When I woke up again, the first thing I saw was a pair of eyes—chocolate brown with upturned lashes, plus a mole by the lower lid. I wanted to reach out and poke those eyes, but my arms didn’t move. I couldn’t find my fingers. Everything felt thick.
And heavy.
And slow.
And warm.
The guy’s lips moved, but I couldn’t decipher the words. There was a buzzing in my ears and a disconnection in my brain.
I think he placed something on my face. I’m pretty sure he pulled blankets up to my chin. Maybe he sang me a song—from The Sound of Music. Was he wearing white ski gloves?
I blinked, but I’m not sure for how long—or if I might’ve nodded off—because when I opened my eyes again, he seemed closer. I felt the heat of his breath against my cheek.
He was holding something—someone’s hand. It took me a beat to realize it was mine—my sterling silver ring, my clover-shaped birthmark, my week-old French manicure.
His lips drooped downward like a sad clown face. Something was wrong. His forehead scrunched up; there were deep horizontal lines etched into his skin.
He checked my pulse, holding my fingers upward. Were my veins always so blue? My skin normally so ghostly? Was I already dead? But dead girls don’t smile, and a smile came to my lips—I felt it crawl up my cheeks—as I looked at those brown, brown eyes so full of concern, and as I watched the tension in his jaw and the sharp angles of his mouth as it moved to form words. It was like watching a movie where I had a front-row seat, only I wasn’t sure where the seat was or how much I’d already missed.
Was I still in the trunk?
Were we past the inciting incident?
Or was this the final cut and his eyes were the last things I’d see?