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Art & Soul
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Текст книги "Art & Soul"


Автор книги: Brittainy C. Cherry



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Art and Soul

Brittainy C Cherry

Contents

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1. Levi, Seventeen Years Old

2. Aria, Sixteen Years Old

3. Aria

4. Levi

5. Aria

6. Aria

7. Levi

8. Aria

9. Levi

10. Aria

11. Levi

12. Levi

13. Aria

14. Levi

15. Aria

16. Levi

17. Aria

18. Levi

19. Aria

20. Levi

21. Levi

22. Aria

23. Levi

24. Aria

25. Levi

26. Aria

27. Levi

28. Untitled

29. Levi

30. Aria

31. Levi

32. Aria

33. Aria

34. Aria

35. Levi

36. Aria

37. Aria

38. Levi

39. Aria

40. Levi

41. Aria

42. Aria

43. Levi

44. Aria

45. Levi

46. Aria

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Untitled





Art & Soul

Art & Soul

Copyright © 2015 by Brittainy C. Cherry

All rights reserved.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Published: Brittainy C. Cherry 2015

[email protected]

Editing: Edits by C. Marie

Proofreading: Emily A. Lawrence

Cover Photography: Perrywinkle Photography

Cover Design: Quirky Bird




For Grandma

I love you

I miss you

I love you some more




“The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.”-Marcus Aurelius




color | noun, often attributive | col·or | ˈkə-lər

1. the quality of an object or substance with respect to light reflected by the object, usually determined visually by measurement of hue, saturation, and brightness of the reflected light; saturation or chroma; hue.

2. Her.

3. Me.

4. Us.



1 Levi, Seventeen Years Old

Mom was worrying again. Feelings of guilt began to creep in given I didn’t feel bad about her worries.

She said I was abandoning her, but I tried my best to make her see that wasn’t the case. The cell phone hung loosely to my ear as her voice filled with an unnecessary but all too familiar fear. Mom worried about everything too much, creating mountains out of molehills. My aunt, Denise, always told Mom that her thoughts were the leading cause of her failed relationships. “That’s why things didn’t work out with Kent, Hannah. You pushed him away,” she scolded. “That’s why you never go on dates, Hannah. You’re an emotional rollercoaster who fears intimacy.”

Denise had been married for two years now, so I guessed that made her a relationship guru.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt again, Levi.” Mom sighed into the receiver. She blamed herself for me being in Wisconsin, but it was my choice to come spend the year with Dad. I hadn’t seen him since I was eleven, and I had this crazy idea that if I didn’t try now for some kind of relationship with the guy, then I would never truly know my father. Plus, Mom needed her space. I needed my space.

After being homeschooled all my life, it had gotten to the point where she treated me like I was her other half. She hardly talked to anyone else except for Denise and me.

“You’re no good for my big sister, Levi Myers. I know you’re her son, but you’re no good for her,” Denise always told me.

“I’ll be fine, Mom.” She didn’t say anything else, but I imagined her nervously tapping her fingernails against the closest surface while she sipped watered down coffee. “Really, Ma.”

“Okay. Well, if he gets too bad you’ll stay with Lance, right? Or you’ll come home?” She paused. “You’ll come home if it gets too hard, okay?” We both knew that wasn’t really a choice. I was no good for her and her mental health. Hopefully I would be better for Dad. I nodded as if she could see me, and she continued talking. “So where are you now?”

“Waiting for the city bus to take me into town.”

“City bus?”

“I guess Dad’s car isn’t working.”

A few curse words slipped from her tongue, and I smirked at her obvious distaste for the man. It was hard to imagine that at some point they might have been in love. I didn’t know much about Dad, and the things I knew, I’d learned from Mom. I used to visit him for a week during the summer up until I turned eleven. He used to send birthday and Christmas cards with money and a Post-it note with a short message. Nothing big, just a small note saying happy birthday or Merry Christmas. I still had all of them in a shoebox.

Then one year it all stopped. He told Mom it was best if I didn’t visit anymore, never really giving an explanation. My goal for this whole year with Dad was to find out the answer to why he stopped our visits and his letters cold turkey. I was going to do everything in my power to try to figure out what happened between us.

