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

11 - Your Clothes

I wanted to keep this moment with me forever. But the reality of an approaching morning that would again push us to different coasts arrived faster than I wanted it to.

As our mouths separated, we buried our faces in each other's shoulders, clinging to each other as if our lives depended on it.

Don't let go of me.

Let's stay like this for one more second.

And another one.

"We have to," said Conor, forcing a brief sad smile to rush over my face. I couldn't help but think that there were many things we had to do: go back inside, hold hands, kiss again, exchange phone numbers, and never fall asleep so we never would wake up from this dream.

My feet slid over the icy floor when Conor pulled his head away to turn toward the entrance. But he held my hand and helped me stay on my feet.

I wasn't ready to let go of him.

Hand in hand, we glided cautiously as penguins do on thin ice. The first to fall would have taken the other with him. But the closer we got to the door, the stronger the thicker layers of snow supported our steps and the easier it got to walk.

When Conor finally opened the door, the warm air hitting the cold outside produced so much steam. It felt like we had returned from outer space. As if we had just visited another planet and were entirely different people now after seeing the wonders that await humanity elsewhere.

Conor pulled me inside, shoving the door into its place with a snap as if he had just secured the airlock to our spaceship. Conor's face was glowing red, as was probably mine. We both had so much snow on our clothes that we almost looked like snowmen. I shivered, feeling cold and hot and everything in between.

Conor swept the snow off his jacket and nodded at me to do the same. As soon as he was done, he came over and opened the zipper of my coat to help me out of it. He didn't even ask me if I needed or wanted his help.

The snow under my jacket had already melted, leaving my clothes soaking wet.

"You should change. Do you have anything dry with you?"

I shook my head. Everything was in my suitcase, which was already checked in for departure.

"I'm surprised you are still alive after being without me all these years," Conor laughed.

Believe me. I am too.

Shivering, I slumped on a bench, rubbing my red hands against my pants to stay warm while Conor pored through his bag.

"It's not fresh, but at least it's dry." He handed me a white shirt and a green sweater, and I graciously took them.

"Let's find a place where you can change without offending public decency."

—

When I came out of the restroom, now wearing Conor's marginally too-big-for-me clothes, I felt human again: refreshed, warm and embarrassed.

But at least I smell like Conor now.

"You're finally wearing something fashionable," he joked, pushing himself off the wall he was leaning against.

"Where now? It's your turn to make the call," said Conor. I had almost forgotten that this was our objective for the night. But I am not in the mood to decide anything. I can't even choose how to feel or what to say right now.

My voice cracked when I replied. "Do you want to return to the movie theater?"

"I told them we wouldn't be back before I came after you."