by Aiden Thomas
Wendy pointed up the stairs and poked the middle of his back, urging him forward. Peter led the way up and, when they got to the second floor landing, he made to open the door to her and her brothers’ old room.
“Not that one,” Wendy said quietly, gently catching his elbow. She nodded her head to the right. “My room is over here now.”
Realization shadowed Peter’s features. His eyes went to the doorknob for a moment before he nodded.
Wendy opened her door and was immediately glad that she had cleaned it up last night. The fairy lights cast a warm glow over everything. Peter walked to the center of the room and turned in a slow circle. Wendy closed the door behind him and stood there, tucking her hair behind her ears, watching as he looked around.
Other than Jordan, she had never had anyone in her room after her brothers went missing. It was the singular place in this world that was hers. The only place she could hide and feel at home. And now, there Peter stood, in the middle of all her things. Somehow, he stood out and fit in at the same time.
Peter moved to her dresser, his long fingers brushing against the spines of her books. “Is your mom okay?” he suddenly asked.
“What do you mean?” Wendy said, distracted as she tried to remember if she had put her bra in the hamper last night, or was it still hanging on the towel rack?
“She looked…” He paused. “Sad.”
“Oh.” Wendy nudged a badly written romance novel under her bed with the toe of her shoe. “She’s been working a lot,” she told him. “And, obviously, the missing kids have been weighing on her. My dad, too. I don’t think she’s been sleeping very much…” Wendy thought back to when she had listened outside her mother’s door and heard her talking in her sleep. “I think she’s been having bad dreams.” Wendy crossed her arms. Her thumb rubbed against her elbow. “Sometimes I can hear her talking to John and Michael in her sleep.”
Peter stared down at his hands. His expression was … mournful.
Wendy wondered if he still pictured her mother as the little girl he’d gone on adventures with. She found herself wishing she’d known her back then.
“I don’t like seeing people in pain,” Peter finally said. There was a strange edge to his voice, almost an urgency, like he was trying to make her understand something very important.
But of course he didn’t like seeing people in pain. She knew that. When children were lost and alone, Peter was the one to find them and take care of them. He was the one who took their fear away. The nature of him was to stop people’s pain and suffering. So of course he couldn’t stand seeing her mother like this. Maybe as much as Wendy.
Wendy didn’t know what to say, and Peter didn’t elaborate further. He just stood in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back again, shifting his weight between his feet. The time between leaving the clearing and now was the quietest she had ever seen him. It wasn’t normal for him, but then again, nothing about any of this was particularly “normal.”
“Do you want to take a shower or something?” Wendy suggested. “I have my own bathroom, and you’re kind of a mess.” Peter looked down at himself. His clothes were covered in dirt, as were his legs and arms. There was a dark smear on his cheek, debris from the woods stuck in his hair, and spots on his shirt from where her tears had landed. At least the swelling of his lip had gone down, but there was still that small cut. “I can throw your clothes in the laundry and give you an old shirt. I, uh, probably have a pair of gym shorts that would fit you?” she offered.
Peter narrowed his eyes at her. A grin twitched at the corners of his lips. “Are you trying to tell me I stink?” he asked, his humor starting to come back.
Wendy nodded, unable to keep herself from smiling. “A bit, yes.” Wendy cleared her throat and moved to her dresser. She dug out an oversized shirt along with a pair of gym shorts her mom had bought her that were too big to be practical. Wendy handed them to Peter and showed him into the bathroom. “Give me your dirty clothes when you’ve got them off,” Wendy said through the door once he was inside.
She pressed her palm to her temple and huffed out a breath.
This was weird. This was very weird. She jumped when the door cracked open and Peter’s arm reached through, dropping the ratty clothes into her arms.
Peter looked through the crack of the door. She could see his bare arm and chest. “Be careful with those,” he told her in mock seriousness. “They’re very delicate.”
Wendy rolled her eyes. “You’re not funny,” she told him.
