Silas closes his eyes and tilts his head back. “You have no idea how many times a day I think about invading your body.”
I don’t intend to laugh as hard as I do, but I trip over my own feet and Silas reaches down to catch me. We’re both laughing as he rights me on my feet and rubs his hands up and down my arms.
I look away. I’m tired of liking him. I only have a day and a half worth of memories, but they’re all filled with me not hating Silas. And now he’s made it his personal mission to make me love him again. It’s annoying that I like it.
“Go away,” I say.
He raises his hands in surrender and takes a step back. “This far?”
“Farther.”
Another step. “Better?”
“Yes,” I smart.
Silas grins. “I don’t know myself well, but I can tell I have a lot of game.”
“Oh, please,” I say. “If you were a game, Silas, you’d be Monopoly. You just go on and on and everyone ends up cheating just to be over with it.”
He’s quiet for a minute. I feel bad for saying something so awkward even if it was a joke.
“You’re probably right,” he laughs. “That’s why you cheated on me with that asshat, Brian. Lucky for you, I’m not Monopoly Silas anymore. I’m Tetris Silas. All my pieces and parts are going to fit into all of your pieces and parts.”
I snort. “And the guidance counselor’s, apparently.”
“Low blow, Charlie,” he says, shaking his head.
I wait a few seconds, chewing on my lip. Then I say, “I don’t think I want you to call me that.”
Silas turns to look at me. “Charlie?”
“Yeah,” I look over at him. “Is that weird? I don’t feel like I’m her. I don’t even know her. It just doesn’t feel like my name.”
He nods as we walk toward his car. “So, I get to rename you?”
“Until we figure all this out…yeah.”
“Poppy,” he says.
“No.”
“Lucy.”
“Hell no, what’s wrong with you?”
He opens the passenger side door to his Rover and I climb in.
“Okay…okay. I can see you don’t like traditionally cute names. We can try for something tougher.” He walks around to the driver side and climbs in. “Xena…”
“No.”
“Rogue.”
“Ugh. No.”
We go back and forth like this until Silas’s GPS tells us that we’ve arrived. I look around, surprised that I was too engaged with him to notice the drive here. When I look down at my phone I see that Brian has texted me six times. I don’t want to deal with him right now. I shove my phone and wallet under the seat, out of view.
“Where are we?”
“Bourbon Street,” he says. “Most happening place in New Orleans.”
“How do you know that?” I ask suspiciously.
“I Googled it.” We stare at each other over the hood, and then both shut our doors at the same time.
“How did you know what Google was?”
“I thought that’s what we’re supposed to be figuring out together.” We meet at the front of the car.
“I think we’re aliens,” I say. “That’s why we don’t have any of Charlie and Silas’s memories. But we remember things like Google and Tetris because of the computer chips in our brains.”
“So, can I rename you Alien?”
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I send the back of my hand into his chest. “Focus, Silas!”
He uumphs, and then I’m pointing straight ahead. “What’s that?” I walk ahead of him.
It’s a building, castle-like in structure, and white. There are three spires jutting up toward the sky.
“Looks like a church,” he says, taking out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a picture…in case we forget again. I figure we should document what’s happening and where we go.”
I’m quiet as I think about what he said. It’s a really good idea. “That’s where we should go, right? Churches help people…,” my voice trails off.
“Yes,” says Silas. “They help people, not aliens. And since we’re—”
I hit him again. I wish he would take this seriously. “What if we’re angels and we’re supposed to help someone, and we were given these bodies to fulfill our mission?”
He sighs. “Are you listening to yourself?”
We’ve reached the doors to the church, which are ironically locked. “Okay,” I say, spinning around. “What’s your suggestion for what’s happened to us? Did we boink our heads together and lose our memories? Or maybe we ate something that really messed us up!”I storm down the stairs.
“Hey! Hey!” he calls. “You’re not allowed to get mad at me. This is not my fault.” He runs down the stairs after me.
