Your Picture On My Phone (The Scar Series - Book One)

3 - War

His question hit me entirely out of the blue. Happy about what exactly? Being snowbound in an airport? Accidentally bumping into him, opening a part of my past I'd rather keep hidden behind locked doors? The itching under my skin that now constantly reminds me that my friends might think of me as a terrible person? What a stupid question. I can't tell him I am not happy, whether it is true or not.

"I'm happy I got to see my grandparents for Christmas."

"That's not what I mean." Conor narrowed his eyes, which made him appear more worried, if that was even possible. "More like, in general."

Droplets of condensation water on my glass formed into one significant drop and ran over my hand. But that could only distract me from Conor's efforts to look into my soul for a second. My Cola was already half empty, but I kept drinking as if I would never have another one again.

"I don't know how to answer that."

"Well," he kept staring, "for example, I am happy I ran into you today."

So you didn't answer your own question in the way you just told me you meant it. It would have been better if I had said that, but my foolish mouth uttered a hushed "Why?"

Why would anybody be happy about running into my angry ass? Why would he?

His ambiguous face harbored a sad smile for a short moment before he replied, "No reason."

I waited for him to move the conversation forward, but he did nothing of the sort. After about a minute, Conor leaned his elbows on the table to support his head. His eyes didn't move. Only the corners of his mouth twitched vaguely. So we are back to being weird already?

"Do I have something on my face?" I drew an imaginary circle with my hand in front of my head, laughing insecurely. Conor gawked as if he was studying me. Just like a taciturn criminal is analyzed by a detective. Perhaps I should have just left. But that would give him the satisfaction of having broken me. I won't be the one forced to the ground.

I felt as if I was under attack. Wait a minute. What if he is not trying to freak me out but to recreate one of our most empty-headed yet fondest games? Is this an invitation to a staring contest? Like we held them so often in fifth grade? I had to test my thesis. So I put my elbows on the table to support my head and fixed my eyes on him.

And since he didn't move a muscle, I knew I was right. But why would he start a staring contest out of nothing? Does this mean that... Ugh, who cares? I'm not losing this!

Our faces were quite close now, and I noticed his breath on my skin intensifying the longer we sat there this way. That's good. It means he should be affected by my breath too. This is the heavy artillery I need now. I exhaled as hard as I could, trying to tickle his face, but Conor still didn't move a muscle. Fuck. He is way better at it now than five years ago. We kept our eyes locked on each other as we both knew that the first person who would take their eyes away or laugh would lose. Conor counter-attacked by also breathing heavily.

The air leaving his lung flew right into my nose as I breathed in, reminding me of our sleepovers at my place when we were younger. (We shared my twin bed as we were still small enough, and he always stole my part of the duvet, so I had to snuggle in closer to him to avoid freezing to death.) For a second, the corners of my mouth wanted to wince into a smile, but I forced them to stay put. I can't lose because of a memory like this. Stay focused!

"Here we go, gentleman."

The what's-his-name-waiter was back, balancing two gigantic plates on his right arm. The Burgers, fries, and coleslaw salad couldn't wait to be demolished by us. But Conor wasn't impressed by him, and my pride compelled me to stare too.