The butterflies in my chest reawaken and fly into my throat. Does he know I’ve pretty much reached creeper status? His focus is on gathering our stuff, face turned down. He’s not giving anything away as I look at him. He looks up, a backpack on each shoulder, motioning for me to follow.
“Where are you going?”
When I don’t move, he tips my chair forward, leaving me to either stand or face-plant; I stand. “We’re going to get some food.”
“I really need to study.”
“You will, but stressing out isn’t helping. You need a night off from thinking about school or grades or any other bullshit you’re worried about.”
“I wouldn’t call it bullshit,” I mutter, aware that he may or may not fall under that category.
He takes the lead and saunters toward the exit. Left without many options, or wanting one, considering I really haven’t studied, I follow him outside. It’s still a little early for bar hopping, but people are already milling about, getting ready for a night out. The bars surrounding the café are already playing music, chalkboard signs put up with their drink specials.
“Where do you want to eat?”
Isn’t the worst fate in the world being asked where you want to eat? I look left and right down the street, already knowing it’s only lined with college bars and greasy pizza places. “If you’re up for a little walk, there’s a burger place about eight blocks west of here.”
“As long as the burgers are good.”
He’s quiet, hands shoved in his pockets as we walk, neither one of us forcing conversation. The farther west we make it, the less crowded the streets become, leaving the bars and college life behind us. Chuck’s is in the middle of the urban side of the city, more commonly frequented by families. It’s quieter, less seedy. The restaurant sits between a gas station and a townhome, its wood exterior reflecting its history.
It’s a seat-yourself type of establishment, and Justin and I pick a booth in the corner with a view of the street. Justin lets me order for the both of us, and I swirl the straw around in my drink, watching the bubbles float to the top.
Justin looks out the window. “This place is what, a mile from your house?”
“Yeah, Kip and I eat here at least once a week.”
He opens his mouth and then shuts it.
“What?” I implore. He shakes his head. “You were about to say something.”
“I don’t…” Sighing, he finally looks at me. “It’s only you and Kip?”
I nod, already understanding where this conversation is going.
He waits a minute and says, “Where are your parents?”
The only person I’ve ever told is Kaley, and even then it’s the watered down version, not the real life version. I’m hesitant because it can bring pity. And already seeing Justin’s hesitance to ask, I can only imagine how sorry he’s going to feel for me. That’s the last thing I need.
“Well,” I begin. “My dad died when I was a little over two—I don’t remember him—and my mom left when I started my first year of middle school. Kip had just started as a freshman in high school, but really, it was just the two of us for long before that.”
He nods. “Makes sense. He’s very protective.”
“He’s very annoying,” I repeat in the same tone.
He quirks his mouth into a smile, returning his attention to me. “I’m sure it’s mutual.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”
He shrugs. “I imagine it’s hard to protect a little sister when she looks like you.”
I’m stuck between the little sister part and the looks like me part.
The waitress comes by and deposits our food. Justin’s eyes widen at the sight of the large burgers stacked on our plates with a healthy dose of fries in red baskets.
“Squish it down. It makes it easier.”
I demonstrate, smashing the top bun down, letting grease and condiments seep from the sides. I pick it up, past the point of embarrassment since the turkey panini incident at lunch, and take a bite. Justin repeats my movements, biting into his much more successfully than I did and somehow making it look tasteful. He chews, tilting his head, contemplating.
“So,” I say, impatient. “Good, right?”
“It’s really good.” He smiles, laughing a little. “Actually, it’s the best burger I’ve eaten in a while. It’s so juicy,” he says, lifting the burger for another bite.
“It’s the grease,” I say. “They probably haven’t cleaned the grill in ten years.”
This is reaffirmed when I reposition my feet and the bottom of my shoes stick to the floor. Justin stops mid chew and looks toward the waitress behind the bar restocking napkin dispensers. She smirks at Justin’s questioning look.
He studies his burger before shrugging. “Ignorance is bliss.”
