He pauses, his focus completely on me.
Damn it.
I can’t believe I gave in. I can’t believe Itoldhim.
The first true thing in all of this.
Itismy birthday.
That’sthe occasion.
That’s why when I couldn’t sleep, I decided to put on my birthday dress and take a midnight stroll.
“Your birthday.”
Sighing, I continue, “Yes.” My eyes go to his arm that’s still in its position, at his back, quite possibly in his pocket. “And you can’t do whatever it is you were going to.”
“How old are you today?”
I draw back. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Fifteen?”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Nah,” he muses, his eyes searching my face, “fourteen, yeah?”
“I told you what you wanted to know. Now can you bring your arm up front please?”
“Jesus Christ, don’t tell me you’re thirteen,” he keeps guessing, emphasizing ‘thirteen.’
“What, why?”
“Because that would make you too young.”
“For what?” I’m so confused right now but I don’t care about that. I only care about his hand at his back. “Listen, you promised, okay? You promised that you wouldn’t ruin the party if I told you what you wanted to know and I did. And a promise is a promise. A promise is an oath. It’s a pledge; it’s a word of honor. It’s a covenant, commitment, contract and a vow. It’s afreaking bond.”
I do realize that I could probably not have gone this crazy with rattling off all the synonyms.
But then I’m stressed out. He’s stressing me out. And when I’m stressed out, I find solace — also known as comfort, consolation and relief — in language and words.
“I didn’t know that a promise could be so many things,” he says, quietly for some reason, his eyes becoming serious.
“It could be because…” I take a moment to catch my breath. “Synonyms.”
“Synonyms.”
“Yes.”
“What about them?”
Another moment to breathe. “I like them. I like synonyms. And, uh, words. I’m a logophile.”
“What’s a logophile?”
“It’s what you call someone when they love words in general.”
He keeps staring at me and staring at me and I open my mouth to tell him to stop when he speaks. “Tell me you’re not thirteen.”