Unspoken

Chapter Twelve: Ryan

"Water," she answers. Her blue eyes are shining in the sunlight, but there's something else behind them today.

    She was breathing heavily into her car window as I approached her, leaving my friends behind to stare at us in amazement, so I assume that heaviness that rests on her shoulders is due to whatever was bothering her.

    I want one of my questions to be what it was, to demand answers from her like I've been doing, but the little sliver of Aubrey that I've gotten to know doesn't seem the type to appreciate curiosity when it comes to herself.

    I see it in the way her tiny little shoulders are clutching to her ear lobes, soft and delicate, three earrings in each one, dangling to graze her jaw.

    Her little body is shying away from me, trying to evaporate into the sunshine, trying to hide from me.

    But I see her, she's so close, I can smell the sweet vanilla scent of her perfume as it hangs off of her dark curtained hair.

    I'm disappointed to see a flowy top and loose jeans covering her body, hiding her curves from my perverted mind, but then I find joy in her angelic appearance. No other guys will be able to see her body, either. I haven't made a comment about it since that one time in class I caught all of them staring at her, but I've wanted to.

Every time it happened, the skin on my fists started to break open as I tensed my hands into a tight curl.

    I don't know where all of the jealousy has come from, but I do know that it doesn't intend to leave. It's like an infectious disease, spreading all over my body. Every time I see one of her friends look at her with eyes of temptation, it buzzes and draws my cells together painfully. It's a physical reaction to something mindful.

    "Math or english?"

    She looks up at me like a madman. Of course I know the answer, Aubrey. I want to hear you speak.

    "If I answer, can I ask a question of my own?"

    "Fine, one," I allow. Almost giddy like a little kid that she's willing to have an actual conversation.

    "English, now, why are you asking me these questions?"

    I gesture to the building, "Walk with me," I start walking regardless of her answer, and to no surprise, her legs are working hard against the wet pavement to keep up with my long strides. I don't know why the image of her walking next to me makes me smile, but it does, and I look down at her to show it.

    She, however, doesn't share the same expression. She looks down at her feet instead, shutting me out, it seems.

    "Well a good friendship is never forced, but you give me no other choice, Aubrey,"

    She doesn't look up, so I look back to where we are walking, paying more attention to possible people and objects she can run into than where I am going, knowing that her metallic eyes are glued to the floor.

    "And to be friends, you have to know things about one another,"

    She stops walking, only a few feet from the front doors of the building. Her eyes flash up to me like a wave, drowning me in stormy seas.

    "You can't force me to be your friend," she takes a breath. "I think you should stop asking your questions." She's so sure of herself, so sure that she is correct. I wonder if she's ever been wrong other than today, I wonder if she's ever made a mistake.

    "Yes I can, it's simple. Just go along with it," I'm trying to keep my composure, trying not to let her know how harshly she is treating my precious ego.

    She laughs under her breath, "No, not anymore. No more questions, okay? Let's just be...acquaintances," even the words sound uncomfortable to her, but I can't tell if that's because deep down she really does want something more than that or if it's because even that sounds too close, too hot, too hard to breathe. She is used to her freedom, I wonder how it will feel to her once she realizes she'll never truly have it.

    No one ever does.

    And because I like her discomfort, I like the way her hands shift when she's nervous or how she bites her inner cheek to stop from crying, I like the way her shoulders scrunch up when I scare her by getting too close to her, I say, "Okay. If that's what you want,"

    She stares up at me, emotional behind those eyes if she would let it show, and her grip around the book with a kissing couple on the front cover of it tightens.

    "That's what I want,"

    "Okay," I say, never letting up on my intoxicating stare. Staring at someone like her is easy even if it may be difficult for most people. She's kind of intense, she looks at you like she's deep in thought, and that depth is intimidating.

    But for me, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like breathing or eating or drinking. And it feels just as important, just as dire as something as simple and complicated as breath.

    I doubt she finds it comforting, but I don't care. It comforts me to know there are still people as rare as her out there. I was starting to think we were all the same, but her eyes alone make me believe that's not true. They're cursed. I swear there's something dark swarming the deep Pacific blue of them, and at the same time, the light that is shining in them from the reflection of the sunlight, it's blinding. Provoking and numbing all the same.

    I want to tell her so, I want to tell her how beautiful I think it is, the way her lips curve against her pale skin. I want to tell her how I could lose track of time and reality in her scent.

    But I keep my eyes pasted on her as I back up to find the door handle blind, holding it open for her, watching her body move as she walks past me, inhaling the scent of her black hair as it whispers down her back, filling me with a contentment I haven't had since I was a child, before my parents decided love was no longer worth the effort.

    And I decide that my other addictions can go to hell if I let her in, that nothing will matter unless I have her under my eyes.

    I don't let myself go there, but the proximity is scarce, and I wait a few extra moments before following her in to ensure I won't be too close, to ensure my safety is quality, knowing that if I took just a few faster-paced steps, I would be over the edge and falling to my doom.

    So I slow down, watching her walk away the entire time, watching the way Blake's face lights up the moment he sees her, staring at her the way I am.

    I turn away, leaving to go find where my friends have dispersed too, and find them high with blunts in their fingers along the back wall of the school, near the basketball courts. I realize my reality is much sadder than vanilla perfume and pink lips.

    I join them, trying to forget her in the smoke, trying to cover her in opaque glass.