“I don’t care if you don’t believe me. That’s how I feel,” she says.
There isn’t an ounce of confidence in the words.
“He barely even gets close to you, Little Bird. He holds your hand like you’re his sister.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“His sister?” I ask.
I brush the hair back away from the other side of her neck. She doesn’t try to move away from the touch, but her eyes won’t meet mine.
“Little Bird,” she says.
I give a slight smile. “But that’s what you are, isn’t it? So delicate and fragile. Caged up. What if you opened that cage just a little? What would happen?”
“I’m not caged,” she mutters, barely audible.
“I think you are. You stay behind those bars because you think they keep you safe. But all the time, you’re looking out. Watching the world go by and wondering what it would be like to be out there, to be a part of it. You’re wondering right now. You want to know what it would be like for me to touch you. You’re shaking just thinking about it.”
My body is up against hers now, and the drum of her heartbeat pounds against me. She finally lifts her eyes to mine.
“I thought I was a child,” she says.
I chuckle. “Maybe then. Not now.”
My mouth brushes over one cheek and hovers over hers. She lifts her chin just slightly, her lips parting and her eyes starting to flutter down. My hand slides onto her hip, and my mouth comes close to hers.
“You aren’t eating that pie in there, are you?” Bree calls into the kitchen.
I smile and shake my head slightly. “Not yet.”
My lips almost graze hers, but the spell is broken. Wren draws in a sharp breath, pulling back away from me.
“I can’t do this,” she says.
She pushes away from the counter and grabs a container of ice cream out of the freezer before swiping the platter with the pie off the counter. Her eyes flash back to me for an instant, and then she pushes through the kitchen door and heads back into the dining room. Taking a second to let my head clear, I find the drawer with the silverware and take out forks and a serving spoon.
For the rest of the night, Wren stays quiet, not even looking my way. It’s late by the time Bree and I get ready to go back next door. She says goodbye to my aunt, then excuses herself and rushes up the stairs. I know she’s headed to her bedroom.
When I get back to the house, I go straight for my room in the finished attic. Standing at the window, I look down into Wren’s bedroom. She’s standing in front of the mirror again, but this time her fingers trace down along the side of her neck and then across her lips as if she’s feeling for my breath in her skin. Her hands press to the top of the dresser, and her head hangs forward for a second before she pushes away and crosses the room, disappearing behind the wall. An instant later, her hand is briefly visible as she tosses her dress toward the hamper beside her dresser. Next comes her bra and then a flimsy scrap of panties.
My stomach tightens, and my hands clench the windowsill. When she steps back into view of the window, she’s dressed in a pale purple sweatsuit. My mouth waters thinking about what she has or doesn’t have, on underneath. She opens the door to her room and sticks her head out. I can’t hear anything, but it looks like she’s calling out to someone. A few seconds later, she closes the door and turns the light out.
But she isn’t going to sleep. It doesn’t take long for the window to open and her to slip out to sit on the sill. The roof of the wraparound porch provides the perfect landing spot for her, and she looks down at it. The hesitation in her movements tells me this isn’t something she does often. Finally, she lets go and drops the couple of feet down onto the roof. She crouches there, not moving, waiting to see if anyone in the house heard the sound. It would have to be one of her parents. Her uncle walked Aunt Bree back home, and as far as I know, is still sitting in the front parlor with her talking.
I watch until Wren starts crawling her way down the support at the corner of the porch, then step away from the window. I have a feeling whatever she’s up to has something to do with our conversation in the kitchen.
11
Wren
I have never snuck out of the house in my life, and the minute I hit the ground, I’m already questioning my decision. But I can’t let myself stop. Frustration clenches inside me, and my mind is spinning so much I know there’s no way I’m going to be able to quiet it down enough to sleep tonight if I don’t do this. There’s a feeling deep in my gut that’s churning and heavy like guilt, but I don’t think I should feel guilty. I didn’t do anything wrong. Whatever that was that happened in the kitchen, it was all Talon.
But that’s why I have to do this. It might have been him demanding my attention and trying to twist my thoughts into something that would amuse him, but my reaction wasn’t what I expected. It shouldn’t feel like that to have Talon so close to me. I just met him, and our interactions the few times we’ve been anywhere near each other haven’t exactly been friendly.
So, why did the heat of his body feel so different from the way Isaiah sits close beside me on the front porch? Why have I never trembled like that when he brushes my face with his fingers or kisses my cheek? I’ve never even felt like that when his mouth is on mine. It was dizzying and disorienting, and I have to tell myself it has nothing to do with the dark, haunted-looking boy now living next door. It was new, a strange experience so mixed up with the distaste I have for Talon my mind and body couldn’t process it.
There’s so much more with Isaiah. The years we’ve spent together, everything we’ve gone through together. It’s ingrained in me and means more than anything else could. I just need to remind myself of it.
He only lives a few streets down from me, but I’m longing for the winter coat I left hanging in the downstairs hall closet with my gloves shoved in the pockets. I run faster through the still darkness, trying to heat up my blood and take away the ache of the cold in my bones. This is why I don’t sneak out. I didn’t think it all the way through, and now I’m freezing in the absolute darkness. I haven’t even thought of a way to get back into the house. My only hope is being able to scramble back up the way I went down. As of yet, that’s an untested theory that could end very badly.
It’s not a surprise that Isaiah’s house is dark when I get to the yard. Only a small bulb burns right outside the front door, illuminating it. This isn’t the type of neighborhood that has motion detector lights on the sides of houses or over garage doors. Nothing happens around here that would necessitate something like that. The light over the front door isn’t even for security. It’s to show the front door in case someone needs to come in.
I’m fairly certain I’m not the type of late-night traveler Isaiah’s parents are planning on welcoming, so I steer clear of the porch. The cold air clears the fog in my brain, but now I feel almost frantic, unnerved by doing something this out of character. I run around to the back of the house, creeping into the shadows, so just in case one of Isaiah’s siblings or parents happened to look out the window, they wouldn’t see me. It’s dark to me out here, but the combination of the moonlight and my lilac sweats would probably make me stand out like a ghost.