Another look inside draft #5 of Borrowed. Enjoy!
Four days remain, some odd hours, minutes calculating down to seconds. I'm starting to lose count now. It's pointless to keep track of the inevitable. Becoming a seventeen year old is a nightmare set in reality.
The siren blasts inside my desert town, signaling the beginning of a new work day. Not for me, though. I'm just a high school graduate, ready to be thrust into adulthood. After a restless night and a bout of the stomach flu ( or nerves), I roll over to see the time. The digital clock's red, block-shaped numbers mesmerize me. The countdown for my birthday reverberates inside my head. Each hour that passes is becoming unbearable.
Sitting up, I swing my legs over my bed and rush to my vanity. I brush back my tangled mess of hair, staring at my reflection. The coloring of my skin is ashen, rather than its usual ivory tint. My chest tightens, my heart races; a common, nervous feeling overwhelms me.
"It's happening again!" Resting my hands on top of my head, I try to alleviate the dizziness setting in by deeply inhaling, and then exhaling through pursed lips.
Footsteps hurry down the hallway, approaching outside my bedroom door. It swings open, banging against the wall. Mom appears. She leans onto the frame trying to catch her breath. Her cheeks are rosy with perspiration settling over her manicured brows.
"What's wrong? I've just got in from my jog," she says breathlessly.
She is comely, even after a workout. Her chestnut brown hair is pulled back away from her thin neck into a high ponytail. I always have to look away from her hazel eyes. They speak volumes, showing me how much she wants to care for me. "My vision went blurry - " I pause to swallow the hitch in my throat, "-and my heart is beating weird."
She frowns, stepping inside my room. Walking up behind me, she grips my shoulders, massaging them. I've noticed she does this a lot when she tries to connect with me. I wish she would get the hint that it only makes me uncomfortable, that it makes me want to run to the opposite side of the bedroom.
"You're going to be fine." Her calm voice washes over me.
Goose bumps trail at the nape of my neck. None of this feels right, I think, trailing my fingers over the tiny bumps scattering over my flesh, making them disappear beneath my touch.
"I will get your medication, okay?" Her hand tucks a long strand of brunette hair behind my ear. A simple touch of her finger makes me flinch. Unprompted, I pull away.
"Hurry," I say. Hurry back. I'm afraid.
She turns on the heel of her shoe, leaving my bedroom. I watch her walk away while my heart continues to beat in its unusual pattern. The dizzy feeling from earlier intensifies. I take a few deep breaths.
Just breathe, I tell myself. Relax, it's only anxiety. You won't die.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I always see something missing. Right here, in my own blue eyes. These eyes, the same eyes that my mom tells me from time to time, how people would stop on the street, quietly admiring them when I was an infant. They're like a vast ocean with miles of open water. Looking into them, I feel lost. Did those people get lost, too? There's this overwhelming sensation of isolation. I blink rapidly, if I don't, I might drown in them if I keep staring into their abyss.
Maybe it wouldn't feel this way if I remembered my dad. He's a mystery. I always wonder if I take after him. Did he have the same brown hair? Were his eyes large and round, too? Mom won't talk about him. She doesn't even keep pictures of him here at home. All I know is that he died from Huntington's disease, which he developed at age thirty. Ten years later, it took his life. Just six months before I was born.
Mom said to me once, "It was a horrible, agonizing death, Irissa. But he stayed strong, throughout. That's where you get your strength, from your dad."
Strange, because what I'm feeling now is a weakness.
I continue staring at the mirror, noticing a shadow pass by my open door from behind. Looking over my shoulder, immediately my older brother Chase comes to mind. But no one is there, just my mind playing cruel tricks.
Chase... I say his name often in my mind, afraid to speak it out loud where people might hear me. He's survived, too. So far no genetic mutations have threatened his life. He had to constantly remind me that he couldn't remember our dad, either. But I think they were white lies. I can't press him on the issue any longer because he's been gone a year now. Now a draftee, sent into the Endless War against the United Colony in the east. We haven't heard back if he's dead or alive, but the day he left, I didn't even hug him goodbye. He didn't even put effort into trying. Chase knows me better than anyone, I guess.
"Here, baby, take these." Mom walks back into the room, two pills in her outstretched hand.
"Will you please stop calling me that?" I say, snatching the pills form her hand. I'm acting like a brat, I can't help myself. "I just think you shouldn't treat me like some charity case, like the homeless children left behind by their dead seniors, begging for food in the Swap Market. Treat me like an adult, just how I'm expected to be in a few days."
