“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice suddenly guarded.
“I know you lied to me.” The memory crashed into me, and I reached into my bag. I pulled the knife out. It was closed but I could feel my fingers shake as they clutched the cold metal handle. I didn’t think he would snatch it from me, but a part of me wasn’t convinced — how could I know for sure? I edged backward and tightened my grip on it, trying to ignore the rain soaking through my top.
Nic stepped closer. I could see his eyes drift to my hand but he didn’t move to take the knife. Cautiously, I edged it higher so that it hovered between us. “Do you recognize this?”
He watched me with calculated stillness. There was nothing but the sound of his uneven breaths and the distant roll of thunder, as my hand shook.
“Well?” I asked.
The silence endured. His breathing evened out, but his expression remained unchanged, resolute. When he finally answered me, it seemed to take all of his energy. He pressed his lips together and pushed the words out, pronouncing them slowly, like his tongue was betraying him. “It’s mine.”
“I found it in the grass after you left.” It was an unnecessary detail — he had probably come back for it after I left — but I felt compelled to remind him that I had been right and he had been wrong to try and convince me otherwise. He knew I knew it was his, and the less information he offered me, the more suspicious I became.
I lowered my hand and took a step toward him, pushing myself into his personal space beneath the awning, so that the wall between us would shatter.
His shoulders tensed.
“Why do you carry a knife with you?”
He stalled, pulling his fingers through his hair and grabbing at it in clumps so that it stuck out over his ears. When he dropped his hand, it was with a sigh of resignation.
“The switchblade was a gift from my uncle,” he began slowly, as though he were reading from a script. “He can be a bit … eccentric.”
I turned the knife over in my hand, tracing my thumb over the falcon crest and the inscription below it. “That’s one word for it.”
“In my family, when we turn sixteen, my uncle gives us a switchblade inscribed with our name and our birth date,” he went on, sounding surer of himself. “It’s something his father, my grandfather, used to do, and so he does it for us. It’s just a family tradition.”
“It strikes me as a little unsafe.” I didn’t try to keep the judgment out of my voice.
Nic shrugged, and in a quiet voice he conceded, “Yes, you could say that about Felice.”
“Feh-leech-ay,” I repeated, dwelling on the leech part. It suited a knife giver. “I got earrings for my sixteenth birthday. No weapons, though.”
Nic dragged his thumb along his bottom lip, and I found myself fixating on the way he nipped at it with his teeth.
I shook the thought from my head, and stepped away from him again.
Focus.
“I saw you pull this out during your fight with Alex,” I said. “Were you going to — ” My voice wavered. “What were you going to do with it?”
“Nothing,” he said with so much conviction I almost felt compelled to believe him. “I would never use it on anyone, especially not your friend’s brother. But I thought if he saw it he would back off and leave my brother alone. He had already knocked Gino out, but he kept coming back for more. He was so competitive, so angry that we had won, and so convinced that we had cheated. I just wanted to get rid of him before the rest of my brothers got involved.”
“So you were going to threaten him with a knife?” I asked, disbelief dripping from my voice.
“No,” Nic faltered, shaking his head. “Not like that. I just, I don’t know. I was trying to defuse it …” He trailed off.
I had to fight the urge to take his chin between my forefinger and thumb to hold his gaze still enough that he’d level with me. Was this the truth or a well-versed lie?
“Why do you even carry it around?”
“It’s hard to explain,” he replied, his expression suddenly sheepish. “I guess I carry it so I can feel protected, and so I can look out for my brothers if I have to. Ever since my father died, it’s been hard for all of us. It changed us. It changed me. I don’t know this place or the people in it, and I’m so used to having the blade with me for a sense of security that it’s like second nature to keep it in my pocket. I don’t really feel safe without it.” He swallowed hard, burying the emotion that was causing his voice to falter. “I know it’s a strange way to cope with something like that, but it helps me.”