Fifteen | ✓

twelve

That night with him was enough to catapult her spirits to great heights for the rest of that week and even the next, and it seemed to be the same for Christopher who stood upon her doorstep unannounced with a wilted bouquet of sparse daffodils.

A beanie was perched atop his long hair despite the sweltering summer heat, but the sun was no match for him. He was far, far brighter.

"Daffodils?" Catherine queried with an eyebrow raised in incredulity. "That's a first." As she spoke, two dehydrated petals fluttered to the ground.

"It's a struggle." He beamed before leaning towards her scandalously, as if letting her in on a top secret. "I snagged them from my neighbour's lawn, if I'm being honest. I wanted a romantic touch but I was running on a short fuse, so here." The flowers were thrust forward to her, and she held onto them durably, relishing in the warm feel of Christopher's skin on her hands.

"Stealing is wrong."

"Stealing? This isn't stealing, it's more like trading." On the receiving end of a flat look, he elaborated, "I always give them sugar when they run out, and they run out a lot. I should at least have a payment."

"Good deeds aren't good deeds if you expect something in return," she scolded.

"Yes, Mum."

Catherine laughed, taking full hold of the daffodils and backing into her home, Christopher in tow.

"Bloody hell, isn't it hot," she heard him complain behind her as he peeled off his black jacket.

"For a person that allegedly can't tolerate the heat, you wore a lot of black today." She found a vase and half-filled it with the tap water from her kitchen while Christopher positioned himself as close to the air conditioning vent as possible.

"I heard it's sexy," he replied with another one of his flirtatious winks. "You know, what with the bad boy vibe and all."

She laughed. "You're about as 'bad' as a TellyTubby. Don't kid yourself."

He scowled jokingly, pointing an accusing finger at her. "Who says? I'm bad, to the bone! Like gangster level bad."

"I never knew that gangsters nursed addictions to Popsicles."

His eyes brightened suddenly, and they darted to her refrigerator. "Speaking of which, do you have any this time around?"

"Ye-"

Before she could finish her statement, he'd already sprinted over to the fridge, merely a flash of dark clothing in her vision, and the next second a red Popsicle dangled precariously from his mouth.

"This is getting ridiculous, Christopher. At this rate, you'll be needing a therapist soon."

He shrugged off her words as if they were meaningless, his face going lax as he savoured the flavoured ice.

She later reached forward to him, hanging her fingers around the lapels of his jacket that he'd flung around his shoulders. "You know what? I do like this look. I might imitate it. Black is very fitting."

"Told you so." His Popsicle had long since finished, but he still held the wooden stick at the corner of his mouth like some sort of sheriff spoof.

His gaze was fixed on her intently, but she soon noticed the difference in his features, the seriousness of his face. His eyes went steely and his jaw had clenched, as if struggling to memorize something, as if struggling to memorize her.

"Christopher, what's wrong?" She placed one hand against his cheek in concern, and he subconsciously leaned into it.

A smirk played on his lips. "You know, I'm just trying to envision how hot you'd look as a goth emo chick."

She knew what he was trying to do; he was trying to dodge the subject, the conversation in itself, and decided to humour him, not feeling like overstepping her boundaries.

"You're unbearable," Catherine laughed, slapping lightly against his chest. He seized her hand promptly; the steel had melted from his eyes, leaving their chocolatey glaze on display.

"If I recall correctly, you said those exact words last week, and need I remind you the outcome?"

She blushed furiously, memories of Christopher kissing her that night replaying incessantly through her mind. Before she could get too far into her thoughts, he had leaned forward, pressing his lips onto hers again, pressing his body into hers.

But this kiss was different; it wasn't like the tender heartfelt one they'd shared the previous week underneath the blankets of the stars as they danced to each their own heartbeats.

This one was needy, verging on rough, his hold on her so tight it seemed as if he were attempting to graft her into himself, a distracted undertone to his movements.

Something was bothering him.

She pulled away, studying him before repeating her question once more: "Christopher, what's wrong?"

He gritted his teeth, throwing his head back frustratedly before re-leveling it. His chest heaved up and down primally in a repetitive manner as he gripped onto the countertop like it was his lifeline. "Just drop it okay?" His voice sounded choked, as if the walls of his trachea were closing up.

"You can't keep evading my questions like this," she complained, running her fingers through her mane of curls. "I'm concerned about you but anytime I try to ask, all you give me is bs."

"Then maybe you shouldn't ask!" Christopher's tone lifted to a crescendo, resonating across the kitchen tiles before plunging the room into silence. The only thing to be heard was the constant hum of the nearby refrigerator.

Catherine had flinched away from him during his sudden outburst, never having seen this side to him. Maybe a few glimpses of it from time to time, but never had it come out fully to play.

Already regretting his actions, he mellowed, gaze dropping to his beat sneakers apologetically. "I'm sorry," he lamely started to say, "I just... I...."

"It's okay."

"Want a Popsicle?" he tried, reaching towards the soggy pack of thawing ice on the kitchen isle, as if it would serve as some sort of peace offering. 

"No, thanks. I prefer tea; I'm about to brew up some, if you'd like?"

His nose wrinkled. "Tea in the summer?"

"There's such a thing as iced tea, idiot."

He cracked a small smile at first, before it stretched into a full blown dazzling grin. She felt her heart melt along with the Popsicles on the counter. "I might just take you up on that offer."

And he did just that.

They didn't bring up the topic of the previous tension again that day, nor the day after that, nor the day after that, nor the day after that, regarding it as pedantic and leaving it to bury underneath the accumulating layers of conversation. 

But what they didn't know was, unexpressed feelings never die. They are simply buried alive to come forth later in much uglier ways.

•••

i am not satisfied with this chapter :/