‘Sometimes you can’t worry about what everyone else thinks,’ Devon starts, with a look that holds so much sincerity that I almost want to reach out and hug him, almost, but my brain gets the best of me, too scared to open up too much, to ask him more about his hurt in case it stirs up my own again. But there was certainly something unsettling about his advice. Was he worrying about what people thought of him?
‘That’s easy for you to say when the whole world thinks you’re a superhero,’ I tease, nudging his elbow. Catching his eye, the flicker of pain vanishes. He shoves me back, making me wobble. I very nearly lose my balance and fall into the half-pipe but recover quickly.
‘Race you to the gate,’ he shouts, dropping in and leaving me up top. I momentarily get distracted. I may not like sharing my own feelings, but there’s something unnerving about Devon not pushing to share his because – whether I like it or not – that’s never stopped him before. Just now he shut down quick and for the first time, I feel bad for resorting to a joke instead of addressing whatever hurt he is harbouring. Ruby may be a bully, but maybe she listened to Devon; was there for him in ways I couldn’t be. I could be the fun friend, a piece of childhood nostalgia, but maybe he needed a woman, a woman who opened up to him and didn’t hide behind walls.
The thought of not being all that Devon needs makes my stomach turn. It used to always just be me and him. There’s a sharp longing in my chest for those days; I want them back. But does that mean I want Devon as more than a friend?
My face must be a picture when I reach Devon at the gate; he beat me by a long shot, my thoughts having kept me glued me to the half-pipe for a good five minutes after he declared the race.
‘Why so tense, Scar?’ he asks looking over my features.
‘I’m not tense.’ I shake my head with a laugh.
‘You were pouting – that means something’s on your mind.’ Devon looks up at me through his long lashes as he stuffs both our boards in his backpack. Should I talk to him, tell him what’s on my mind? There are now a bunch of things on my mind, but one thing is standing out above the rest, which makes me feel guilty about work. Should I ask about Ruby and tell him that I’m feeling wholly confused about our current friendship status after all these years apart? Would he laugh?
‘I was just thinking that this has been the best day ever. I’m definitely going to be doing this more often,’ I say merrily, allowing the happy words to replace my heavy thoughts and totally chickening out when it comes to my emotions. Devon’s eyes linger on mine. I know he can sense I’m not telling the truth, but again he doesn’t push. Do I want him to push?
‘OK,’ he says in a way that confirms he can still see right through me. ‘Ice-cream?’ he questions, with a side smirk, moving past my sudden awkwardness.
‘Yes please,’ I answer, forgetting my woes with one thought of Salvatore’s gingerbread ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce in a cinnamon waffle cone.
‘Does Salvatore still do his gingerbread ice-cream at this time of year?’ D asks, making me beam as we leave the skatepark behind and walk along Daffodil Lane.
‘He sure does, but you can’t order the same thing as me,’ I say with a wide smirk on my face, feeling my shoulders relax over my confusing thoughts as we walk our familiar route to the ice-cream shop.
‘Oh yeah, so you can eat mine too?’ he replies, grinning just as big as me.
‘Exactly.’ I nod. With Devon by my side now the walk back to the village square doesn’t seem as far. We chat about the new tricks he has learnt on his board – New York has plenty of skateparks and the big kid in him never stopped skating – it makes me miss the big kid in me all the more. I cave and ask one or two questions about his acting gigs and in typical Devon style he gets super animated and enthusiastic, talking about his passion for his chosen art form; not once does he touch on the fame and he doesn’t speak at all like he did in front of the camera when I first bumped into him.
By the time we get to Salvatore’s window I’m ready for all the ice-cream – skateboarding for an hour has made me ravenous. I order my gingerbread ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce in a cinnamon waffle cone and can’t help digging in before Devon has placed his order; I don’t even care that my hands are slowly growing as cold as the ice-cream in their mitts.
Devon orders a peppermint chip ice-cream with a chocolate cone and my heart skips a beat – it’s just the excitement over ice-cream I tell myself, and getting to share this festive treat with such a good friend, but as we thank Salvatore my eyes survey Devon as he takes his first bite. His chocolate brown eyes grow wide, he has a slight rosy hue in his cheeks and his hair is making animal shapes with sweat and dew. When he smiles his nose crinkles and his eyes narrow making room for that wide grin that can dazzle from miles away; he looks like a man and every bit a Hollywood heartthrob, yet a boyish charm remains.
As he savours his first bite, I rise to my tiptoes for a sneak attack; taking a bite out of his ice-cream. He lets out a howl of a laugh when I lick my lips and wiggle my eyebrows.
The remainder of our walk to The Sunflower Inn consists of Devon trying to take a bite out of my cone and me trying to dodge him until I finally relent and let him have the best bit; the butt of the cone filled with the last remaining gooey and melting bit of gingerbread ice-cream and thick chocolate sauce. That scores me one of those dimple-incurring smiles followed by a smug look. I give him an eye-roll and a hefty shove into reception where Devon’s face falls serious as he looks around, taking in the surroundings. There’s no one in the lobby except Willow who eyes us curiously when Devon puts a finger to his lips, signalling for me to keep quiet before he makes a ninja-like move towards the stairs and waves for me to follow. I see the mischievous twinkle in his eye like we’re about to embark on one of our childhood missions, so I copy his movements bending low; spy mode activated.
We make it to his room after plenty of three ninja-like manoeuvres; a cartwheel here, a roll there, and burst through his door in a fit of giggles.
The glow of the moon lights up Devon’s tidy room. I can see that’s he’s unpacked, making himself at home, his suitcase put away neatly in the corner and for some reason that makes me smile. He switches on the bedside lamp and pulls off his hoodie. I go to do the same with my coat, my clothes damp from the afternoon chill, making me shiver, but get caught, unable to untie the knot in the toggles. My fingers are frozen and sore in contrast to the heat of the room, making it difficult for me to get a grip, and I keep going cross-eyed looking down at my chest to untie the top one.
I look in the mirror to avoid the dizziness and locate the knot when Devon steps behind me and reaches over my shoulders to help. Instantly my body heats. He must have turned the heat on full blast, noticing my struggle with my icy fingertips, but as his hand brushes over my collarbone to the base of my neck I feel my spine tingle and I can’t be one hundred per cent certain the temperature of the room is the reason for my flushed cheeks. I can feel his warm breath on my ear. I watch his movements in the mirror, his lips graze my earlobe and I feel like I’m floating with his gentle touch. When he lets out a low groan my nerves get the best of me.
‘D?’ I say, turning to him before my eyes threaten to roll back with pleasure. I lift them up to face him. He looks like home, his features soft in the dim light. I want to pull him close, the only person who seems to be able to knock down my wall and make me want more, to give more of myself, but the foundations I have built are still there, the layer that remains terrified that makes me divert to casual chit-chat and humour to put distance between us.