A Likely Story

13. breaker

 In my opinion, one of the nicest feelings in the world is when you look up one day and find that you have slipped into a stream of time in which you are so constantly happy that you don't even think about being happy anymore; you just are.

My life had transformed into blissfully light days at the bookshop, preceded by early mornings eating slices of green apple courtesy of my mother (I'd actually started to like them) at the kitchen table, mostly reading and but sometimes making small talk that (unlike most small talk) wasn't horrible. It was as if we'd both started working on building two sides of the same bridge with comments about how blue the sky was, and whether or not tights would be needed.

I left an hour early every day, and she never said a word, or asked who the boy was, or even if there was a boy, in spite of the fact that it was glaringly obvious. The only thing that even began to give her away was the way in which her eyes flickered knowingly towards my phone whenever it buzzed with a text from Charlie.

I didn't know if I was relieved that she didn't ask, or if I was disappointed. I think I would have liked to have someone to talk to about Charlie, because I didn't know if I loved him or not. 

I just knew that I loved how I felt when I was with him, as disgustingly cheesy as it sounded. I loved how much I laughed, proper laughing that wasn't created to exclude anyone, or to make anyone look cool; laughter that existed just because. I loved being with him, and when I wasn't with him I wished I was. I loved watching him smile and hearing him talk and feeling him trace letters on my back because he was real and it was happening and I wasn't being left behind.

To be truthful, the idea of love seemed incredibly grown up and frankly ridiculous at the age of sixteen, and I couldn't even think about it without smirking. The idea of telling Charlie that I maybe, possibly loved him was ludicrous. Love made me feel silly, like I was some little child playing dress up with a word that was far too big to be acceptable.

Love was just not something that happened outside of your family until you were married with five kids; although I knew that by that time, it had often already packed its bags and run away.

“What're you thinking about?” he asked incoherently, a pen lid between his teeth as he drew on the back of my hand. It was late Saturday morning, and Maureen was doubtless on her way to visit her sister. I felt the tip of the ballpoint pen run delicately across my knuckle, forming the a curved shape.

“Nothing,” I said nonchalantly, after a pause.

“I used to say that to my Geography teacher when I was actually thinking about how much I wanted to slam his face into the desk,” Charlie said, putting the lid back on the pen and raising his eyebrows at me. The scattering of freckles on his left cheek were the exact colour that perfect toast should be. “Do you want to slam my face into a desk?”

I looked at my hand and grimaced. “For drawing a skull on my hand- possibly.” It grinned at me with its black holes for eyes, and toothless mouth. “Are you trying to be hardcore or something?”

“I am hardcore!” he said, looking affronted. “And completely punk rock. Have you not been able to deduce that from my collection of skull patterned scarves and knuckledusters? Maybe not; I never wear them around you.”

I laughed. “I very much hope that you're joking.”

“That's really rude,” he said sternly, but couldn't stop himself from grinning as I pushed him away.

“Anything that contributes to the worthy cause of the annihilation of skull pattern scarves is the opposite of rude,” I said, and then spluttered with laughter at the thought of Charlie wearing one.