Peter laughed. His toothy grin peeked around the edge of the door before he closed it. She was about to walk away when he asked, “Wait, how do I turn this thing on?”
Wendy tried not to laugh. “Turn the knob,” she told him. She heard the water turn on. “Oh, and don’t—”
Peter yelped.
“—turn it all the way to hot,” she finished. She pressed her hand to her mouth as laughter bubbled.
“Right, got it!”
She heard the shower curtains slide shut. Wendy was left by herself, standing in her room, holding Peter’s clothes. And Peter was here, in her room. In her shower, using her spare towel, and she was holding his clothes.
Peter Pan was in her shower and was going to stay the night in her room.
And he was naked.
Wendy’s face burned red hot. No, she would not start thinking—absolutely not. She tried to will her face to cool down. Nope. Not okay.
Wendy hurried out of the room and went downstairs.
Her mother wasn’t on the couch anymore. The TV was off and the room silent. It was a small comfort to know her mother must have gone to bed. She needed to sleep, not spend the night on the cramped couch with the news looming over her.
Wendy went into the kitchen and to the small side room where the washing machine and dryer were kept. She threw in Peter’s clothes and added a generous amount of detergent. Next, she raided the fridge and loaded her arms up with whatever she could find: an array of leftover Chinese food, two apples, and an orange. She doubted Peter would mind. What had he even been eating in the woods, anyway? That was probably a question better left unanswered.
When she went back upstairs, she dropped the food and some paper towels onto her bed. Now that there was food in front of her, she realized how starved she was, so Wendy dove into the cold noodles. She ate so much so fast, she quickly gave herself a stomachache. Brushing off her hands, Wendy stood up, staring down at her bed for a moment.
Where was Peter going to sleep?
She blinked. It wasn’t like he was going to sleep in her bed with her. No. Certainly not. The closet wasn’t big enough, nor under her bed. She wouldn’t make him sleep in the bathroom, even though it was less likely that her parents would walk in on him if he were curled up in the tub. He was too tall to fit, and her parents never barged into her room, anyway. Her mother always knocked lightly on the door, and her dad just yelled at her from downstairs if he wanted her.
The floor seemed like the best option—on the side of her bed farthest from the door, just in case.
The shower water turned off. Wendy angled herself away from the bathroom door and hurried over to the closet. She reached up to the shelf and took down her sleeping bag. It hadn’t been used in a month, but it still smelled like campfire smoke. Wendy rolled it out on the floor and was smoothing out the slick material when the bathroom door opened.
“I set my sleeping bag up for you.” She stood and turned to face Peter. “And I’ve got—” Wendy’s hands flew up to cover her open mouth. “Oh my god.”
Peter stood in the doorway, his hair wet and pushed back out of his face. He was scowling at her, lips pursed tight. On Wendy, the gray T-shirt with the purple fish on the front was too baggy for her to wear out in public. But it clung tightly to Peter’s shoulders, the fish taut and distorted over his chest. It was hardly long enough to cover his stomach. Then, there was the matter of the gym shorts. While they were technically big enough to fit hi
s legs, they only covered about the top third of his thighs. Clearly he didn’t have the same proportions as her.
“How did you even get the shirt on?” Wendy asked, voice breaking from suppressed laughter. She clamped her hands tighter over her mouth as her shoulders started to shake.
Red bloomed on Peter’s cheeks. He threw his wet towel at her head. “Do you really not have anything bigger than this?” he asked, tugging uncomfortably at the collar of the shirt.
Wendy shook her head, fingertips pressed to her bottom lip. “I’m so sorry, that’s all I’ve got,” she told him. Her cheeks hurt from the smile on her face.
“I hope you realize how embarrassing this is,” Peter said flatly. He crossed his arms over the sliver of skin that peeked out from below the shirt.
“It’s just—” She cleared her throat and tried to regain her composure. “It’s just until the morning,” she reminded him. She couldn’t help looking him up and down once more.
The giggles started again.
