“I had some lecture notes and paperwork to finish.”
He skims his gaze over my collage. It suddenly seems juvenile compared to his photographs that strip all illusions from the world.
Beneath the smell of acrylics and glue, I catch his scent. Citrus and musk, today. Even just standing beside me, he radiates strength and self-assurance.
I don’t know what to do with myself around him. Despite his controlled reserve, he moves through the world with such ease, comfortable in his own body and with all of his actions deliberate. He probably never has to think about what to do with his hands when he’s talking to someone or to worry about what to say next.
He’s guarded, though. Wary. He’s like a crouching jungle cat, poised to unleash his power on some unsuspecting prey. He didn’t have this armor before he was captured, and it reminds me that he’s changed in unfathomable ways. But instead of being weakened by his ordeal, he’s even stronger than he was before.
Unlike me.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what he told our class on Monday. Though he’d discussed the facts, he hadn’t given many details about how he’d felt. What had gone through his head. How he’d managed to stay sane.
Much as I want to know more, to ask him questions, I don’t exactly have the right, considering how unwelcoming I’ve been about his being here.
“Is this the collage that’s due on Friday?” he asks.
I nod. “We’re supposed to include found objects and at least one original drawing.”
“What’s your drawing?” He steps closer to peer at the pencil drawing of a tall, elvish woman in a tight-fitting leather armor, boots, and a cape. Her long black hair flows like waves around her shoulders, and she grips a sharp, diamond-pointed spear.
“She’s an OC.” My face heats.
“OC?”
“Original character. I made her up a while ago.”
He straightens, slipping his hands into his pockets. “She looks powerful.”
“She is.” She’s also creative, adventurous, and brave. “I draw her a lot.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Winsome Swift.”
“I like her.”
I shoot him a glance to see if he’s being patronizing. But no. He studies the drawing, a crease of concentration on his forehead and his eyes serious. He’d never been patronizing when I was younger either. At least that hasn’t changed.
I turn my attention back to the collage. Darius picks up one of the university catalogs.
“You’re thinking about applying somewhere besides Evergreen?” He leafs through a catalog for a Vermont art academy.
“No. Ms. Meadows just gave those to me.”
I sense him about to say something else before he appears to check himself.
Putting the catalog down, he sets his hand on top of the stack. He has big hands that look capable of any kind of hard physical labor, from chopping wood with an axe to hauling boulders around. From holding a camera to picking wildflowers and arranging them in a jelly glass.
His hand had once engulfed mine. It looks as if it still could. Long fingers, a scab on his knuckle, blunt nails. When I was younger, he would sometimes rest his palm on the top of my head. The weight of his hand had felt like a force as strong as gravity.
And with one swift press of his index finger, he can stop time.
How many times has he pressed a camera’s shutter release button? How many moments has he captured that would otherwise have been lost forever?
His photos are harrowing, indelible images of history saturated with everything human—love, pain, grief, violence, fear. No one can look at a Darius Hawke photo and not feel a thousand emotions.
What does he feel when he takes photos? Anything? Or does he work on autopilot, framing shots and snapping the shutter like an athlete in the zone?
Questions are piling up inside me like a dragon’s gold.
“I need to finish this.” I pick up a paintbrush.
“Let me know if you change your mind about the ride.” He walks back to his desk.
I brush paint over the barbed wire, but my focus isn’t on my work. I’m thinking about the way Darius held his camera with such care, the body cradled in his palms as if it belonged there. Like it didn’t want to…or couldn’t…be anywhere else.
What does he take pictures of when he’s not in a war zone? And what else does he touch with such reverence?
Or…who else?
My breath catches. An image flashes in my mind—Darius’s strong, tanned hand resting protectively on a woman’s pale shoulder. Stroking her cheek. Sliding over her bare thigh. Gripping her wrist and pressing it into a pillow while he…
A prickly heat swells in my veins. If he can elicit so many emotions with one photograph, he must be able to make a woman feel like the earth is shattering.
CHAPTER 7
Nell
As Darius’s second week with us progresses, I develop an uneasy sort of routine. I wake at six and stay in bed until I hear the front door close, signaling that he’s either gone running or to whatever other workout he does. Only then do I hurry downstairs for breakfast.
Despite my efforts to avoid him, his presence is undeniable. There’s a fresh pot of coffee brewing, the fridge and cupboards are stocked with food I didn’t buy, and the glass on the table always has wildflowers and colorful autumn leaves. Even when he’s not home, the air in our old house feels sharper and brighter. As if he’s changed it just by existing here.
I continue to decline his offers of a ride to school. Though he’s unfailingly polite whenever we do cross paths, it’s challenging enough to try and contend with him both at home and in class. I take the bus to school and walk home so I have some time completely to myself.
On my way home one afternoon, I make my usual stop at the Dream Bean coffeehouse.
“Hi, Nell.” The barista reaches for a cup. “You want your usual?”
“Yes, please. Just with an extra shot of caramel today.” I swipe my card through the machine.
As I’m stepping aside to the pick-up counter, I glance at a girl waiting for her order. Small and skinny with lanky blond hair and a Green Lantern T-shirt, she eyes me with wariness.
I know how she feels. Maybe because of that affinity, I give her a nod of acknowledgment.
“Hey,” I offer. “Don’t you go to Monarch High?”
She nods. “I’m Clover.”
“Nell. What year are you?”
“Sophomore.” She fiddles with a thin silver chain around her neck. “We moved here over the summer.”
“Where from?”
“Seattle area.” She takes two cups in a tray from the barista and lingers by the door until my coffee is ready.
We leave together and walk down the sidewalk.
“So do you like it here?” I ask.
“It’s okay, I guess.” She pauses in front of a wood-fronted store called Comic Castle and nods her head to the door. “My mom owns this place. Super geeky, I know.”
“I think it’s great.” I look at the window display of action figures and comic books. “I’ve never read comics exactly, but I like graphic novels. The few I’ve read, anyway. I saw the article in the local paper when you opened in July. First comic book store in the area.”