Darling Belle

Seventeen

Tenderness. You miss it, don't you?

Silence.

Don't you mourn it?

How does your sorrow breathe? Shallow? Ragged? Rhythmic? Does it slither into your dreams, its sweet, venomous fangs sinking into you? Unsolicited and brutal? Have you adapted to its viciousness? Grown immune to its poison? Is it embedded into your lower back like a tramp stamp? Does it weigh you down? Have you learned to carry it with you everywhere you go? Has it become a safety blanket? A comfort object? Do you need it like an essential organ?

Have you forgotten how to live without grief?

Mother reached out, fingers ghosting over one of the apples of her cheeks. You're my daughter, Maisie Belle.

And for some reason unbeknownst to Maisie, that was what made her burst into tears.

Snap.

She jerked her head up, doe-eyed, the daydream becoming distant, a figment of her imagination. Noah lowered his hand while her environment and purpose crashed down onto her like a sudden tsunami. They'd just come from breakfast, packed their bags and had planned to check out in approximately five minutes.

With assessing eyes, Noah moved around her in a cautious, half-circle. And in a lazy tone, he said, 'were you listening, Miss Graham?'

Maisie's cheeks darkened but she lifted her chin high, looking him straight in the eye. 'Course not.' She couldn't help the Southern drawl that peeked into her voice, her mother was originally from Texas and they'd vacationed there frequently. Her blush deepened, she'd been good at hiding it, and adapted to a more Alaskan tone. But sometimes it still came through. Well, it's where her Ma had grown up. And since she'd been spending time... well...

In elementary, she cried when people poked fun at her accent, it had been an unusual mix between Texan, Spanish and French because of the trilingual preschool she'd attended. Everyone always told her to say squirrel, they found it hilarious when she wrestled with the word. And the teasing hadn't stopped at school, Nico made sure of that. It always ended up in waterworks. She didn't weep to evoke pathos, she just felt isolated. A sore thumb. Especially when she had to attend speech therapy and her friends didn't. Not to mention, the linguistic differences like grammatical structure made it a difficult and overall maddening experience. It made her resent talking. Language.

Noah knew this well.

He stared her down for a few agonizing seconds, unreadable, before shaking his head, and averting his gaze in haste. 'Of course not,' he tsked, pivoting, and tugging at the handle. Triggering the latch mechanism's jammed click. The door wouldn't budge.

Could he tell? Could he tell she was spoiled?

At the nape of his neck, a cluster of star-like freckles marred his pallid skin. It was close to the Lyra constellation. She stepped forward, peering down at the persistent lock, the sleeve of his black sweater slipped on and off his slender wrist, his veins that lightly contoured his hand becoming more prominent at each struggling attempt. He pushed his shoulder against the door—to no avail. Maisie angled her head slightly nearer, his rosemary odor practically sinking into her pores as she watched a cord of muscle strain in his throat. His heavy-lidded eyes met hers, then.

Maisie blinked away but her soul had already felt touched. She felt awkward to be caught staring, so swiftly, she moved backwards. 'What's with calling me Graham, anyway?' she threw out, panicked, she didn't want to be silent as it may've made the situation even more shameful— if he had an idea in his head that she was being thoughtfully quiet and over-contemplating their very brief eye contact, she'd die of embarrassment.