The Counter Born (#Wattys2016)

Chapter Sixteen

READ THIS! You might think this plot line is going in a completely different direction, but I'm going to slam intensity in your face when you least expect it. BOOM! Oooohhhhhhhh
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
- 15 years ago -
Foreign cars and toy cabs were bustling. Boucheries, pâtisseries, and boutiques were about to burst with French natives. I didn't want to move to the city at first, but the tightly wound and packed streets ironically made me less anxious. See, my dad had a job that forced us to move all over the world. I never fully understood it. Perhaps it was the CIA, but I sincerely hoped not.

"I like it here," I said. "Oui, J'aime est boucoup."

"Good. I'm glad to hear that," my mother murmured back with eyes flickering with light. I closed my eyes as I listened to her calm voice. It was like citrus and summer. Those were one of the many things I loved about her.

"Should we go to the Eiffel Tower today?" She asked softly, and I nodded. You could only imagine the day when your family could casually say that and make you feel like royalty. My dad was working while mom treated me to lunch and a whole day just me and her.

We took a cab to the foot of the massive landmark, me practically itching to be free of the confined space. When we stepped out, Heaven was made on earth. Beautiful and elegant architecture overlooked the streets that ran under it, and it stood to be miles high. "Did you know there's a restaurant at the top?" Mother asked.

"Le Jules Verne?" I replied.

"Yes. How did you know?" I pointed to a canopy with the words printed on the front. "Oh," she laughed.

"Can we go there tonight?"

"Uh no, honey. I'm sorry. We just don't have the money."

"That's okay. This is breathtaking enough," I said. The sun cast a giant shadow under the tower, and I stood under it. I watched the designs the cutout triangle shapes made on my body. The statue dressed me like human artwork, even though I'd seen plenty of that already in my new city. In my new city . . .

I open my eyes to see a plain bedroom. There are plain curtains, plain carpet, plain bed sheets: nothing extravagant. It's surely a game changer from how I usually wake up, and I'm thankful for that. You have to remember who you were. You have to remember who you're fighting for.

"But I'm not fighting," I say, slightly confused. Oh you are. You just don't see it yet. I truly don't expect to see Oliver when I walk down the stairs to the kitchen. He's curled up on the couch, hugging a throw pillow to his chest. Oliver glances up when I trudge to the fridge in my boxers and white T-Shirt. He's still in his clothes, which could pass off for pajamas. Or do his pajamas pass off for clothes? Stop thinking too hard, brain. What should I think about? Why was he still just sleeping? Or why is he even on my couch? "I didn't think–" I start.

"You thought I wouldn't be here? Well I'm not going to live in a cardboard box."

"Good to know." I take a cardboard carton of eggs out of the bottom compartment. "Les oeufs?"

"Landon, you know I don't know what the hell you're saying." I shrug.

"Eggs?" He nods slowly. "Over easy or scrambled?"

"Over easy. That's how my mom always used to make them," Oliver says. I chew on my lip, my heart breaking.

"Mine too . . . " I get out a pan and spatula as Oliver makes his way into the kitchen.