Tears sting at her eyes, daring to spill down her cheeks. She's been emotional since I can remember. I'm sure it has to do with losing my dad. Now, with Chase gone this past year, I'm all she has left, but I can't be the daughter I think she wants me to be. There isn't room to love. All I feel is anger.
Don't cry because of me, I want to tell her. Just don't. I'm not worth the tears.
The seat confines me, but it isn't the seat that's holding me back. It's my confused feelings, and right now, they're telling me not to move a muscle. I won't attempt to console her for my insensitivity. There is reason for my behavior, I suppose. All my childhood memories are gone. It was an accident that almost took my life, only to take the first ten years of memories from me. It's strange not knowing what you were like as a child, only just what you've been told.
"You were always laughing and smiling! Your favorite game was Pretty, Pretty Princess," my mom told me on repeat. Cool, great, I get it. I was just like every other happy child that was oblivious to the imperfections of the nation. The imperfections of the people.
Then: "It's called regression, Irissa," the doctor had told me once.
Apparently trauma in one's past can be bottled up for months, even years. Then one day, poof! It emerges with a vengeance.
One faint image appears when I close my eyes at night before I'm forced to wake to a harsh reality all over again. Sleeping is my sweet escape. Seeing this particular image gives comfort that is lacking when I awake. I think I'm just holding onto something I can never have. It's easier for me. If I know it isn't obtainable then I'm not forced to feel obligated in caring too much. What I do see is something my mom doesn't want to talk about. She says it's my mind creating false memories, an area where my brain lacks, yet yearns to have back.
A hunger is a more suitable term.
I think, and often I question this, 'The man's face could be my dad's." But the image is still too blurry to define the person's features.
Mom clears her throat, pulling me from my thoughts. I take the glass of water from her and swallow the pills.
"Yes, you're right, you are my teenage daughter," she says. I shrug, tensing up as she steps forward, wrapping me into an embrace. I feel suffocated, trapped, and desperate. I need to pull away, so I do.
"Girls at school were talking about the Swarm, again," I say, changing the subject to alleviate the awkward situation. "One of them said her mom was taken to the hospital after having seizures on the bathroom floor. Blood everywhere. What if you get sick, too?" Even though I try to distant myself, I never want to see my mom suffer. She's suffered enough.
I ball my hands into fists. Then I would be alone.
Mom's eyes widen. She hates talking about the Swarm. She would rather go day by day pretending all this death wasn't occurring. I imagine what the nation was like when she was growing up. I envy the Free America. Then, I think about when I was born. Everywhere was full of fear, anger, and complete chaos.
She puffs out a breath of air. I watch carefully as she walks over to my bed to sit. "Iris..." Waving me over, she pats her hand on the mattress. I reluctantly move from the vanity to sit next to her. Settling her hand onto my shoulder, she gives it a slight squeeze.
"Will I honestly make a difference?"
"What do you think?" Her voice is soothing. Though, even in her motherly tone, she comes across as dejected.
I shrug my shoulders. "Part of me wants to help, yet I don't want to at the same time. What kind of person does this make me?"
She wraps her arm around both my shoulders. This time, I don't move away. "The Borrowed Project will give the human race hope, and you potentially being part of it, makes me so proud. It would have made your dad proud, too. You as a person won't change, only your purpose in life will."
"Still..." I start with a pause, falling back onto the mattress. The ceiling's exposed steel piping glints from the sunlight through the window. "I hope my name isn't on the list at the Reveal."
Mom stands up, and moves away from the bed. "Enough of all this depressing talk, okay? Let's continue onward without thinking about the Swarm and the Borrowed Project. Right now, let's think about your upcoming birthday in a few days." I change positions, leaning back on my elbows for support. Mom suddenly perks up, back straight with her shoulders high.
"How can we not think about it...?" My voice trails off. Annoyed now, I wish she would leave my bedroom.
"You must be dwelling on these thoughts because of the letter you received?" she says more as a statement than a question.
Yes! I think, but leave it bottled up.
Looking away from her, I focus on my painted toenails, wiggling them in the air. "You're right, enough with the depressing talk. I'm going to be late for Orientation." Pushing away from my bed, I stalk past her as her hand grabs a hold of my wrist.
"I'm sorry," she says in a low voice. "A lot has changed. Your generation has become more important than any other generation, ever. I'm not able to stop the laws, but I'm able to offer you comfort. Of course, that's if you need me."
