Renata Santos doesn't expect her heart to flutter when she catches a boy stealing flowers out of her backyard. But as she unravels his reputation, she realizes puppy-eyed delinquent Isaac Marshall may just be the sunshine she needs to turn her life...
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G E R A N I U M
[pelargonium graveolens] ➳ comfort.
ISAAC DIDN'T SPEAK.
Five seconds sailed past. I whacked the board against his shoulder, just hard enough to make him wince. There was no way it hurt, but he leapt back anyway, and clutched his arm like I'd sprayed acid onto his skin.
Anger rearranged his features in a cascade.
"What the hell do you think I'm doing at a graveyard?" he exploded, flinging his arm at the sky. I jumped back, paranoia caught in my throat again and the alarm bells in my head filling the silence inherent to being in the middle of nowhere with a stranger.
We were alone. Goosebumps assaulted my skin as I looked around, Isaac breathing heavily across from me. "Shit," he said between his teeth. He rocked back and forth between his feet. "Shit. I didn't mean that."
But I didn't care. Because deep down, I had already accepted that my flowers had left my garden for a gravestone. And I could see row upon row of them now, amongst weeds and unflattened soil. I briefly entertained the idea of ghosts.
I faced Isaac. "Who is it?" I demanded, one hand on my backpack strap and the other on my skateboard, which I pointed at him. "Who are the flowers for?"
"Are you serious?" His mouth quirked like he couldn't decide whether to smile or gawk. "That's the first thing you say that isn't a threat?"
He wanted sympathy. But I wasn't about to let him guilt-trip me now that he'd had an outburst of his own. "You promised me answers."
"And you're going to think I'm stupidif I tell you," Isaac retorted.
"What does that mean?"
He must a frustrated sound. "That I'd rather just show you."
"Or what?" I stabbed the end of the skateboard into the pavement. "Why?"
"Because you'll think I'm —"
"I already think you're stupid," I interrupted.
After a pause, Isaac laughed, kicking up a pebble on the pavement. He laughed a lot for someone known for shooting heroin and hanging out in cold alleyways. Then again, while I had no idea where the rumours originated, his laughs always came from the same place.
I exhaled, waiting for that speck of confidence to shrivel and fade away. Isaac Marshall was dangerous. This fact was ingrained in reality and I would be stupid to ignore it. Yet, while I rallied my defences, Isaac turned his back to me, his fists at his sides and tulip petals drifting behind him.
He was walking away.
"What are you doing?"
He met my gaze over his shoulder, still heading for the gate marking the graveyard's official entrance. "I'm going in," he said, "with or without you."
