Touch

35

Zayn suggest that we sit on my front steps, but after everything that's happened tonight, I really just want to get away.

"Are you sure?" he asks. I nod, and he studies me for just a second, as though trying to decide. But then he hands me his helmet and tells me to hold on tight.

I wrap my arms around his waist, and we take off down the road. The buzz of his motor awakens my senses, makes me feel more in the moment than ever.

I must have driven down this street a million times, but I never noticed the explosion of color, how the neon lights from store signs and buildings illuminate the pavement in bright strips of red, gold, and blue.

We reach a stoplight and Zayn glances back at me. Later, he turns and gives me a slight smile. Meanwhile, I have no idea where he's taking me. I just know that the cool, salty breeze tangling the ends of my hair is beyond intoxicating.

I rest my head against his back and breathe in his sugary scent, trying to calm my nerves, to tell myself that this is okay, that we're outside, where people can see us, and that my cell phone is charged and in my bag if I need it.

Still, I've never done anything like this before. I've never just taken off out my window, not telling my parents where I was going, or acted on pure instinct, without a set plan in place.

About fifteen minutes later, Zayn pulls up in front of Jet Lag, a twenty-four-hour diner famous for serving breakfast at night and dinner in the morning.

He extends his hand to help me off his bike, but then pulls away, as if the mere touch of my skin were too intense. "Sorry," he says. I nod, full of questions, but before I can ask even one, he takes a step back and then turns to open the restaurant door for me.

The place is beyond dead, only one solitary couple in a far corner. We take the opposite corner and slide the menus out from between the salt and pepper shakers.

A waitress comes shortly after and plunks a couple of mugs down on the laminated table. "Coffee?" she asks, the pot held high.

We nod, and she fills up the mugs, muttering how we look like we could use it. I end up ordering a plate full of cinnamon French toast even though I'm anything but hungry.

"And for you?" the waitress asks Zayn. "The same," he says, forgoing the menu completely, since it's obvious we both want to be left alone. "You felt something just now, didn't you?" I ask, as soon as she steps away.

Zayn pours sugar into his mug and stirs. "I always feel something with you."

"So, what was it? Why did you pull away?"

"First, you answer my question," he says, looking right at me. There's a trace of sweat on his brow. "What happened tonight?"

My mouth drops open in surprise.

"What makes you think something happened?"

"Tell me," he insists. I wonder how he knows, whether my eagerness to bolt gave me away, or maybe it was something else. "Can you tell me?" I ask.

"I mean , if you can really sense stuff the way you say you can."

"Are you testing me?"

"Maybe." Zayn reaches across the table and glides his hand over mine. He encircles my fingers and takes a full breath, sending tingles straight down my back.

"Did somebody give you something?" he asks finally. "Something... like what?"

"I can see broken glass," he whispers, squeezing my hand harder, "and a scribble of red, like writing. Did you get a letter or a message?" I feel my lips tremble; I'm wondering if I should tell him, but I'm suspicious just the same.