"I don't expect you to save me from this," I say. "That's why you don't see me with friends, dating boys, or telling you about my day! I don't want to be disappointed. Most of all, I don't want people to have high expectations of me." Pulling my wrist free, I head for the door.
"Everything will go smoothly today," she says, causing me to pause short of the door.
"Not that is matters, but a boy confessed to liking me," I say, biting down on my lower lip. Looking over my shoulder, I notice her face turn a shade of pink. She gazes down at her fumbling hands. "And I was cruel to him, because it doesn't matter if he likes me, or if I like him, my life's plan is already decided for me."
"We can plan your birthday when you get back," she says, changing the subject. "I work a late shift tomorrow, so..." She rubs at the back of her neck, a gesture when she's anxious.
"Oh that's right, I almost forgot." Again, I bite at my bottom lip, a nervous habit I've picked up. I nibble too hard, making my eyes water from the sharp pain. Sighing, I say, "Like I said, it's just another day. Don't hold your breath. I'm not sure if I will be back right away."
She stands still, her lips pressing into a hard line. I watch as she storms past me and down the hallway. I should go apologize for being callous. Of course I should. But I won't. Staying sixteen forever seems like a great idea.
The sandy streets grows louder as the morning rush-hour begins. People hurry to work, keeping to themselves, mostly. The middle-aged couple in front of me walk close together, barely allowing their hands to touch with each casual swing. The young girl and boy across the street sneak glances between one another, no words spoken, then the girl is pulled away by her mom. Everyone else remains withdrawn. We're scared of what might become of us.
Since the Swarm, an increase in genetic mutations plague the populace. No woman has been successful in birthing a healthy fetus. All, so far, have been recorded of carrying genetic defects, so far. Having children is against the law. The world is a ticking time bomb, ready to wipe us clean into extinction. But there is hope, according to our Presider, the head of the western states now known as Arid. This mysterious man not only lives in the shadows of his scientific ideals, his words travel through Voicomm radio broadcasts. He represents PURE, sole creator of the Borrowed Project.
The Arid anthem blasts over the speakers perched high on the exterior of buildings. Everyone around me pauses, including me. I press my right hand over my chest, against my beating heart. Staring upward, I shield my eyes against the daylight as the sun hides behind a small, misshapen cloud. A red banner flaps in the wind, with a solid black hand printed on the fabric. The anthem ends. Everyone goes their separate ways. I look past a rundown building, noticing a massive cloud forming in the Mojave Desert. It isn't a cloud, though, it's a sandstorm accumulating.
"Wait up, Irissa!"
Kyler jogs toward me. He's handsome in every aspect, from his deep brown eyes to his raven colored hair that's cut short in a military style. This boy should make my heart flutter. But he doesn't. Like always, I force a smile and nod.
"Hi, Kyler," I say, trying to hide my annoyance.
"Can I carry your bag?" he says then smiles. The dimples in his cheeks deepen. They're adorable.
Right away, I know I should say yes, but I don't...I can't.
I shake my head, pulling my bag close to my chest. "No, I got it."
His cheeks redden. "Of course." He presses his lips together. "Actually, I wanted to ask you a question."
What could he possibly want to ask me? I start speed-walking.
He tries to keep up my pace. "Do you want to go to the Swap Market with me?" He bobs up and down with long strides, now easily alongside me. "It will be somewhat of a celebration for graduating. I might even be kind enough to buy you something -"
"Sorry, I can't go. I have other plans," I say brazenly.
Kyler clears his throat. "Yeah, right, um..." he struggles to find the right words. "So what are your plans, then?"
I stop walking to face him. "I don't think it's any of your business. For once, please stop following me, and please stop trying to be my friend!"
People around us begin to stare, as public outbursts are uncommon on the streets of any Arid state.
"I'm sorry," he says, furrowing his brows. "I thought maybe you —"
"Needed a friend," I say with a mocking tone. "Guess what? I don't!"
Kyler reaches for me but I take a step back. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he shouts. "You act like you're better than everyone else. You're acting like those snobby girls from school."
"Excuse me?"
His eyes narrow. "I've been trying to get your attention for two years!" His voice rises now. I search the area to make sure people aren't still eavesdropping. "No one at school would give you the time of day," he continues. "But I tried. What's so bad about me, anyway?"
"Saying that I think I'm better than everyone else for starters," I reply.
He exhales. "You're a real piece of work." His hands settle on his hips. "I'm sure you already know that."
"Yeah, I've been told that a time or two," I say, my eyes unblinking as I shoot daggers at him.