“I’m going to call Lance and have him pick you up.”

“No, Mom. He’s at work. It’s no big deal.”

Lance was my uncle, Dad’s brother, and the only reason she allowed me to come spend the school year with Dad. He’d helped me convince Mom that this visit could be good for all of us. He’d promised to keep an eye on me.

I didn’t need Lance to look out for me, though. I wasn’t a kid anymore and had seen enough chaos throughout my life with Mom to be able to survive a year with my father. I’d learned quick how to grow up and be a man when Mom and I didn’t have one around.

Leaning against the bus stop pole, I dropped my duffle bag before setting my violin case on the ground. “It’s fine. The bus is pulling up right now, anyway,” I lied. She would’ve kept me on the phone for much longer than I wanted to talk. “I’ll call you later, all right?”

“Fine. Call me later. Or I’ll call you. I’ll call you, okay? And, Levi?”

“Yes?”

“I love you till the end.”

I echoed the words she’d been saying to me for as long as I could remember. She had a strange love for The Pogues’ song “Love You Till The End” for some reason, and all my life that one song played in our living room at least once a day.

The whole bus ride to Dad’s I wondered what kind of music played in his house.

I was betting it wasn’t The Pogues.

The closest the city bus could get me to the town Dad stayed in left me with a twenty minute walk. It was fine, really—except for the darkening clouds overhead. It started to drizzle about halfway through, so I hurried my pace, using an awkward speed walk/slow run movement.

When I finally made it to Dad’s, I saw his car resting in his front lawn. The hood was banged up, one headlight was broken, and he hadn’t bothered to close the driver’s door. The front porch had a flickering light that hardly attracted any flies or moths. There was a lawn chair in the yard that looked like it had been sitting there since 1974 and a half eaten TV dinner was lying against the brownish grass.

The best thing that could’ve happened to his lawn was the rain falling overhead.

I stepped onto the wooden porch, which squeaked and whined every time I made the slightest movement. There was a good chance it would fall apart just from my body weight.

The black door was swung open, so I didn’t bother to knock.

“Dad?”

There was no reply.

Stepping out of the foyer, I saw him on the living room couch. At least the house is cleaner than the front lawn. His legs were hanging over the arm of the couch, and he was sound asleep. “Dad.” He twisted against the cushions but didn’t wake. Seeing him for the first time after all of these years brought on such mixed emotions. I was happy, sad, bitter, and angry all at once. I wanted to yell at him for abandoning me, and hug him for letting me come back after all of these years.

I wanted him to say he missed me, to say sorry, and to explain himself for being so distant over the past years.

But mostly, I wanted him to wake up from his nap.

Trying my best to push those emotions away, I cleared my throat. “Dad,” I said, this time louder, pushing his leg with the sole of my blue Chucks. He grunted before rolling over to face the inside of the couch. “Are you kiddin’ me?” I muttered under my breath before taking my duffle bag and slinging it against his side. “Dad!

He sat up, scowling. “What the hell?” The palms of his hands rubbed against his tired eyes. His fingers curved into fists, and he tilted his head up to stare at me. “You made it?”

“Yeah. I thought you would want to know I’m here.”

He scratched at his peppered gray beard before rolling back into the inner fold of the couch. “Your room’s down the hall and to the right.” It didn’t take long before he was snoring again.

“Good to see you, too.”

Heading toward my bedroom, I glanced inside to see a freshly made bed and a dresser with towels and bath supplies sitting on top of it.

At least he thought of me.

Heading toward my bedroom, I glanced inside to see a freshly made bed and a dresser with towels and bath supplies sitting on top of it.

A few of my boxes that Mom had shipped over were sitting on the ground. Nothing else.

My cell phone started ringing and Lance’s name flashed across the screen. “Hello?”

“Hey, Levi! Did you make it in okay? I know Kent was going to pick you up from the airport, but I just wanted to check in.”

“Yeah, I’m here. Dad’s car isn’t working so I took the bus, but I’m here.”

“Dude, you should’ve called me, I could have picked you up.”

“No big deal, I knew you were working. It was an easy trip.”

“Well, next time you need something don’t hesitate to ask. Family before work, okay? Are you getting settled in? Is Kent treating you okay?”

