Drown

9. Two hearts

"So, like, wow. Your dad. That is totally crazy. What exactly happened?" That's all the girl sitting across from me says, after I greet her: a simple hello.

She leans closer to me, blinking her impossibly long eyelashes - as if this is gossip that I want to partake in.

"Um," I say.

I take a minute to blame Vince for bringing me here, to this small (or, at least Vince had said it would be small uh it's not) party, and to blame my mom and dad for giving me life so I could one day have this uncomfortable, intrusive conversation.

She's staring, blinking. Waiting.

"None of your business?" I say. Because, basically, yeah it's none of her business.

I get up, leave her sitting there, holding a red cup, looking around as if shocked and offended by me not wanting to discuss my dad to a stranger.

I look around for Vince. He had left me on the couch at least ten minutes ago, promising a quick return. Alas, no Vince.

I find myself in the kitchen, wondering if I should have a drink.

"I like your dress," says a voice from behind me. I turn, surprised. It's a boy around my age. His hair curls around the nape of his neck.

"Thanks."

"It fits you nicely," he says and I think he's trying to flirt. I flush involuntarily and he grins.

"Thanks."

"What are we talking about?" says Vince, suddenly. His cheekbones are flushed with color. I can't tell if he's a little drunk or if he's annoyed. He's standing behind me, his lips tilted up.

"Nothing," I say. Then, "Um, where were you?"

The guy who was flirting makes his escape. I raise a hand to wave goodbye, but his back is turned and I'm glad because I realize waving is a little geeky.

I drop my hand, turn back to Vince.

"I was just..." Vince says. "You know what, it's not important. Let's go mingle, yes?" He grabs my hand. His palm is sort of sweaty, and his hand is shaking a little.

But our fingers fit together perfectly, so it doesn't seem to matter.

* * *

We're friends. We are.

Friends who sometimes kiss.

I learn that he likes to have his hair tugged, real gentle. He never voiced it, but sometimes when I tug at the hairs at the nape of his neck, his head tilts, ever so slightly.

It's random moments when he kisses me. I long for them. Sometimes, it's at work, and we'll be shelving pens and pencils, and I'll be like, "you're an idiot."

And he'll pull me in, or he'll sway into my space, eyes like crescent moons, smiling with the joy he never seems to lose but I have a daily struggle to hold onto.

Sometimes he's gentle like I'm a package stamped with the words: handle with care.

Sometimes our lips meet and there's a roaring fire within me that's not afraid, that doesn't stutter. And he feeds off the flames that are engulfing my whole body.

We're friends.

* * *

I'm walking down the boardwalk, my sneakers scuffing against the wood.

A frail, tan hand grabs onto mine, startling me.

"You," says a gravelly voice.

I look to see an old woman, with long white hair, and shockingly dark eyes.