I watch his shoulders rise and fall in perfect rhythm. His breathing is heavy, and I feel radiating heat swarm from his sun-kissed skin. For a fleeting moment, I start to reach out for his hand. The way he stands up to my stubbornness causes a spark in my emotions. I stand my ground, however, and my hand doesn't budge.
He's too close, I think, and take an additional step backward.
"I'm going to say it again, I like you, Iris," Kyler says, using my nickname. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I didn't mean it, honestly. It's just - God, what am I trying to say? You make me feel so confused! I feel different around you." His eyes aren't blinking. He's staring, waiting for my response.
I let out a not-so-sincere laugh. "Why do you even try? Since the Borrowed Project and the Swarm, no one can procreate, Kyler. So why even bother liking someone you can't ever have a fulfilling life with?"
Kyler's face reddens at the mentioning of procreate.
Mom told me once, "Just because you can't have children of your own doesn't mean you can't fall in love. People are still able to lead fulfilling lives."
"It doesn't matter, though," he says lightly. "I can't...I can't help how I feel. Should I be sorry for that? Well I hate to break it to you, Iris, I'm definitely not."
I shrug. "It's not like I actually have a choice in any of this, anyway." Stepping in front of him, I make sure he's looking directly at me. "We're never going to happen because the rest of my life is written in print on a stupid piece of paper."
His eyes widen. What I've said must have stung. "I think you've made your point, and I'm sorry. It's hard to wrap my mind around the thought of you as..." He stops himself. His demeanor changes as his shoulders relax. "Can you at least accept my apology for being such an ass to you?"
"Fine, I accept. We're going to miss the bus if we don't hurry." I push past him, grazing my arm against his. The feeling that his eyes are inspecting me creeps up the nape of my neck, giving me goose bumps. Within seconds, he storms past me. I watch him turn a corner, wondering why he isn't going to the same bus stop. Maybe that's a good thing? It's what I want.
"Why do you even bother, Kyler Hart?" I say, even though he's already gone.
I hurry toward the bus stop, letting the summer breeze carry away my worries. The heat of the sun beats against my ivory skin, attempting to leave a burn. Letting a drawn out breath, I plop down on the bench hidden beneath a glass casing. The sun's rays can't penetrate the barrier, but the heat can. Beads of sweat roll down between my shoulder blades and the stifling air becomes suffocating. I lean back, resting my head, and close my eyes. The pills my mom gave me are working, I feel relaxed. Traffic is heavy at this hour and I curse to myself. Maybe if I'm late, they will kick me out of Reveal. Who would want an irresponsible girl carrying inside her a precious designer baby?
That's what the local press is calling them. PURE calls them Seraphim. Angelic-like, and free of any genetic deformities. They're going to save the human race from extinction.
I should just run away and disappear from all this.
This thought keeps crossing my mind at least one hundred times in the past few months. I'm stuck in the middle of a tug-of-war. A part of me is on one side, telling me that it's my obligation to become a surrogate. Then, the other part of me thinks it's wrong that our Presider is pushing his ideals onto innocent seventeen year old girls.
What if I did take my chance and run? At least I wouldn't become a Borrowed, some lab rat controlled by PURE.
A Borrower steps inside the bus stop. He stares at me. No hello. No smile. He adjusts his hand over a gun clipped onto his tactical belt.
I look away, hoping he doesn't decide to harass me with questions.
They're everywhere now. Being a specially trained militia, they are meant to keep order within the state, protecting the borders, and our Presider.
This Borrower walks my way, sitting on the same bench. He's inches from me. So close, I can smell his morning breakfast — eggs. I hate the smell of eggs. He laughs to himself, or maybe at me, I'm not sure.
"ID card," he says, holding out his hand.
Routine check-up. I should have known. Digging through my bag, I realize I've stupidly forgotten my proof of citizenship at home. I drop my bag back down, and stare down at my feet. "It's at home," I say quietly.
He drops his hand onto his lap. "I need proof of citizenship. Not having proper identification is cause for arrest." His almond-shaped eyes linger toward my bag.
The letter.
"Here," I say, fidgeting with the zipper on the bag. Finally, I pull out my Orientation letter, handing it to him with a forced smile. "I'm on my way there now..."
He looks the letter over. My heart pounds against my chest when he hands it back to me. "You may proceed." Before he stands, his hardened expression relaxes. He blinks out of his reverie, moving from the bench, nearly bumping into the girl stepping inside the bus stop.
She sits down across from me and the Borrower. A smile plays at her lips, and my eyes dart toward her protruding belly. She's a Borrowed.