“Stop that!” Peter scolded, trying to sound stern, but now he was starting to laugh, too.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it!” Wendy said before covering her mouth again. She needed to be quiet or else she’d wake up her mother. “Ugh, okay,” she said, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes. “I grabbed some food.” She gestured to the assortment on the bed. “Help yourself. I’m going to … clean myself up.” Uncertainty started to creep up her spine again. Chewing on her bottom lip, she eyed Peter as he plopped down on her bed. He crossed his legs and immediately started opening the Chinese food containers.
Wendy grabbed some pajamas from her drawer and shut herself in the bathroom. She peeled off her clothes, which were sticky with stale sweat.
As she stepped into the shower, there was already a layer of dirt settled in the bottom of the tub. Peter must have been filthier than she’d thought. Wendy turned up the heat as high as she could stand. The water rushed down her body, taking the remnants of the woods along with it. She leaned her forehead against the cool tile and took a deep breath, letting the water wash along her neck and across her parted lips. The rhythmic pounding against her skin was comforting. Her muscles ached and burned, especially across her shoulders. She was thorough in scrubbing herself clean. She shampooed her hair twice. When she was done she stepped out of the water and pulled a dry towel from the rack. She rubbed it through her hair before wrapping it tightly around her body. The knots and tangles in her short hair were stubborn, but the conditioner and some rough handling with a brush smoothed it out.
Wendy dug through the pile of pajamas she had haphazardly grabbed and picked out a nightshirt and cotton shorts. She used the damp towel to wipe the fog from the mirror. She stared at her smudgy reflection, focusing on her exposed legs.
Peter was just on the other side of the door, and they were going to be sleeping in the same room.
Her heart was beating fast, but not the jarring pound in her temples like when she was in the woods. This was a light flutter at the base of her throat. She did her best to swallow it down. Woman up, Wendy Darling, she chided herself before stepping into her bedroom.
Peter was on her bed next to an empty container of cold chicken chow mein. He was lying on his side, his cheek pressed against her pillow as he hugged it to him. His nose was tucked into his shoulder, his eyes closed, his lashes splayed against his freckled cheeks. One of his legs was bent and one foot hung off the side of the mattress. The curve of his back was relaxed and languid.
Quietly, Wendy stepped farther into the room. Had he already fallen asleep?
It was so strange to have him there. Peter Pan—her Peter—was in her world, in her room, on her bed. The boy she’d daydreamed about as a little girl. A boy who was supposed to be just make-believe, a creation of her mother’s imagination, only real in her stories. But he was real. A little worse for wear, and older, and he was here, with her.
Careful not to jostle him, Wendy knelt down next to the bed. Her chin rested atop her hands on the edge of the mattress. She would never get this close to him when he was awake. A thrill ran up her spine, like she was taking something she wasn’t even supposed to touch.
Warmth bloomed from her chest, where her acorn hung. His back rose and fell slowly with his breaths. That same crease was between his eyebrows, the one that never quite seemed to leave, a mark of the weight he balanced on his shoulders. She lifted her hand, but hesitated and bit her bottom lip. She wanted to feel the softness of his hair, to touch the warmth of his skin. Peter looked how summer felt.
“You have no idea how amazing this feels,” Peter mumbled into his shoulder. His eyes opened and the sudden closeness of those astonishing eyes made her spring back.
Tripping over her own feet, Wendy struggled for a moment before popping back upright. “What?” she breathed, her hand hurriedly running through her damp hair.
Peter pushed himself onto his elbow. For a moment, he lay there, looking up at her with a curious tilt of his head. “Your bed,” he finally clarified, a small shadow of a smile on his lips.
“Oh, yeah, it’s the mattress pad.” Wendy’s rushed words tumbled out of her mouth. She cleared her throat and took a step back. “You can sleep on the bed, if you want,” she offered suddenly. “I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”
Waving her off, Peter slid to the edge of the mattress. Wendy took two more steps away.
“No way, you sleep in your own bed,” he told her. He went to the floor and sprawled out on the sleeping bag. “That wouldn’t be very gallant of me,” he pointed out, arching his back and gripping at air as he stretched.