“He’s actually taking a nap.”

Lance went silent for a moment. “Yeah, he’s been doing that a lot lately. Are you sure you don’t need anything? Food? Company? Food and company? I can come over and talk your ear off to death.” He laughed.

“I’m good, really. I think I’m just going to unpack my stuff.”

“Okay. But call me if you need anything, day or night.”

“Thanks, Lance.”

“Of course, buddy. I’ll see you soon.”

I hung up the phone, sat on the bed, and stared at the blank walls. It was far from a place I’d call home. It felt foreign. Mom and I lived down in Alabama and our home was a cabin in the woods. The only good thing about Dad’s place was the backyard surrounded by trees. Without those trees and the memories I had of Dad, I probably would’ve felt like I was on Pluto or something.

Opening one of my boxes, I pulled out my music collection, the most diverse thing I owned. I could’ve easily reached into the collection and pulled out a jazz CD, then reached in and pulled out Jay Z and followed it up with The Black Crowes. Mom was a musician and believed that all styles of music were worth exploring. We listened to all kinds of genres and styles of music during the day, never really having a moment when our house was silent.

Dad’s house was mute.

Another box was packed with different hard cover dictionary sets: the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, the Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary, and a two volume Oxford English Dictionary. Each day during homeschooling, Mom would have me flip through the books and find ten new words that I didn’t know and then we would use them in songs that we wrote together. The rest of my boxes included my Harry Potter collection, The Hunger Games, and The Chronicles of Narnia, every Stephen King novel, along with dozens and dozens of other books.

I lifted the Merriam-Webster dictionary and began flipping through the pages.

want | verb | ˈwȯnt also ˈwänt & ˈwənt

to desire or wish for (something)

to need (something)

to be without (something needed)

I wanted Dad to want me a little. I wanted Mom to stop wanting me so much. I wanted to be wanted, but not wanted a lot.

The kitchen freezer held a variety of TV dinners. The fridge was stocked from top to bottom with sandwich meats, fruits, leftover pizza, Dad’s beer, and root beer.

He remembered my favorite soda.

For dinner I ate nasty mashed potatoes and meatloaf, downing it all with two root beers. Dad had the same thing, but he ate it in a different room. I stayed out of his hair for the rest of the night, hanging out in the woods during the rainstorm. High in the twisted branches was the tree house he and I built when I was nine. In my mind it used to be so much bigger, but I guessed that was the thing about memories—they weren’t always exactly true.

Carved into the tree trunk were our initials above the words ‘men cave’.

My fingers rolled over each word.

I didn’t remember carving the letters.

I wondered what else I forgot about this place.

I climbed the wet rungs on the tree, which were still pretty sturdy, and I sat inside of the now tiny house, which was covered with spider webs, dead June bugs, and ancient beer cans. In the far corner was an old boom box that Dad and I used to always play our favorite CDs while goofing off and wasting time.

Without thought, I hit the power button on the boom box, but it was dead like the June bugs.

I sat in front of the window with my arms crossed, watching the rain fall.

The rain always reminded me of Mom.

Maybe I was starting to miss her a little.



2 Aria, Sixteen Years Old

I should’ve been sleeping.

The rain hammered against the rooftop of the house at unforgiving speeds, leaving me with my eyes opened wide. I turned to the alarm clock sitting on my nightstand. The red laser lights were bright and reminded me over and over again why I shouldn’t have been awake.

2:22 A.M.

I slid my body up, my back landing against the headboard. Tossing my peach and mulberry-colored comforter from my sweaty body, I took a breath. My thumb sat between my teeth as I proceeded to chip away at my short nail.

I hated the calmness of the household. I hated how everyone else in my family was able to sleep through the sounds of the current storm passing through Mayfair Heights. I hated how they were probably dreaming of something magnificent and happy while I sat up in bed overthinking everything.

I stood from my mattress and shut my bedroom door, which was covered in my random artwork and pictures of me and my family. The cutout letters ‘A-R-I-A’ that curved over my doorframe showcased my coolness factor.

Or lack thereof.

