during the bonfire.

Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I shake the thoughts away. My fingers automatically find the notes app, and I exhale as I start typing lyrics; phrases, thoughts, anything that occurs to me. It happens sometimes: occasional bursts of inspiration and words. Words that I will never share with a single fucking soul.

However, it's therapeutic. Instead of thinking about Paxton Irving, our fake relationship or the guidelines I made to keep us in line—I think about little lines and pretty phrases and all the thoughts that run through my mind like a waterfall.

I'm finishing a line when I feel a foot kick against mine. 

Glancing up, my eyes catch onto Paxton Irving who stand in front of me, drink in hand. His dark hair's pulled back, making his angular features more prominent. His outfit's a simple, dark long-sleeved shirt and slim-fitting jeans.