An invisible lump forms in my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it is lodged there and my anxiety seeps through the medications barrier.
The Borrower says to me, "I have a feeling that might be you soon enough." He points at the Borrowed like she's on display. For a moment, I think he feels bad. But what I think versus what he feels are probably on opposites sides of the spectrum.
A Borrowed and a Borrower are sitting so close. I look at the Borrowed, again. She has inside her what I will have inside me. I gaze at her hair, skin, and even the incredible length of her eyelashes. She's stunning, but her eyes seem tired, blood-shot, and hollow.
The bus lulls to a stop in front of us, and she pushes herself off from the bench. I follow close behind, watching her waddle. The Borrower looks over his shoulder at me before maneuvering back onto the sidewalk, walking the opposite direction. He's just another human puppet obeying orders.
I step onto the crowded bus. All the seats are taken, so I stand, grabbing hold of the rail above my head. People on both sides of me bump into my shoulders every time we come to a stop. To my surprise, there's another pregnant girl to my right who catches my eye. She stands a few feet away. I can picture the Borrowers collecting her from home, ensuring her that it is what's best for us all. How it can put a stop to the Endless War.
The pregnant girl looks straight at me. "Do I know you?" she says.
I shake my head, embarrassed she caught me staring. "No, I —"
"It's okay," she says, rubbing at her belly. "A lot of people stare at it."
The bus comes to a halt again. She nods goodbye and pushes her way through the crowd of people. I watch her step out onto the sidewalk and disappear near the Swap Market. A seat opens up, so I sit before anyone else gets a chance. Kyler stands at the front of the bus, looking my way. I didn't even notice he boarded the same bus as me. To avoid further glances with him, I press my forehead against the glass of the window, and stare out at the people bordering the street. A clique of young pregnant girls walk by, and breezing past them in boisterous voices, a group of young men are laughing and pushing one another around. They never once give the girls a glance. No one seems to notice three orphan children leaning against a brick wall to a building, a tin can in front of them to collect money. Their dirty faces holding frowns. I begin to move away from the window, hoping there is enough time to help them. Digging inside my bag for change, someone brushes against my arm beside me.
A young man in military uniform pulls my gaze from the sadness on the street. He has a patch on his arm. Desert Eagle. He's from another desert town ten miles north of mine. His knee bumps into mine. He doesn't apologize or even look in my direction. Grumbling, I turn my body away from him and press my face against the window. This ride will be like every other day: short and claustrophobic. The guy next to me begins to hum loudly, tapping on the seat in front of him like a pretend drum set, so I turn toward him glaring.
"Excuse me," I say, tapping on his shoulder.
He bobs his head, ignoring me.
"Excuse me!" I say, pulling out his earphone nuzzled inside his right ear.
He looks at me with a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. "Uh, can I help you?"
"Yes, actually, you can. Stop humming so loudly," I say. "It's rude!" The older woman in front of him turns around, and shakes her head at both of us.
"Oh, I'm sorry?" His mouth opens, taken back, but laughs and extends his hand. "I'm Finn."
"I'd rather not make acquaintance with you."
"Did I offend you that much?"
"Yes," I answer too quickly. "The male species tends to remain arrogant."
Finn sits forward, his elbows on his knees. He cocks his head. "I apologize, last time I checked I'm being forced into the Draft to protect the likes of you." Sitting back, he crosses his arms over his chest. "Jeez, do you talk to your dad like that?" He glances at me again, frowning.
He's in the Draft? I think about Chase, wondering if he knows of him. The Presider has so many people joining the ranks, this one boy couldn't possibly know him, could he?
For now, I take a hard look at Finn. Before, I didn't care to notice his blond eyebrows are withered away, as well as his eyelashes. He keeps his hair shaven close to his scalp, which I have mistaken for a simple military cut. Nonetheless, he still is nice to look at.
"I don't have a dad," I say, looking down at my fumbling hands. "Sorry..." I try and sound genuine. It comes out that way I think? I hope he knows that I mean it, even if I don't portray it with a usual kindness that someone else other than me would. My eyes continue to trail over his appearance.
"Cancer," he points up at his head, rubbing the back of his hand across his damp forehead. "And I'm sorry about your dad. I'm sure it was hard losing him."
I shake my head, now aware that I was staring. "I don't remember him, so I guess it wasn't hard at all."
That's a lie.
Finn doesn't say anything.
"Why are you here, anyway?" I try to ease the awkwardness. "I'm curious, because I thought we aren't allowed to cross through cities, with all the regulations now."