“How do we know that? We don’t know anything, Silas! This could be all your fault!”
We’re standing at the bottom of the stairs now, staring at each other. “Maybe it is,” he says. “But whatever I did, you did it too. Because in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the same boat.”
I clench and unclench my fists, take deep breaths, concentrate on staring at the church until my eyes water.
“Look,” Silas says, stepping closer. “I’m sorry for turning this into a joke. I want to figure it out as much as you do. What are some of your other ideas?”
I close my eyes. “Fairy tales,” I say, looking back up at him. “Someone is always cursed. To break the spell they have to figure something out about themselves…then…”
“Then what?”
I can tell he’s trying to take me seriously, but this somehow makes me angrier. “There’s a kiss...”
He grins. “A kiss, huh? I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
“Silas!”
“What? If I can’t remember, it doesn’t count!”
I fold my arms across my chest and watch a street musician pick up his violin. He remembers the first time he picked up a violin, the first notes he played, who gave it to him. I envy his memories.
“I’ll be serious, Charlie. I’m sorry.”
I look at Silas out of the corner of my eye. He looks genuinely sorry—hands shoved into his pockets, neck dropping like it’s suddenly too heavy.
“So, what do you think we need to do? Kiss?”
I shrug. “It’s worth a try, right?”
“You said in fairy tales they have to figure something out first…”
“Yeah. Like, Sleeping Beauty needed someone brave to kiss her and wake her from the sleeping curse. Snow White needed true love’s kiss to bring her back to life. Ariel needed to get Eric to kiss her to break the spell the sea witch put on her.”
He perks up. “Those are movies,” he says. “Do you remember watching them?”
“I don’t remember watching them, I just know I’ve seen them. Mr. Deetson spoke about fairy tales in English today. That’s where I got the idea.”
We start walking toward the street musician who is playing something slow and mournful.
“Sounds like the breaking of the curse is mostly up to the guy,” Silas says. “He needs to mean something to her.”
“Yeah…” My voice drops off as we stop to listen. I wish I knew the song he was playing. It sounds like something I’ve heard, but I have no name for it.
“There’s a girl,” I say softly. “I want to talk to her…I think maybe she knows something. A few people have referred to her as The Shrimp.”
Silas’s eyebrows draw together. “What do you mean? Who is she?”
“I don’t know. She’s in a couple of my classes. It’s just a feeling.”
We stand among a group of onlookers, and Silas reaches for my hand. For the first time, I don’t pull away from him. I let his warm fingers intertwine with mine. With his free hand, he takes a picture of the violinist, then he looks down at me. “So I can remember the first time I held your hand.”
We’ve walked two blocks and she hasn’t let go of my hand yet. I don’t know if it’s because she likes holding it, or if it’s because Bourbon Street is…well...
“Oh, God,” she says, turning toward me. She fists my shirt in her hand and presses her forehead against my arm. “That guy just flashed me,” she says, laughing into the sleeve of my shirt. “Silas, I just saw my first penis!”
I laugh as I continue steering her through the inebriated crowd of Bourbon Street. After walking a ways, she peeks up again. We’re now approaching an even larger group of belligerent men, all without shirts. In the place of shirts are mounds of beads draped around their necks. They’re all laughing and screaming at the people perched on the balconies above us. She squeezes my hand tighter until we’ve successfully navigated through them. She relaxes and puts more space between us.
“What’s with the beads?” she asks. “Why would anyone spend money on such tacky jewelry?”
“It’s part of the Mardi Gras tradition,” I tell her. “I read about it when I was researching Bourbon Street. It started as a celebration for the last Tuesday before Lent, but I guess it’s turned into a year-round thing.” I pull her against my side and point down to the sidewalk in front of her. She sidesteps around what looks like puke.
“I’m hungry,” she says.
I laugh. “Stepping over vomit made you hungry?”
