Part 18 (1/2)

”Well, yeah. I mean, it's already open to whoever wants to show their art. Don't you think we should encourage everyone to submit stuff?” she says.

I stop and think about it. She's right. The whole point of doing this is to give Nate the opportunity to be recognized for what he made. Shouldn't everyone get that chance?

”Cool,” Damian says, and I look at him, surprised.

”Yeah, great,” I add.

200.

”Okay, it's a plan. See you guys tomorrow!” Helena slides out of the booth and stands up. She winks at me and, shaking her hips, makes her way out of the diner.

Damian s.h.i.+fts in his seat and stirs his coffee.

”Is everything okay?” I ask, peering at him. His forehead is creased with lines and he looks ill at ease.

”Yeah, I'm fine,” he answers tersely.

”You sure? You look kind of, I don't know, upset.”

Damian drops the spoon into his coffee and sinks back against the vinyl seat. He folds his hands together and picks up his head to meet my eyes. ”You know, I'm just kind of nervous.”

”You mean about showing your stuff?”

”Yes. And the whole thing with Nate -- marking the anniversary, showing his work. People are going to ... I don't know ... look at me; I'm the guy who killed his best friend. What right do I have to be showing his art?”

”Damian, you didn't kill him,” I say quietly. I don't know how to make this better. I don't know how to take away the hurt and the guilt, how to soothe it. ”He was the one behind the wheel. He was the one being reckless. And, he could have killed you, too. Then what?” I can't seem to catch my breath. ”Then what?” I repeat, louder. ”I never would have found out about his art. And I...” my voice trails off.

”And you what?” he asks, looking hard at me.

”And I would never have gotten to know you, Damian. And 201.

I don't know how I would have survived this year without you.”

”Really?” he asks, his voice heavy with disbelief.

”Yes, really,” I reply, feeling embarra.s.sed and, somehow, excited at the same time.

”That's good,” Damian says slowly. ”Because I don't know how I would have survived without you, either.”

”Really?” Now excitement is definitely gaining on my embarra.s.sment.

”Yup.” Damian is looking at me intently, his silver eyes glinting. ”Hey, want to get out of here?”

”Yes,” I say. ”Yes, I do.”

202.

Chapter Thirteen.

my heart is thumping as fast and hard as a jack-rabbit runs. We pay our bill and get up together. Damian stands back to let me walk ahead of him, and I can't help but think, He's a gentleman, and I can't help but sigh. I'm such a dork. We cross Union Street in silence, cut diagonally across the county road, and begin heading down toward the park, neither of us saying a word.

Damian matches my pace and stays close to me, his arm brus.h.i.+ng my shoulder every so often. With each touch, as light as a breath, waves of electricity swim up my arm, through my chest and my belly. His black trench coat can't be nearly warm enough. Icicles hang from branches, clear and jagged, as though all the boughs of all the trees are weeping. I want to take Damian's hand, but something stops me. Once again, I find we are so close, only a hairbreadth stands between us, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

Finally, we reach the snowy, muddy swath of gra.s.s that surrounds the playground and leads out to the baseball diamond.

203.

My breath fogs out in front of me in puffs. Damian stares straight ahead, marching forward, ignoring the belching, slippery mud beneath our boots. Unexpectedly, as I take a step, my foot slides in the wet muck and I start to fall down, when something grabs hold of my waist and hauls me back to my feet. I'm pressed against Damian, and he is looking down at me, grinning.

”Careful there,” he tells me gently.

”Thanks,” I mutter.

His arm is still around my waist, and when I turn away to keep walking, he keeps it there. I want to lean into him, but my whole being feels electrified, and I can't help but keep ramrod straight. I wouldn't be surprised if my hair were standing on end, too. And all I can think is Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh. We continue tramping across the field, Damian's arm warm and heavy around me. Finally, we reach the playground, where the tire swing sways slightly in the frosty breeze.

”I used to come here with Nate,” I say quietly.

”I know,” Damian answers. ”It's in your map. Want to swing?” I nod, and Damian unwraps his arm. In an instant, I miss his warmth. He stretches his long leg over the lip of the tire and hops on. ”Come on!” he calls.

I quickly scramble up onto the tire and sit across from him, the cold of the chains whistling through my woolen gloves. Damian kicks his legs back and holds us poised, ready, then lifts his feet, and the tire swings crazily, tilting and 204.

spinning in wild circles. Damian is smiling a wide smile that is as unburdened and light as a child's. He throws his head back and laughs a deep belly laugh. The lurching of the swing loosens something inside of me, and I can't help but giggle madly, too.

Finally, as the tire starts to lose its momentum and we begin to slow down, Damian drops his feet and lets them drag us to a halt. We stay in place, knees just brus.h.i.+ng.

”So,” he says.

”So,” I search for something to say, ”I have news.” I feel buoyed by the wild freedom of the swing, by his closeness, by the memory of his arm around my waist.

”What's your news?” Damian asks, eyeing me keenly, a small grin playing at his lips.

”I got accepted to the summer art school.”

”The one in London?”

As I nod yes, Damian lets out a loud whoop. ”That's amazing!” he shouts, and reaches across to grab me in a hug.

Oh my gosh, he smells good, like some exotic but comforting spice, nutmeg or cardamom. Slowly, Damian lowers his head to mine and I think my chest might explode, my heart is tap-dancing so quickly.

He's going to kiss me.

I've imagined this and now that it's really happening, I am like a block of wood. I can't move. I can't breathe. I close my eyes just as the lightest feather of a breath, then lips, brush 205.

over my lips. His breath is sweet and the taste of coffee barely lingers in his mouth. I feel as though my whole body has turned to liquid, into a river of millions of droplets, rus.h.i.+ng apart and then back together.

”You have the softest lips,” he whispers as he pulls back to look at me.