“Come on! You hit like a girl!” Beck goads me as he moves in a large, quick circle, made possible by his long legs and even longer stride.
“I am a girl, you buffoon.”
It’s our second defense session and after a quick review of some basics, he challenged me to hit him. I’m failing miserably. Even so, it feels good to be outside, learning something new and sparring with Beck. There was some surprise that Molly and I won the cook-off, but nobody was more surprised than Declan.
“You made this?” he asked several times, each time with more disbelief than the last. Our fried potatoes with smoky pepper sauce was the highlight of the meal. Of course, our prize was nothing more than the satisfaction of a job well done, or so a suspicious Siobhan informed us, but still. The entire thing left me feeling on edge. I can’t put my finger on it, but the missing ingredients, the surprise we were able to win—it feels off, and it left me wanting to hit something.
I feint right, but Beck anticipates it and jabs at my exposed left. I see it coming and shuffle away before he can reach me.
“Ooh, good one, Capo.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” I ask between breaths. I swing my right fist. He deftly avoids my jab, but grabs my forearm and whips me around, trapping me against his chest. I try to spin away, but he catches my other shoulder and holds me still.
“Because you keep being one, Capo.” The soft smile of victory in his voice rumbles in his chest, vibrating against my back.
“Crap,” I say, and he lets me go.
“It’s okay. You’ll get it.” I’m not sure I will, but he’s adamant. He was also adamant that I couldn’t do this in my silly dress—his words—though I didn’t disagree. He scrounged up a pair of black trousers that I’ve cinched at the ankle with conveniently attached ties. They’re a little big in the waist, but not nearly as big as the white button-down shirt he’s loaned me. He didn’t say so, but I’m pretty sure it’s his. It smells like him: salt and orange peel and sarcasm.
“This is useless,” I say.
“It’s not useless. I’m getting a great workout.” He feints left and somehow tugs my braid on the right.
“Stupid pirate . . . face,” I say, swinging my foot at him and clipping him on the side of the knee.
“Aw, that was adorable.”
“Seriously, this has never happened.”
“What hasn’t?” he says. I spin to follow him as he runs behind me.
“No one has ever run actual circles around me before attacking.”
“Well, you never know what your attacker’s going to do.” He boops my nose.
“I hate you.”
“You mispronounced that word there. It’s pronounced love. Say it with me: luhhhhhve.”
“This is useless,” I say, pressing my palms against the back of my head as I look down.
“It’s not useless. It’s important.” His feet close in on mine, and I look up. He’s so close, I can see the tiny little flecks of gold in his green eyes. I smile. He smiles back. I swing my foot hard into the back of his knee, and he collapses awkwardly, falling backward onto his hands in the dirt. I laugh, jumping up and down as he scrabbles in the dust cloud.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yells. I stop and lean closer to assess whether or not he’s injured.
“I’m sorry! Are you—”
“This is where you run like hell!” he says, pushing up. I take off, running past first one tree, and then another.
“Not in a straight line! Serpentine! Serpentine!” he yells behind me, his voice getting closer. I weave through the trees, squealing as I tromp and trip over sticks, leaves, and other detritus. I stumble, and before I can get my feet back under me, his forceful hands are around my waist. He pushes me forward, pinning me against a tree.
“Thought you could pull a fast one on me, didja?” My heart races, and I close my eyes, focusing on the veiny reddish-blackness inside my eyelids. My cheek scratches against the bark, and I hone in on a chirping bird, listening to the steady tweet-tweet of its soprano. I am not who he wants me to be—
“Arden?” He flips me around. My head knocks back against the tree, startling me out of my trance. I open my eyes, my breathing too fast and hard. Beck leans back, but his hands still clutch my waist. I’m not standing on my own. With a shallow exhale, I press my feet into the earth, and its solidness flows through me.
“What the hell was that? You . . . you didn’t think . . . I’d never . . .” His voice shakes, and there’s a new heaviness to the crease between his brows. He steps back as I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“That’s enough for today,” he says. He turns and leaves me standing in the woods. I stay where I am, pressed against the tree, and swallow around the sudden thickness in my throat, wondering if I’ll ever be normal—if I’ll always be broken.