We’re in the middle of eating when the kitchen doors fly open and our waitress comes running out. The diner is mostly empty, just us and another couple, as she calls out for the other waitress. Seconds later, she’s at our table.
“There’s a fire,” she says, untying her apron.
“Fire,” Justin parrots, his mouth full of food.
“Yes, a grease fire. The entire kitchen is in smoke.”
It’s then that we notice black smoke starting to billow from the double doors leading to the kitchen. Our waitress hops over the counter and opens the register, pulling money out and stuffing it in her bra. Justin hurries, grabbing both our cheeseburgers and fries, and I grab the drinks. We’re almost out the door when Justin remembers our books. Food is obviously first priority.
We exit the diner along with everyone else, jogging across the street to gain a better view of the building and the black smoke rising high into the air. It’s kind of unbelievable we didn’t have a clue what was happening, sitting and eating like everything was a-okay. All the while, an inferno had taken off. Sirens echo down the street, followed by horns bellowing. I glance at Justin and see him shoving a couple of fries into his mouth, eyes fixated on the scene before us. I had forgotten about the drinks in my hands, suddenly aware of them again.
“You really are bad luck,” I say, incredulous. “I guess that’s a night.”
Justin looks down at me, swallowing his last bit of food. “Is your car at the diner?”
“No, I rode with Kaley to school this morning. I can walk home from here.”
He draws his eyebrows together as he looks down the block. “That’s a long walk.”
“I walk it all the time. I’ll be fine.”
He leans over and drinks out of one of the cups in my hand. I’m unsure as to whose is whose at this point, but I doubt he cares.
“I’ll walk you,” he declares after finishing.
“That’s dumb. You’re going to have to walk all the way back.”
My words get muffled by the sound of the fire trucks and ambulances pulling to a stop in front of us. Justin tosses the now empty basket of fries into a nearby trashcan and pulls me along after him in the direction of my house. I don’t attempt to argue until it’s quiet enough to be heard. We walk almost the entire length of the block before he speaks.
“I live in the apartments across from the university. I’ll take a cab back.”
“And then you’re paying for a cab, also dumb.”
He takes another bite of his burger. “I didn’t have to pay for dinner. Cancels itself out.” At the next cross section, we finish off what’s left of our food. We’re about to cross the crosswalk when a haggler approaches us, dressed in the same Batman shirt I’ve seen him wearing for the past two years.
“Come on, I’ve told you, you can’t pretend to be Batman and ask for money.”
He smiles. “How else do you think Bruce Wayne got his money?”
“Not panhandling, I can guarantee you.” I’m already pulling open the zipper of my backpack, digging for the stray dollars I save for the vending machines at school.
Justin bends and whispers in my ear. “Do you know this guy?”
“Not really,” I say. “I don’t even know his name.”
The man replies, “Yes, you do. It’s Bruce Wayne.”
“Actually,” Justin says. “Bruce Wayne’s fortune came from family money.”
Batman narrows his eyes and throws a thumb in Justin's direction. “Who’s this kid?”
I hand him a couple of one-dollar bills and pat him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you next week, Bruce.”
He smiles, showing his lack of teeth. “Tell your brother I could use some more socks.”
“He told me to tell you he’s dropping off a box at the shelter on Monday.”
“Good man, there.”
“It’s almost curfew. You don’t want to be last in for top bunk,” I respond. He mumbles something under his breath, shuffling away. “He’s hard on newcomers.”
“New to where? This intersection?”
“The shelter is about a block that way,” I say, pointing down the street. “We’ve been donating there for a few years now. Usually only residents come through here.”
We walk a few paces before he replies. “It’s strange how protective your brother is, yet he lets you wander around sketchy neighborhoods by yourself.”
His words come off all knowing and judge-y, and it irritates me.
“My brother doesn’t
let
me do anything. I am my own person.”
Justin is surprised by my backlash. “I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. It’s just that I’ve noticed you frequent some rough areas, and you’re best friends with a homeless guy who won’t tell you his real name.”
“I’m also walking home with someone following me without my permission,” I throw back.
He laughs. “But you know I'm not going to hurt you.”
