the other Son

1999

On Saturday, the tearoom was well frequented by pupils and the town's residents alike and they decided to get their hot chocolate in styrofoam cups instead of waiting for a free table.

She wrapped both hands around the cup as they stepped back out and inhaled the rich, sugary-sweet steam. Had she been wearing glasses like her friend Elise they would've surely fogged up immediately.

Peter gingerly took a sip and cursed in a language she didn't know as he burned his tongue. She hid her giggle and the fierce blush behind her gloved hand, belly clenching weirdly.

"It's hot," Peter warned her sheepishly and she nodded with a grin, still enthralled by the foreign lilt his words carried.

She'd read plenty of romance novels, of course she had. Austen and Brontë, Brockway and Lasoń – the classics and the ones girls like Kimberly giggled about behind closed doors. So far, she'd always found answers in books, found them to be a mirror of reality, a very accurate depiction of what she was going through, her feelings and emotions, but now, now she realized books had never prepared her for the flutter in her stomach. They'd spoken of desire, of seeping warmth, of butterflies – how were insects supposed to mimic a human emotion?

She didn't think butterflies were to blame whenever Peter looked at her with that lopsided grin and her body erupted in pleasant tingles.

Was it because of Peter or was this how fancying someone always felt? Was this feeling reserved for this boy with his glinting eyes and flushed cheeks or would there be left enough in some hidden supply within her for others? At the moment, she wasn't able to believe she'd ever feel so overwhelmingly for anyone but him.

Peter inclined his head and began walking down the pavement. They strolled past the shops, gazing at the windows, and her mood suddenly dropped when she spotted her own reflection in the glass. The scar was right there on her face – the scar one of Peter's friends had caused.

She swallowed roughly, throat like sandpaper.

Quickly, she sipped on her beverage.

"It's good, isn't it?" Peter beamed at her, oblivious to the turmoil. "Well, if you don't burn your tongue."

She laughed but couldn't shake off the bitterness.

"We can walk along the river for a bit?" Peter suggested before she could dwell longer on his prior inaction, and pointed at an alley they were about to pass.

She hesitated. "Oh, well, I guess, yes."

Peter took her hand, intertwined their gloved fingers and pulled her along. She was breathless, his skin searing her flesh even through the layers of fabric.

All her life she had been warned of walking down alleys. Somehow, small streets between buildings were thought to harbour all evil and people believed them to be the place girls were most vulnerable. Girls were assaulted, raped and killed in alleys, never on pretty town squares or lovely country roads, no, always in dark, dirty alleys.

Truthfully, this alley was indeed not well-lit but there was no dirt or litter and she was with Peter, wasn't she? Peter who was holding her hand and throwing bright-eyed looks over his shoulder at her, reminding her of an excited puppy and depleting her lungs of oxygen in the most coveted way possible.

She had every right to be here, be it with a boy or on her own. She might be a girl but girls were allowed to choose their own paths, no matter how dark it was at times. Girls were allowed to be brave to face that darkness, allowed to fight and kick and scream if necessary instead of being docile and like a lady.

There was already light at the other end of the alley where the river and a pretty path below trees was awaiting them, a romantic stroll for lovers like in Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice. This was her path.

I am not a bird; and not net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will – she'd marked the quote in Jane Eyre, barely withholding from underlining the paragraph – thus damaging the book – because of how much it resonated within her soul.

They emerged to the tranquil gurgling of the river – a small stream, so shallow she was able to count every shiny pebble lining the riverbed – and the high-pitched chirps of birds fluttering through the still bare branches above their heads. Spring showed its first tender sprouts though, green peeking through the rotting leafs on the ground - snowdrop and crocus and hyacinth, new life. It was beautiful.

"You're beautiful," Peter said, watching her as she took in their surroundings with a small smile on her lips.

She looked at him, blushing and smiling brighter. "Thank you."

He squeezed her hand and the bitterness sept out of her flesh, replaced by those tingles mere words couldn't do justice.