“No, vomit made me think of food and food made my stomach growl. Feed me.” She points to a restaurant up the street. The sign is flashing in red neon. “Let’s go there.”
She steps ahead of me, still gripping my hand. I glance down at my phone and follow her lead. I have three missed calls. One from “Coach,” one from my brother, and one from “Mom.”
It’s the first time I’ve thought about my mother. I wonder what she’s like. I wonder why I haven’t met her yet.
My whole body crashes into the back of Charlie’s after she stops short to let a vehicle pass. Her hand flies up to the back of her head where my chin smashed against it. “Ouch,” she says, rubbing her head.
I rub my chin and watch from behind her as she pushes her hair forward, over her shoulder. My eyes fall to the tip of what appears to be a tattoo peeking out from the back of her shirt.
She begins walking again, but I grab her shoulder. “Wait,” I tell her. My fingers trail to the collar of her shirt and I pull it down a couple of inches. Right below the nape of her neck is a small silhouette of trees in black ink. I run my fingers over their outline. “You have a tattoo.”
Her hand flies to the spot I’m touching. “What?!” she shrieks. She spins around and looks up at me. “I do not.”
“You do.” I turn her back around and pull the shirt down again. “Here,” I say as I trace the trees again. This time I notice as chills break out on her neck. I follow the line of tiny bumps with my eyes, running over her shoulder and hiding beneath her shirt. I look back at the tattoo again, because her fingers are now attempting to feel what I’m feeling. I take two of them and press them against her skin. “A silhouette of trees,” I tell her. “Right here.”
“Trees?” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Why would I have trees?” She turns around. “I want to see it. Take a picture with your phone.”
I pull her shirt down enough so that she can see the entire tattoo, even though it’s no more than three inches wide. I brush her hair over her shoulder again, not for the sake of the picture, but because I’ve really been wanting to do that. I also reposition her hand so that it’s coming across the front of her body, draping over her shoulder.
“Silas,” she grumbles. “Just take the damn picture. This isn’t art class.”
I grin and wonder if I’m always like this—if I refuse to take a simple picture, knowing it only takes a little bit more effort to make it exceptional. I bring the phone up and snap the picture, then look at the screen, admiring how good the tattoo looks on her. She spins around and takes the phone from my hands.
She looks down at the picture and gasps. “Oh my God.”
“It’s a very nice tattoo,” I tell her. She hands me back my phone and rolls her eyes, walking again in the direction of the restaurant.
She can roll her eyes all she wants. It doesn’t change how she reacted to my fingers trailing across the back of her neck.
I watch her walk toward the restaurant, and realize that I have her figured out already. The more she likes me, the more closed off she becomes. The more sarcasm she inflicts on me. Vulnerability makes her feel weak, so she’s pretending to be tougher than she really is. I think the old Silas knew this about her, too. Which is why he loved her, because apparently he liked the game they played.
Apparently I do too, because once again, I’m following her.
We walk through the door of the restaurant and Charlie says, “Two people, booth please,” before the hostess even has a chance to ask. At least she said please.
“Right this way,” the woman says.
The restaurant is quiet and dark, a stark contrast to the noise and neon lights of Bourbon Street. We both breathe a collective sigh of relief once we’re seated. The waitress hands us our menus and takes our drink order. Every now and then, Charlie lifts a hand to the back of her neck as if she can feel the outline of the tattoo.
“What do you think it means?” she says, still staring at the menu in front of her.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe you liked forests?” I glance up at her. “These fairy tales you talked about. Did they all take place in forests? Maybe the man who needs to break your spell with a kiss is a strapping lumberjack, living in the woods.”
Her eyes meet mine and I can tell my jokes are aggravating her. Or maybe she’s aggravated because she thinks I’m funny. “Stop making fun of me,” she says. “We woke up without our memories at the exact same time, Silas. Nothing is more absurd than that. Even fairy tales with lumberjacks.”
I smile innocently and look down at my hand. “I have callouses,” I tell her, lifting my hand and pointing at the rough skin of my palm. “I could be your lumberjack.”
