Courtney Summers - Defy the Dark

I look up at him, daring to meet his eyes for the first time.

It’s him—the guy from the first night—the one with his glass raised high as though he hadn’t a care in the world. As if being a Nature was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him. I look away as if his gaze might burn my eyes. Maybe it would. It practically shines with life and vitality.

Or it did—right now he looks almost as nervous as I do.

I drop to my knees and start picking up pieces of cookie. “I’m so sorry. I was just looking for a quiet room to read and . . . and the lock, well, obviously—” I’m rambling. “I’ll get out of your way. Right now.” I look at the floor, my long brown hair falling around my face as I try not to look at him, red heat creeping up my neck. Maybe I can get away before it reaches my face.

“It’s okay.”

His voice is butterscotch.

“I was doing the same thing.”

I pause and look up at him skeptically. “Reading?” The adrenaline pumping through me makes the question pop out with more disbelief than I intended.

I hear him swallow hard, and he looks away toward the window, where I can see the inky black sky and pinpricks of starlight. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he says, and there’s a quiver at the edge of his voice.

Guilt surges through me and I mutter what’s supposed to be an apology but is really only a mishmash of random syllables. The pieces of snickerdoodles are back on my plate and there’s nothing I can do about the crumbs, much less the oily butter stains. “I’ll go now,” I murmur, my head still down. At the last second I say again, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay!” the boy snaps, then sighs and runs his fingers through his honey-colored curls, which bounce back like feather-soft springs. “ I’m sorry,” he says, the toe of one foot blocking the door. “You’re new. I’m Jeremy.”

He lets the introduction hang, an unspoken invitation.

My heart is beating wildly and I can’t say exactly why. After a moment Jeremy reaches out his hand, palm down. I have to tuck my bottle of juice under my arm to free up my hand, but years of social niceties, honed to instinct, have me doing just that before I can even think. My cold hand slides into his warm one.

“Kylie,” I whisper before I flee.

Jeremy is everywhere.

Raising his glass in toast after toast, walking trays of food around to all of the near-due mothers to make sure they’re “getting enough for you both,” flirting in the hallways.

Flirting in the bedrooms.

Flirting in the cafeteria, on the streets, in front of the Nature Building.

For two weeks I stand in the shadows and watch. Everyone knows him. Everyone likes him.

Everyone wants him.

Not me.

Not me.

I slap down the bread dough.

Not me. He disgusts me.

Slap .

The chime above the front door rings, and I lock gazes with a set of equally shocked blue eyes.

They remind me of a swimming pool. So light they’re almost clear, but still with that aqua hue that makes them unmistakably blue. They’re wide in surprise, mirroring my own but, unlike mine, are lined with light lashes—almost blond—that curl ever so slightly at the ends.

Something is warm on my feet, and every inch of my skin flushes red when I realize I’ve dropped an entire pile of half-kneaded dough onto my shoes. I crouch so quickly, I suspect it looks like I fell. Because the klutz who just dropped eight pounds of bread dough would, obviously, also trip on it.

“Marie!” My voice is shaking; I shouldn’t be so embarrassed—it’s just bread dough—but the moment feels oddly tragic.

Marie hurries forward, giving me a brief questioning glance, but not stopping to speak to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I slip out of my shoes and try to get as much of the dough off as possible. I don’t think they’re a completely lost cause. But I’m glad I’m due for a new pair next month.

“Kylie,” Marie says, lowering her body so we’re eye to eye. I want to look up and see if Jeremy is still there, but I don’t dare. “This young man is here to speak to you. I’ll take care of this.”

Me?

Oh no.

Not only am I going to have to look at him, I’m going to have to try to create coherent sentences.

I pad over to the counter in my stocking feet. In his defense, Jeremy isn’t smiling. Not that he’s scowling. I guess there’s a pleasant sort of turning up at the edges of his mouth, but he’s not smiling in the way that really means laughing. At me.

I don’t move. I don’t look at him. I say nothing.

“Kylie?”

He says my name like a question; I have to look up at him. I would rather heft a full-stuffed sheet cake from the hot ovens than lift my chin three inches.

But I do. I have to.

“There you are.” And now he smiles.

My face flushes even hotter and I try to look down again, but a finger on my chin stops me. “Don’t—”

It seems like the move should be seductive, a calculated finger on my face meant to flutter and excite. But something about the way his voice cuts off makes me think, somehow, that he’s feeling as awkward as I am. The curiosity of that thought makes my eyelids rise—my eyes peer up to meet his.

And I see fear.

Why fear? I’m not someone to be afraid of.

“I—I have to admit I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I work here,” I say flatly. He flinches as though I’ve struck him and I don’t know why that was the wrong thing to say. But it was.

He laughs with a nervous, tinny tone and runs his fingers through his hair. He’s had a trim since I last watched him do that, but the curls are still silky, and instead of frizzing like most people’s curls, they simply fall back against his head, soft and bouncy. “Yes, but—I didn’t know,” he says as if that were some kind of an answer.

Silence.

It stretches between us like sticky taffy, equally fragile, and I wait for it to break.

“I came to buy you something.”

“At my job?”

“I didn’t know —” That snappy tone again. Like there’s a hot temper always bubbling just beneath a thin glass exterior. “I didn’t know it was your job. I wanted to get you some kind of dessert. Something special. Since I made you break your snickerdoodles,” he says, and by the time he reaches the last word I can barely hear him, his voice has grown so soft.

The taffy silence again, and dimly I realize Marie has gone to the back room and Jeremy and I are alone.

My turn.

But my mouth refuses to speak. It’s dry and crumbly, like the flour.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Jeremy says, and glances at me.

It wasn’t a statement, but a question. Is this a bad idea?

Is it? “Butterscotch,” I blurt, way too loud. My voice fills the small space, echoing off the walls.

“Butterscotch?” he echoes.

“Butterscotch cookies. The ones with butterscotch chips, I mean—the big ones dipped halfway into white chocolate,” I say, inclining my head to the case full of delicate pastries. “They’re my favorite.”

He drifts over to the case. As if in a mirror, I scoot as well, matching him on the other side of the counter.

“These ones?” He points.

I nod, my mouth too dry to speak.

“I’ll take one,” he says, digging into his pocket. “Gift-wrapped, please. With a ribbon, if I could.”

“Of course,” I say in my cheeriest we-have-a-customer voice. This is definitely the strangest thing I’ve ever done. When I’m finished wrapping the box with a ruby-red ribbon—also my favorite—I set it on the counter.

“How much?” he asks, digging into his pocket.