“What are you staring at?” he asks me at one point, and I point up ahead of us, to where a gaggle of boys have crowded around, three of them with kites in the air, racing apparently.
“I’m jealous,” I say, joking, but it comes out a little more sincere than I mean for it to.
“Of the kite fliers?” He lifts an eyebrow, studying me.
My cheeks flush red. “No. Of the kites.” When he stares, I shrug my shoulders, even more embarrassed. “They just look so free, you know? Up in the sky. No strings attached—well, okay. One string attached. But I guess you need something to keep you a little grounded, or else you fly away.”
I clamp my mouth shut. I almost said you fly away from home. I’m giving too much of myself away. I shouldn’t be here, not with him. And I definitely shouldn’t be talking like this.
“Hey.” Ankor tugs on my hand, and when I look over, I realize we’ve stopped walking. He places his hands on my shoulders. I hate it, but it’s clear he’s noticed my sudden anxiety. “It’s okay, Sinclair,” he murmurs.
It’s not okay, I think. It’ll never be okay.
As if reading my mind, he cracks a small grin. “Well, all right, that’s a lie. The world is a pretty fucked up place. But look.” He gestures at the beach around us. “We’re in paradise. We’re allowed to forget about the past for a little while.”
My throat feels dry and tense. I hate how easily he sees through me. How quickly he’s guessed exactly what it is I need so desperately to hide. But what am I supposed to do? Deny it? That would only make him press harder, ask more questions. So I force a smile and nudge his arm. “Too right. I’m being a downer. Let’s just enjoy this slice of paradise.”
“I have an idea,” he says. My nerves are still jangling, on edge from the close call, when he leads me back to some cliffs on the far end of the beach. There are a few vendors there, some selling ice cream or sandwiches, others selling handmade goods. Flowing sundresses, cute bikinis, sunscreen. I think he’s going for the ice cream, but instead he leads me to a vendor on the end, with a stack of kites behind him.
I burst into laughter. “You’re kidding.”
“You were jealous.” He catches my eye with a grin. “Better this than having you attack one of those small boys on the beach to steal his kite instead, I figure.”
I roll my eyes and elbow him. “I would never attack anyone,” I protest.
He shrugs and pays the vendor for the kite anyway, before passing it to me. He chose a red kite, with a long tail. “I don’t know. You seem pretty dangerous to me.”
“What about me screams danger?” I gesture down at myself, catching his eye, expecting him to laugh.
But his expression has gone serious now, his gaze fixed directly on mine. “Everything,” he murmurs, and suddenly, I get the feeling I’m not the only one who’s worried about saying too much.
He turns away without another word, and I have to jog to catch up to him before he finishes unfurling the kite. “You first,” he says, handing the string to me, and I know he’s changing the topic, but I can’t blame him. After all, I did the same thing earlier.
So, I try to do what he suggested. I try, for the next few hours, to just be here in paradise, having fun, and forgetting about the past. Forgetting about the whole world of hurt behind it.
We manage, for a few hours. The kite flying is pretty fun. And afterward, Ankor buys us both the ice cream I thought he was going for originally. We eat it in the shade of some palm trees, laughing over some teenagers trying and failing to surf in the distance. The sun is setting, and we have a perfect view. I lean against him, resting my head on his shoulder, content.
His hand traces my back in slow circles, and my eyelids drift shut. I could get used to this. I could get used to him.
But then his hand stills. “What’s this?” he asks, his voice low, conversational. Not worried or concerned at all.
But I can feel where his finger is, and I know what he’s feeling. My throat closes up, suddenly, panic taking over. He hasn’t noticed though, not yet. I feel him lean back to look, and without glancing over my shoulder, I already know what he sees.
The scar that snakes down my right shoulder, a couple inches long, jagged around the edges, because I never bothered to go to a hospital and get it treated properly. I couldn’t.
“It’s old,” I say, as if he can’t tell that already. “I hate it. I was planning to get a tattoo to cover it up, but… couldn’t decide what I wanted, so…”