a sunshine boy meets a broken girl
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"ugh I hate packing "
"I'll help " I shrug .
"no , I'll do it on my own " she says checking the clothes on the hanger
"but you hate packing "
"I hate breathing too , I do that just fine "...
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He rests his back against the front seat of the car. Just as I open the backseat door for us to sit, his hand suddenly comes around my face and moves above my head. I visibly flinch out of habit. After all these years, I'm still scared of alcohol. Just great. I look up to see him staring at me with soft but hurt eyes.
"Storm, I would never hurt you. I was just moving the hair off your forehead," he whispers softly, the hurt clear in his voice. Hearing this, my stomach tightens into a knot.
"I know, Lyn. I'm just scared of alcohol and drunk people," I confess, knowing he's too drunk to remember this and also because I'm terrible at lying.
I somehow manage to drag him inside the car, my heart beating louder with each passing second. As I sit next to him, he rests his chin on my shoulder and, with a pout, he whines, "I'm tired." The car jolts over a speed bump, and I quickly place a hand on the back of his neck to keep him from getting hurt.
"Your hands are so warm and small," he says, joining our hands together and comparing their sizes. "I didn't think you would actually wear my ring," he says with a smile, intertwining our fingers. He lays his head on my legs. He's so cute.
A minute or two later, I bend my neck a little to see if he has fallen asleep, but he opens his eyes. We're now just inches apart, my necklace dangling over him.
"You're not asleep yet," I whisper softly.
"I can close my eyes if you were about to kiss me," he says with such innocence. I roll my eyes.
"No, Lucas, I was just asking because the house is still a little ways away."
He whines, "Don't call me that."
"Lucas? That's your name," I say, slightly confused.
He nods. "Everyone calls me 'Lucas,' but you... you call me Lyn. I love it when you call me by that name," he says in a baby voice, making me smile.
"Wow, you are so pretty, Storm," he says, his eyes shining with adoration. "You know when you laughed that day in the car?" I nod for him to continue. "That was like music to my ears. And your eyes are so pretty. And your hair looks so soft," he says, fiddling with my hair.
"Lyn, my eyes are hazel. You must have seen thousands of eyes with the same color."
"Maybe, but yours are the ones that tell a story," he says, making me freeze.
"You're just drunk, Lyn," I say, trying to avoid eye contact.
"I am, but that doesn't make what I said a lie," he says, turning around and burying his face in my stomach. He places my hand on his hair. Smiling, I gently massage his hair, and a contented sigh escapes his lips.
The car finally comes to a stop in front of the house. The gentle hum of the engine ceases, and the sudden silence feels almost deafening. Lucas, still nestled on my lap, is fast asleep, his breath slow and steady against my stomach. I gently run my fingers through his hair, reluctant to wake him, but knowing we can't stay in the car all night.