Wendy plucked a pillow from her bed and tossed it at him. “Since when are you gallant?” Wendy asked.
Peter caught it easily. “Your words wound me, Wendy Darling,” he said with a smirk before tucking the pillow behind his head and flopping onto his back.
Wendy laughed—a nervous, shaky thing. Gathering up the remaining food, she moved it onto the bedside table.
“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Peter asked, peeking at her from the other side of the bed.
“I already scarfed down half the chow mein,” she told him. But she did reach out for the orange and peeled it as he devoured the Chinese food. She split it in two and tossed Peter one half, which he easily caught out of the air. Wendy ate the slices and reveled in the sweet, cool juices of the orange.
When she was finished, Wendy crawled into her bed and curled up in a ball on her side, close enough to the edge that she could still see Peter. Her bed smelled like him: grass, honeysuckle, and earth woven into the soft threads of her pillow. She breathed it in. She breathed it out.
Peter tucked his hands behind his head, the motion pulling up the hem of his ill-fitting shirt. He heaved a deep sigh as he closed his eyes.
“Peter?” Wendy said quietly.
He opened one eye and tilted his head to look up at her. “Mm?” he hummed.
She wasn’t sure how to phrase her question. “Are you— Do you think the shadow is going to come for you again?” she asked. “Are you any safer here? With me?”
Peter frowned as if he hadn’t considered it. “I’m not sure,” he confessed with a shrug.
Wendy’s fingers brushed against the acorn where it hung at the center of her chest.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Peter added earnestly.
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” she told him. She needed to keep Peter safe. If the shadow showed up, would she be able to protect him? The uncertainty did little to soothe her already frayed nerves. “Will you wake me up if anything happens?” she asked.
“You’ll be the first to know,” Peter told her with a nod.
Wendy reached out and clicked off her fairy lights, plunging the room into darkness. She never slept with them off, but she didn’t want Peter to think she was a child who couldn’t sleep without a nightlight. Wendy pulled the covers over her. The weight of them felt reassuring, but almost immedi
ately she got too hot. Summer was no time to be hiding under a down comforter. She pushed it off. Wendy closed her eyes and tried to force herself to fall asleep, but her imagination wouldn’t let her. She rolled onto her other side. Every noise outside startled her and every shadow in her room seemed to shift.
Every nerve in her body was tense and screaming. She couldn’t relax. There was no way she could fall asleep.
Wendy’s hand shot out and clicked the fairy lights back on.
Peter was already watching.
“Sorry, I … can’t,” Wendy muttered. Shame sweltered on her skin. She felt like she needed to explain herself to him. “I—”
“It’s okay,” was all Peter said. His voice was gentle, which only made her feel more pathetic.
Wendy rolled onto her back and tried to will herself to sleep, but her mind wandered to the woods.
The gentle chirping of crickets drifted to her ears. She looked over at Peter. His eyes were closed, arms still tucked lazily behind his head, but his mouth was pressed into a small circle. Delicate cricket chirps flowed past his lips. Wendy blinked slowly, admiring the warm glow of the fairy lights on his skin. The slight dip in his throat. The trail of freckles down his bare arms. Wendy’s eyes slid shut. She drifted off with Peter’s cricket song and his smell enveloping her, lulling her to sleep with thoughts of Neverland.
CHAPTER 18
Pain
Wendy didn’t know how long she had been asleep, or what had woken her up. The fairy lights stood watch over her head and a soft breeze floated in through her window. Everything was dark and silent as it only was in the dead of night. There were no sounds drifting in from outside and no crickets chirping. Wendy rolled onto her side, searching for Peter, but she found only the abandoned sleeping bag and pillow.
Quickly, she sat up and looked around the room. “Peter?” she whispered into the room, but it was empty.
Through the haze of sleep, a thought occurred to her: What if the shadow had taken him? What if it had gotten into her room and did something to Peter while she was asleep? Wendy’s fists squeezed her rumpled sheets.
