I'm not sure what day it is. The wind gets stronger the higher up I climb. I follow his form in front of me, finding grips on rocks that seem insurmountable.
"Do you think I can jump over to there?" he asks. He is pointing to another cluster of large rocks, separated from the ones we stand on by a miniature canyon a few feet wide and several yards deep.
"Can you make it back?" I ask. He is studying the gap, bracing himself. I am watching him, bracing myself for the onslaught of emotion that always comes after I've been with him.
"Of course I can," he scoffs. I give a small nod. He jumps, his feet scrabbling at the rock when he lands. Bits of it crumble off, falling into the space between us. He turns to face me, a triumphant smile on his face.
He is beautiful. I cannot deny that. The wind buffers him from behind, blowing his hair straight forward. It is the same color as mine, but never the same texture. His shirt blows around his frame; he is strong. I can see the outline of every muscle on his body.
He is beautiful, but I still cannot forget.
He holds out a hand, says, "I'll catch you if you can't make it." I wonder if it would have made a difference, if someone had been there to catch my mother when she fell. I wonder why he has chosen to spend time with me, to take pity on me. I decide to stop thinking.
I dig my heels into the rock, little pieces falling off and landing on the ground below me with a sound like rain.
I jump, and his hand is there to steady me, even though I don't need it.
YOU ARE READING
Orange Sunday
Teen FictionGrief can be a blur, a loss of sensation, a nightmare you can't seem to escape. But sometimes, it can wake you up. --- I wrote this when I was mourning a relationship. I'm publishing it now to close the door on those feelings.