My feet slipped into a pair of old, mint-colored flip-flops. I tossed my fringed purse strap across my body, and it wasn’t long before I climbed out of my first floor window. I hadn’t had enough brains to think of putting on a jacket to cover my tank top and pajama shorts. The August air was cool as it brushed against my skin, but the rain was unapologetic. It washed over me, soaking me from head to toe before I reached the street corner.

Putting on my thinking cap, I took a shortcut through Mr. Myers’ woods at the end of the block. It seemed like a grand idea, until I started slipping through the muddy grass, instantly transforming my flip-flops from mint to hickory brown.

The heavy storm was torturing me, almost as much as my mind had been attacking my heart. I knew it was stupid to head out so late at night, but when your heart is under attack, only a few people can put a shield of protection around said heart.

When I made it to the edge of the woods, a breath of relief left me as I reached Mr. Myers’ property. It was the only house on this side of the road for miles, and for the most part, the house was exactly like the person who lived inside: broken down. It was a single-level home with more trash than treasures, including the winking porch light, the shattered gnome next to the mailbox, and the beat-up car that looked older than my grandpa.

Mr. Myers didn’t know me, and it was probably best that way. He was the kind of person I never had the need to get to know. Mom called him the neighborhood loner. Dad was much less nice about it, calling him nothing but a stupid asshole. The weekend before Mr. Myers had driven his car into Ms. Sammie’s mailbox on Ever Road. Most people would’ve reported it to the cops, but Ms. Sammie said the guy just needed a Bible and a talk with Jesus. She even made him a sandwich after they backed his car away.

Across the road I could see Simon’s porch light shining.

Thank God.

Simon was my best—and only—friend. We’d known each other since we were in diapers. Our moms were best friends, so Simon and I were destined to be united in friendship. I think both parents were a little disappointed when the two of us didn’t fall madly in love and live happily ever after. Simon was more into blonde hair than my auburn, and I was more into boys who called me cute and then pretended I didn’t exist, so our love story never came to fruition.

The rain was freezing. I tried my best to cover up my soaking wet, see-through white tank top as I snuck into Simon’s backyard and tapped on his bedroom window, hoping to not wake his parents. Although I was close to his family, the idea of Mr. Landon finding me standing in a see-through shirt would be cause for a nice round of therapy.

I shivered, standing in a puddle of water.

It took a few minutes before Simon woke up and walked over to see me. He blinked a few times, rubbing the palms of his hands against his sleepy eyes. The window opened and I climbed inside, something I’d done for years.

Simon went on to lock the window. He double-checked and triple-checked the lock, and then—for full certainty—he checked it once more.

Most boys would’ve at least glanced at me in the state that I was in, my top clinging to my braless breasts, but Simon didn’t flinch. Plus, he didn’t have his glasses on, so he was pretty much blind as a bat. One time when we were younger, I was changing in his room when he walked in on me. That time he did have his glasses on and his eyes met my chest instantly. Pretty sure he blushed every time he saw me for two months straight.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a hint of unease in his voice. If there was anyone who was more concerned about me than my parents, it was Simon. He was a natural worrier—for good reason, too. After a rough past, Simon was allowed to worry a little more than others.

“Just cold,” I replied, not really wanting to alarm Simon more.

“Did you randomly decide to take a walk at two in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“In the pouring rain?”

“It wasn’t pouring when I left,” I lied.

“Pretty sure it was pouring when you left.”

“Well, I thought it would slow down.”

“You should’ve checked the weather.”

“Next time.”

“I’ll grab some towels so you can dry off, and I’ll get a wet rag for the muddy feet you’re dragging across my carpet.” He didn’t sound bothered with the muddy floor, but I knew he was.

Simon headed for the bathroom, and I tried my best to keep my muddy feet in one place.

When he brought me the towels, he opened the bottom dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of my pajamas that I always left at his place. As he handed them to me, he turned away to give me privacy. After removing all of my soaked clothing, I took my new top and slipped it over my head.

“You’re going to need to bring more clothes to leave in the dresser if you’re planning on moving in with me,” Simon said sarcastically, yet extraordinarily sweetly. “Tell me when.”

My new shorts moved up my ghost-white legs, and I smoothed them out with my fingers. “I’m good.”

