"How gnarly of you," I rolled my eyes.
"Kennedy, you don't know the half of it." His gaze burned with treasured desire. "I could surf waves on your neck with my lips."
My eyebrows rose and I slid my hands down his waist and watched his eyelids flut...
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Kennedy's P.O.V
'LOCAL BOY DEAD' read the headline of the newspaper article. Its bold black print seemed to cry out in grief and the ink seemed old like faded tears.
Rylan's whole body seemed to sink within itself, caving to the thoughts and any memories that seemed to be reappearing in his mind at the headline. For a long second, he stared at the paper, it's corners gradually curling under the pressure which the growing tightness in his knuckles held.
I hesitated to reach out to touch him. My hand coming short a couple centimeters of his shoulder.
His head tilted away from the paper, and I watched as his adams apple bopped up and down in what seemed to be an attempt to swallow the pain.
However, the paper was the only thing he didn't try to let go of. Instead, it crumpled up against his chest, the headlines being crushed under a purposeful force. And with each word published on the article, his breathing grew heavier as though each breath of air had been full of old bottled-up words and angry thoughts.
"Rylan?"
No response.
"Ry?" I repeated, the sound of my voice seemed to shock him.
"Stop!" He stood up abruptly and stepped away from me. It left a rush of air, in the empty space. "Don't." He held up a hand, avoiding my eye contact. "Don't call me that."
I paused, looking him up and down. Amongst the cluttered boxes and memorabilia, he looked lost in a place that seemed to scream busy. He looked alone in a world of people and memories.
I wasn't sure what to ask other than, "are you okay?"
But that sent him off again. He climbed over a box, creating more space between us. It was like two magnets repelling from each other. However deep down I didn't think we were polar opposites.
He looked like he was about to leave and I was so sure we were heading back to normal like we used to be that I didn't want him to leave until he let me inside his head. "Are you okay?" I repeated and just when I would've gotten up to follow him out the door, he turned around to face me.
"You, don't get to ask that."
My eyebrows drew together. "Ask what?" I stared back at him confused.
"If I'm okay!" he replied getting frustrated. The contorted features on his face, seemed to withhold more information than he led on.
It took me a second before I pushed out, "Well, are you?" and then took a step forwards, "because you don't look it," I finished.
Part of me wanted to tread lightly he was like a fuse on a ticking bomb. The other half wanted me to ask him over and over again until he told me he was okay. I hadn't seen pain like this since I used to look in the mirror the weeks after Sam died.
