Arcadia's Gift(45)

“You okay?” Bryan asked, a cool brush of concern touching my body.
I jerked my head up to see him setting our sundaes down on the table. “I’m fine,” I said, managing a weak smile. “Just a bit of a headache.”
His forehead wrinkled. “Do you want me to take you home?” The vibrations of his concern increased.
“No, I’ll be okay.” Forcing a fake smile, I dipped my spoon into the chocolate ice cream with warm peanut butter topping and took a small bite. “Ice cream cures headaches, you know. It’s scientifically proven.”
“Mmmm…” he replied, swallowing the cherry from the top of his banana split. “I always knew ice cream had to be good for me. What else can it do? Cure the common cold?” The coolness of his concern warmed into something more pleasant.
I nodded. “It’s good for colds…the flu too. Also, sprained ankles, upset stomachs and gout.”
“Gout?” he laughed. “In that case, I think I’ll have my mother stock up our freezer with Rocky Road. I wouldn’t want to come down with gout.”
I watched Bryan as he talked and ate his sundae in large, enthusiastic bites. When he smiled I noticed one of his teeth was a bit crooked, overlapping the one next to it. It’s funny how an imperfection like that can add so much character to someone’s face. He had a bump on the top of his nose. And a tiny mole at the base of his throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. The skin of his neck looked so soft. I wondered what it would be like to press my lips against it. My gaze lifted and I realized Bryan had stopped talking and was looking at me curiously. I was pretty sure my face was as red as a tomato.
“What are you staring at?” he asked. “Do I have hot fudge on my face or something?” He wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“No…I’m sorry.” I shook my head, feeling like an idiot. I stirred my ice cream slowly to have something else to focus on.
“I don’t mind, you know…you looking at me, I mean.”
A shock of invisible electricity jumped between us, making my heart pound. I peered up from under my lashes to see him grinning at me. The heat in his eyes matched the warmth I was picking up from his soul, causing my palms to go damp.
“Whatever,” I said dismissively, trying to play it off as a joke. “Are you almost done, because it’s a school night, and I have to get home before you turn into a pumpkin.”
“Well, in that case, we better go. Orange is not my color.”
Bryan tossed a tip down on the table, and we headed out to his car. It took almost twenty minutes to get back to my house. While Bryan talked, I amused myself bathing in the warm caresses of his emotion. At first, I only felt a general feeling of contentment, kind of like a warming in the belly. It was the feeling that I got most often from him. He must be a naturally happy person, I concluded. But as we rounded the turn onto my street, I began to pick up on some anxiety vibrating off of him. I glanced over at Bryan, now who was grinning and telling me a story about something that happened at jazz band rehearsal, and wondered what he had to feel so anxious about. This emotion reading thing was interesting, but without knowing the reasons behind the feelings made it darn frustrating.
My house was mostly dark when we pulled up. A faint glow of light from the basement windows indicated Aaron was holed up in his room. I could also see the violet flickering of a television on in my mother’s bedroom. She hadn’t even left the porch light on for me.
Bryan trailed behind me up to my front door, his hands shoved deep down in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders rounded. I fumbled to fit the key into the door lock in the darkness. Stinking dead bolt!
“Here, let me help,” he said.
I handed him my keys and stepped out of the way. With a jiggle and a flick of his wrist, the bolt shot open.
“There you go.” He picked up my hand, placed the keys into my palm and closed my fingers around them. But he didn’t let go. At his touch, I felt his nervousness amplified.
We stood there for a moment, both of us looking at my small fist cradled in between his two large hands, his thumb rubbing my skin in lazy circles. His palms were soft but the fingers on his left hand and right thumb had calluses. I ran my finger over the thick pads.#p#分页标题#e#
“From playing my guitar,” he explained, the tone of his voice thick.
“Do they hurt?” I asked softly. We were standing close enough that I could feel the warmth rising from his skin.
“Not anymore.”
He reached for my other hand, folding it into his. “Your hands are so cold,” he commented.
That’s because all of my blood has risen to my face. “And you’re so warm.”