Cerulean Found

Chapter 13 - Back to Reality

Josh was right, the warm sun has dried most of the moisture from the once muddy ground. The forest floor is still damp, but it is remarkably much easier to walk on now. We are moving quickly as we travel down the hill.

"How are your feet holding up?" he asks. I had forgotten about the enormous amount of pain my feet were causing me before. I just tuned it out, as I often do in ballet. Out of sight, out of mind, that's what you have to live by in the world of dance. Blisters were a nuisance, but they healed with time. His comment makes me suddenly aware of the burning sensation coming from my feet.

"Good." I squeak, through clenched teeth. "Are you lying?" he inquires. "Yes," I say.

"Do you want to take your shoes off?" he asks. "Huh? You're kidding, right?" I ask. "No, that way your feet can breathe a bit and not have the irritation of your sandals," he explains. Was my discomfort that obvious?

"No, I think I'll pass. I can handle a little pain" I say as I think of my bare feet walking along the damp forest floor. Stepping into who knows what. I'd probably contract some type of infection or disease. It isn't wise to walk with open sores on your bare feet through a damp forest. You're just asking for trouble, I think to myself.

"Well if you change your mind just tell me and we can stop," he says tenderly as he squeezes my hand.

"Okay. But let's change the topic, and get my mind off of the pain and onto something else," I say.

"What do you want to talk about then?" He asks. "I don't know. Anything but feet, mainly my feet, and blisters, and sores, and shoes, and pain," I reply.

"So can we talk about my feet then?" he asks jokingly. "Haha, funny. Tempting, but no," I reply.

"So, we can talk about anything but feet, shoes, pain, blisters, sores, and any other subjects dealing with the just listed, right?" He asks. "Correct," I answer.

"Hmmm..." He thinks for a minute. "I've been meaning to ask you, did you enjoy the show?"

"What show?" I ask. "Last night, I saw you watching me as I was playing my guitar." Of course he had to bring this up, when I had totally forgotten about this beyond embarrassing experience. I can feel my face begin to turn crimson.

"Um, another topic please," I state. "That was you watching me, last night...wasn't it?" He continues. I can tell he is not going to let the question go unanswered.

"Yes, that was me. You know it was me." I answer angrily.

"So, then what did you think of my playing? You have to have to have some sort of opinion," he asks. I can't tell if he is genuinely curious or if he is asking solely to torture me.

"I thought you sounded good," I admit, as I remember how beautiful he sounded. The memory of the previous night flashes through my mind and then I am reminded of why I had stopped listening.

"Why were you mocking me?" I demand and pull my hand out of his grasp. "You were watching me, I wanted to watch you. I didn't mean to upset you," he says.

I don't know what to say. Now I feel a little bad for letting go of his hand. I miss the connection that the simple act of holding hands brings.

"So you really thought I was good?" He asks. "Yeah" I answer, wondering if he is either really cocky or extremely self-conscious.

"I've never had an audience before. I usually just play for myself," he says. Clearly he is unaware of his amazing talent.

"Did you take lessons?" I ask. "Never. It was just something I picked up. My dad played, so naturally I wanted to play as well," he explains. "That's really cool," I say and reach for his hand. The smile that appears on his face is radiant.