Short Stories

Stephanie - The Second of the Seven

 If you were to ask me why I stopped to talk to him, I honestly couldn't tell you. Maybe it was because he was crying. Maybe it was because of how utterly heartbroken he sounded. Maybe it was because of that shaggy mess of brown hair on top of his head. I like to believe it was because of fate. I think that I stopped to talk to Jayden simply because it was meant to be. For no better reason other than I had to meet him.

Or maybe it was because I was avoiding another encounter with my boyfriend.

Either way, I stopped.

I looked at him curiously for a second before asking, "What's wrong?"

His head jerked up, and I saw scars on his face. There were the remnants of bruises and a single welt across his cheek. I gasped and put my hands to my mouth.

He let out a single, harsh laugh. "I can't look that bad, can I? I left weeks ago."

First kingdom accent.

First kingdom.

Enemy.

I ignored those thoughts and kept going, dropping my hands from my mouth and feeling awkward. "Um . . . sorry," I said, "I didn't mean to offend you . . . or anything."

He surprised me by shaking his head. The way he did it . . . it was kinda cute.

"No. You didn't. I was just . . . um . . . You know what? Nevermind. You should probably just go back to whatever it was that you were doing."

He said that with a resigned look on his face, like he expected me to shrug my shoulders and keep on walking.

Yeah. Right.

I smiled as I looked at his chocolate milk eyes and hardened jaw line. There was no way I was just going to leave him here.

"Oh," I replied, trying to sound innocent and totally normal as I sat by him. "I wasn't really doing anything important. And you never answered my question. What's wrong?"

He paused for a second, slightly scrunching his eyebrows together, before replying, "Nothing, anymore. No, it'll all get better from here."

Talk about a vague answer. I was still curious, but if he didn't want to tell me, I understood. After all, he had no idea who I was, either.

"So . . ." I started, thinking up a different course for our conversation to run. "What's your favorite color?"

The smallest hint of barely a sort-of smile touched his lips, and I had to struggle to keep my heart from pounding faster than necessary.

(Quick explanation: I have a boyfriend, yes, but that's because my over-protective parents who just happen to be the king and queen thought he'd be good for me. He's the star of the school football team, which means he's utterly obnoxious, and he doesn't really like me either, since I'm unwilling to give him endless praise, so I sort of felt bad about quickly developing a crush on this kid, but not really. By the way, my boyfriend's name is Ralph)

"What kind of person asks for a favorite color before asking for a name?"

I paused for a second before regaining my usual composure and replying, "I do!"

Again, I saw the smallest, almost microscopic hint of a smile, and I found myself wishing that I could see more. I wanted to see this person smile, almost as much as I didn't want to see Ralph ever again.

The homeless kid thought for about ten seconds before replying, "Midnight blue. So dark that it's almost black, but not quite."

I imagined this color. It definitely wasn't my favorite. Too dark. Too dismal. So I couldn't help asking, "Why?"