He walked over to his dresser where his glasses case was sitting. He opened it and placed his eyewear over his green eyes. His reddish orange hair was standing up in some places, yet completely flattened in others. He looked exactly how I always imagined any person named Simon to look: kind of slim, but very tall; kind of nerdy, but oddly handsome.

“Did you shave the right side of your head?” he questioned, his eyes turning to my new hairdo.

“I did indeed, do you like it?”

His head tilted to the left and took in my new look. His head tilted to the right, still staring. “It’s…artsy. Very much you.”

“You hate it.” He did. I wasn’t surprised.

“No, no. I like it,” he promised, which was a lie. Simon liked things to be as normal as possible when it came to looks. He hated standing out, but he knew for a fact that he had become best friends with an artistic girl who was always going to stand out a bit when it came to my looks.

I smiled at his lie, walked over to his computer chair, and sat. His room wasn’t drunk in colors like mine. It was all quite boring. Linen carpets with pearl white walls. The only color came from the few posters hanging up from his favorite video games.

He lowered his body to the carpet and started rubbing the mud out. “Sorry about that, Si.”

He chuckled, his shoulders rising and falling. “Well, ya know what they say, no better way to fix a slight case of OCD than muddy carpets.” He got on all fours and started scrubbing harder.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows against my boney knees. Trying not to frown, I asked, “How is that going?” Simon had always been a little obsessive about things, but I never thought it was a real issue and really, most of the things just seemed like pet peeves.

When we were younger all of his toys had to face a certain direction. The television volume always had to be placed at a number ending with four. The forks always had to be washed separate from the spoons. Little things, really, but then I started noticing the older we grew, the bigger deal he would make of things dealing with the number four. The dinner table always had to be set for four people, even if only two people were eating. All doors and window locks had to be checked and double-checked—and triple-checked, and quadruple-checked.

Sitting back on his heels, he sighed and wiped his brow. “I’m never going to get laid, or a girlfriend, am I? I’m going to be a forty-year-old virgin.”

“Don’t be silly,” I remarked. “You’ll be getting laid in no time.”

“Right. And I’ll be like, ‘hey, sexy mama, if you could just allow me to put on and take off the condom four times before we start the dirty, that would be great.’ Yeah, no big deal.”

I snickered. “You’re right. You’re never going to get laid.”

Simon narrowed his eyes at me and placed the dirty rags into his laundry hamper. He moved to his nightstand and squeezed four squirts of hand sanitizer into his palm. “You’re such a bitch.”

“I love you too,” I grinned. My hair was still dripping wet from the rain, and I began braiding it. “Listen, if you’re still a virgin on the eve of your thirty-ninth birthday, I will show up and we’ll have sex together. I’ll even let you touch my boobs four times.”

Simon’s eyes traveled to my chest and his lips turned up. His cheeks flushed crimson. “Well, I might have to touch them six times. Or ten. Who knows how bad this issue of mine will be by then.”

“You’re such a guy sometimes.”

“And don’t you forget it.” He hopped on his bed and pushed his glasses up his nose. “So, do you want to keep playing nonchalant about your late night visit or do we want to discuss what’s bothering you?”

“What makes you think something is bothering me?”

He cocked an eyebrow. My heart pounded in my throat as I grabbed my purse and climbed onto his bed. My legs crossed, my lips hardened, and I slipped my hand into the purse.

First, I pulled out a paper towel and laid it on his comforter.

I reached back into the purse.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

I laid the four plastic sticks on the paper towel, and I watched the air evaporate from Simon’s lungs. He was silent, which made me sick to my stomach.

“Are those…?”

I nodded.

“And they are…?”

I nodded again.

I’d made sure to get four tests in honor of my best friend. Well that, and for my own wellbeing.

“How did you afford all of those?” he asked, knowing that I was pretty good at never having enough money for ice cream or chocolate.

“I saved up the money from babysitting Grace and KitKat these past few weeks. And trust me, the irony of me getting the money for these from babysitting wasn’t overlooked.”

Four different tests. Four different brands. Four different days. Four matching results.

Simon was emptied of thought as he fell backward, running his hand over his mouth. “Aria…for the simple fact that it seems false until one of us verbally speaks the words, I’m going to ask you to say it.”

“I’m pregnant.” The words burned the back of my throat, and I felt ridiculously alone once they left my mouth.