Finn frowns, replacing it with a smirk. He must be one of those optimistic people.
"Duty calls." He points at the pamphlet in his hand.
Leaning forward, I read out loud the headline of the folded advertisement, "Department of Draftees." I look at Finn. "Definitely has a PURE sound to it."
He nods. "Definitely does." His eyes look past me. "Whoa, we're in for a sandstorm!"
I look out the window. A blast of sand slams into the side of the bus. I flinch, leaning toward Finn, grabbing onto his hand. Embarrassed, I pull away fast. He tries not to smile. Instead, he sucks in his bottom lip, suppressing a laugh.
I can't believe I did that!
"Laugh all you want." I roll my eyes. "I'm not scared of sandstorms."
"Uh huh," says Finn, then chuckles.
I cringe on the inside. I really, really hate sandstorms.
In the distance, skyscrapers from the capitol tower the desert, almost hidden by the sand- filled gust of wind beating a path through the Mojave.
Finn holds out a clenched fist. "Take this," he says. He unfolds his fingers, revealing a blue scarf. "It seems you weren't prepared for the storm."
"Yeah..." I say, feeling embarrassed having to admit I wasn't prepared. Cautiously, I reach out and grab hold of the scarf, scrunching the delicate fabric with my fingers and palm.
The bus comes to a stop. I stand fast, ready to escape this annoyingly cute guy. I squeeze between his knees and the seat in front of him, tripping over his boot, and falling onto his lap.
"Hey!" he says, laughing. His hands gently touch the sides of my hips to support me.
I push up from his knees, face burning hot. "Don't get too excited." I slip past him and push through the crowd of standing people. I hear his voice from afar.
"I never got your name!" he says.
I stop, looking back over my shoulder at him. "I'm...Sarah!" Realizing I've shouted over more than a dozen people, I look down at my feet shamefully.
"Maybe we'll meet again, Sarah!"
I make eye contact with him, again. He's smiling, the shame I feel melts away from his exuding happiness.
I doubt we will.
I give him a half smile, and turn away. Exiting the bus, I jump from the final step, landing onto the sidewalk. Finn leans against the window, smiling. Shaking my head at him, the bus leaves me in its wake. Wrapping the scarf around my nose and mouth, I move forward, shielding my eyes from the grainy sand.
Kyler stands in the distance, watching the bus drive away. He looks at me with hurt in his eyes. He rode the same bus like he said he would at school. Ignoring his reaction toward the Draftee from the bus, I take one, big exhale, and step forward to ascend the cement stairs.
"Hold on!"
I stop, trying my hardest not to curse under my breath. He's being kind, I remind myself. Turning around, I pull down the scarf and barely smile. "Kyler."
He stands in front of me, looking over my shoulder at the large building. "This place is humungous."
"Is that all you wanted to say?"
"No —"
"I better go," I say, turning around as he latches his hand onto my shoulder.
"Good luck." He drops his hand, rubbing sand particles from his ebony eyelashes. "That's what I wanted to say."
My chest tightens and warms with hope. From Kyler's words alone, maybe luck will be on my side? "I will never understand you," I say to him. "But thanks." His taught body flinches, like he wants to ascend a step and wrap me in a tight hug.
"I'm curious..." he says. The wind continues to whip-lash sand around our bodies as we stand stoic on the cement stairs. Through the accumulation of the storm, it seems like there's only the two of us in the city. Kyler stands close enough to where I can see a speckle of gold in his right eye. "Who was that guy on the bus talking to you?"
I back away, shaking my head. "He's a guy who is counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds. Like me, you, and the rest of us," I say harshly, annoyed that he has the audacity to ask me who I speak with. "He's a guy like you, who doesn't seem to know his boundaries."
"Fair enough." He raises his hands. "It's none of my business. I deserved that." Walking down the remaining steps to the sidewalk, he looks back at me. "When you do need a shoulder to cry on, just remember I'm here for you."
Kyler disappears into the cloud of sand. The sad truth sticks to me like gum, because I believe him. My mom tells me the same. What they don't understand is that those are just words piling up into a cluster of verbal waste spilling from their mouths.
Pulling the scarf back over my nose, the fresh scent of soap left by Finn tantalizes my nostrils. He's here even when he isn't, the lingering smell quells my negativity for a split second. I keep moving along, reminding myself that people will come in and out of my life, and that I won't let it affect me. I will continue on pretending to not exist. It's what I'm best at in this so-called-life.