Do I?
“Look,” he says, stopping mid step. He turns me toward him, his hands resting on my upper arms. “At least let me show you some self-defense moves.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? You don't think my brother’s covered the basics with me already? I learned how to throw a punch when I was like twelve. You saw it for yourself.”
“I saw you sloppily throw a punch. You’re lucky he was drunk. He wasn’t that hard of a target.”
“Bullshit. It was good and you know it.”
“Okay,” he says, taking a step back. “Show me what you got.”
“I'm not going to hit you.”
“Don't worry.” He smiles. “You won't.”
I wrack my brain, trying to recall a hazy memory of Kip teaching me stance. But then I think,
Fuck it,
and swing. Or stumble. Justin catches me around my waist as my step hits the curb, turning me around and placing me back on my feet.
“Stop laughing,” I say, embarrassed.
He wraps his forearm around my waist, his chest pressed to my back, and I feel the rumble of his laughter.
“I'm sorry,” he says, trying to speak trough his hysterics.
I struggle, trying to break free.
“I quit,” I say, marching in the direction of my house.
“No, no,” Justin says, pulling me back by my hand. “I'm sorry. No more laughing.” He crosses his chest with a finger. “Promise.”
I grumble but give in. “I’m not in the right mindset,” I say in defense.
“Did you have this much coordination when you were twelve?”
Maybe he can sense the amount of patience I'm working with because he straightens his features.
“No laughing,” he reiterates.
When I relax, his smile reappears.
“Okay,” he says, standing alongside me. “Position your feet farther apart like this.” He waits for me to mirror him before continuing. “Your fist is good, but when you throw, throw across your body.”
“But you're taller than me. How do I aim across if your face is an entire foot above me?”
“That's the largest misconception. People thinking hitting someone in the face draws the most damage, but really all it does is piss someone off. Aim for the throat.” He taps right above his Adam’s apple, effectively distracting me. “It's the most vulnerable and no one sees it coming.”
I wonder if his stubble tickles when—
“Lilly,” Justin says. His eyes are hooded. It's the same look he gave me at lunch, except this time he's a little less unsure of it.
“Yes?”
He swallows, positioning himself in front of me. “Get your stance right and follow through with your body.”
I focus on that specific point on his throat, which surprisingly helps, considering my attraction comes with weird, violent thoughts toward him, and I swing. Not so bad this time. I manage to get close to my target without nearly killing myself, but he deflects easily.
“Pull your momentum in with your hips.”
“My hips,” I repeat, confused.
“Like this,” he says, placing his hands on either side of me. “When you swing, turn your body with the throw.”
There's a small part between his lips as he looks down. I lied. It's not his neck I want to taste, it's his mouth.
I want him to kiss me.
The feel of his hands burns through my clothes, kicking my heart rate up a few notches. His mouth falls open a little farther, his tongue barely touching the top of his bottom lip. His grip on my hips tightens, and I feel like he's fastening me, like I need him to be my anchor. After what feels like an eternity of waiting for him to move, I find the courage to look from his mouth. He's focused on my lips, completely zoned in on them. Instinctively, I wet mine, wondering if he's going to act on it, to show me I'm not the only one wanting this.
The action snaps him away. Closing his mouth, he drops his hands from my waist. The uncertainty that was missing from his gaze earlier is back full force this time, no mistaking the conflict in them. He backs up a few paces, putting distance between us.
“Um,” he says, clearing his throat. “Want to try one last time?”
I swallow, gathering my emotions. I can't pinpoint exactly what I'm feeling, but I'd say disappointment and confusion are high up there, followed shortly by embarrassment.
“Sure.”
He doesn't look at me when I swing, getting everything right, but without enough force. He blocks me but still compliments me on my form. This is the first time things have been this awkward between us. It's silent, too late in the night for traffic, and the bustle at Chuck's is too far behind us to be heard. His movements draw my attention from the corner of my eye as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He opens it and slips one into his mouth, the act completely habitual, something only achieved through repetition. He lights it, sucks in a deep breath of smoke, and releases.