“How? Who?”

“Over the summer. There was a guy.”

“You never mentioned a guy.” Simon’s curiosity was at an all time high, but I didn’t want to go into any more details of how I’d humiliated myself and fallen for the wrong guy.

“I didn’t think he was worth mentioning.”

He didn’t know what to say after that. Neither did I.

We sat quietly until 5:56 A.M. The rainstorm had passed, and I knew I should head back home before my parents left for work. I’d told them I would watch my little sisters during the day for twenty bucks.

I climbed back out of Simon’s window and thanked him for sitting up with me and not once looking at me with a judgmental stare.

“Are you going to keep it?” Simon whispered.

I shrugged. I hadn’t really put any thought into the fact that I was actually pregnant after I’d peed on four different sticks, and told him the news. “My parents are going to flip out.”

Simon frowned. He knew they were going to freak out about this. Especially Dad. “Well, whatever you need just let me know.”

A sad, small grin took over my lips. There was something so remarkable about best friends. They were always a solid reminder that you were never truly alone.

I headed back through Mr. Myers’ woods and at the halfway mark I paused and glanced up at the sky. The sun was waking with a yawn, slowly stretching its light across the trees with the burnt leaves that would soon enough fall to the ground.

I wasn’t ready for it to be morning. I wasn’t ready to go home. I wasn’t ready to face the fact that tomorrow was the first day of school and I would be that girl. The girl who was going to start wearing baggy clothes to try to hide a growing stomach. The girl who was going to be noticed not because of her artistic ways, but because of her bad decisions. The girl who was knocked up in high school.

My back leaned against a tree, and I allowed the tang of the morning air to kiss my cheeks.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

A quiet voice made me swiftly turn around. My eyes darted around the woods, searching for the sound. The voice continued speaking, but it was clear that the words weren’t being directed toward me.

“You’re beautiful.”

Those words definitely weren’t created for me. Most of the time when people talked about me they said, “Oh. Aria. You’re so…unique,” or, “You’re too skinny, eat a burger,” or, “What the hell did you do to your hair this time?!”

A few feet away a guy was kneeling in front of a deer. The deer’s eyes were wide, alarmed, but he wasn’t terrified enough to run. I’d never seen the guy before, but he appeared about my age. I knew everyone in Mayfair Heights by first and last name—even if they never noticed me—so it was strange that his face was unfamiliar to me. He had chocolate-colored hair that was hidden under a baseball cap, and a slight shadow of a beard. He wore a sapphire T-shirt with faded jeans, and loosely tied blue Chucks.

In his hand were berries, which he held out toward the deer.

“You’re gonna love these,” he promised. Each time he spoke I noticed the accent attached to the words. He wasn’t from around here—that was for certain. There was this southern drawl that showed up at the end of each of his sentences; it was soothing.

The deer stepped forward, moving in closer to him. Anticipation overtook me, hoping the deer would connect with the stranger.

Do people feed deer? Is that a thing?

A part of me wanted to look away from him, but another part really wanted to keep staring. My left foot moved backward, snapping a branch, and my right foot hit another, causing me to fall backward onto my butt. The deer became startled and ran off in the opposite direction.

Shoot!” he hissed, tossing the berries to the ground before brushing his hands against his jeans. A short chuckle left him. “Almost.”

I bit my lip and moved around, making more noise on the branches. He turned my way, looking as startled as the deer. First he was confused by my entire existence, and then pleased.

His brown eyes smiled before his lips followed in the kindness.

Clearing my throat, I gave him an apologetic frown.

Taking a few steps my way, his gaze searched my face. He waited for me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent. His hand reached out toward me, but I refused it, pushing myself up from the ground. He kept smiling as I brushed away the wet leaves and branches from the bottom of my bum.

“You all right?” he questioned.

I nodded mutely.

His smile didn’t falter. I wondered if he knew how to not smile. “All right then,” he said. “See ya later.” He headed toward the tree house and started climbing the steps. Once he reached the top, the mystery guy disappeared inside, out of my viewpoint. I looked left, right, up, and down, glancing around at the quiet trees, wondering if he had even really existed. Yet I knew he had to be real, because the pile of berries still lay against the dampened grass.


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