She rolls her eyes again, but laughs this time. “You probably have callouses from jerking off too much.”
I hold up my right hand. “But they’re on both hands, not just my left.”
“Ambidextrous,” she deadpans.
We both grin as our drinks are placed in front of us. “Ready to order?” the waitress asks.
Charlie quickly scans the menu and says, “I hate that we can’t remember what we like.” She looks up at the waitress. “I’ll take a grilled cheese,” she says. “It’s safe.”
“Burger and fries, no mayo,” I tell her. We hand her back our menus and I refocus on Charlie. “You aren’t eighteen yet. How could you get a tattoo?”
“Bourbon Street doesn’t seem to be a stickler for the rules,” she says. “I probably have a fake ID hidden somewhere.”
I open the search engine on my phone. “I’ll try to figure out what it means. I’ve gotten pretty good at this Google thing.” I spend the next few minutes searching every possible meaning of trees and forests and clusters of trees. Just when I think I’m on to something, she pulls my phone away and sets it on the table.
“Get up,” she says as she stands. “We’re going to the bathroom.” She grabs my hand and pulls me out of the booth.
“Together?”
She nods. “Yep.”
I look at the back of her head as she walks away from me, then back at the empty booth. What the…
“Come on,” she says over her shoulder.
I follow her to the hallway that leads to the restrooms. She pushes open the women’s and peeks inside, then pulls her head out. “It’s a single stall. It’s empty,” she says, holding the door open for me.
I pause and look at the men’s restroom, which looks perfectly fine, so I don’t know why she’s—
“Silas!” She grabs my arm and pulls me inside the restroom. Once we’re inside, I half expect her to wrap her arms ar
ound my neck and kiss me because…why else would we be in here together?
“Take off your shirt.”
I look down at my shirt.
I look back up at her. “Are we…are we about to make out? Because I didn’t picture it going down like this.”
She groans and reaches forward, pulling at the hem of my shirt. I help her pull it over my head when she says, “I want to see if you have any tattoos, dumbass.”
I deflate.
I feel like an eighteen-year-old who’s just been blue-balled. I guess I kind of am…
She turns me around and, when I face the mirror, she gasps. Her eyes are fixated on my back. My muscles tense beneath her touch as her fingertips meet my right shoulder blade. She traces a circle, spanning a radius of several inches. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to control my pulse. I suddenly feel drunker than everyone on Bourbon Street combined. I’m gripping the counter in front of me because her fingers…my skin.
“Jesus,” I groan, dropping my head between my shoulders. Focus, Silas.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, pausing her inspection of my tattoo. “It doesn’t hurt does it?”
I release a laugh, because her hands on me are the opposite of pain. “No, Charlie. It doesn’t hurt.”
My eyes meet hers in the mirror and she stares at me for several seconds. When what she’s doing to me finally registers, she glances away and pulls her hand from my back. Her cheeks flush.
“Put your shirt on and go wait for our food,” she demands. “I have to pee.”
I release my grip on the counter and inhale deeply as I pull my shirt back over my head. On my walk back to our table, I realize I never even asked her what the tattoo was.
“A strand of pearls,” she says as she slides into the booth. “Black pearls. It’s about six inches in diameter.”
“Pearls?”
She nods.
“Like a…necklace?”
She nods again and takes a sip of her drink. “You have a tattoo of a woman’s necklace on your back, Silas.” She’s smiling now. “Very lumberjack-esque.”
She’s enjoying this. “Yeah, well. You have trees on your back. Not much to brag about. You’ll probably get termites.”
She laughs out loud and it makes me laugh, too. She moves the straw around in her drink and looks down at her glass. “Knowing me…,” she pauses. “Knowing Charlie, she wouldn’t have gotten a tattoo unless it really meant something to her. It had to be something she knew she would never grow tired of. Never stop loving.”
Never Never: The Complete Series Page 10
