A Veil of Glass and Rain by Petra F. Bagnardi Read Free Book Online Page B

dangerous.”
    “It doesn't make sense!” He snaps.
    “It does. Think about it. It's way more
    dangerous if I'm the only one who respects the
    speed limit,” I calmly explain.
    Cars speed by on our left and on our right.
    “Damn idiots,” Eagan hisses.
    “Eagan...” My hand leaves the stick shift, in
    order to reach out to him and comfort him. I've
    never seen him so agitated and afraid.
    His hand shoots up and clasps around my
    wrist
    ”No. Just fucking focus on what you're
    doing,” he growls.
    “Fine. But you're cutting off my
    circulation,” I wail.
    Eagan lets go of my throbbing wrist. I grasp
    the gear stick once again.
    I realize that the road in front of me is now
    a blurry mess of lights and shapes; my eyes are
    moist. I blink repeatedly to chase away the
    tears.
    Eagan heaves a deep sigh. Then he rests his
    arm on the back of my seat. It's a more relaxed
    pose, but it doesn't fool me, for I can feel his
    body vibrate with tension.
    “Tell me why you quit music school,” Eagan
    says.
    The question surprises me. “It wasn't fun
    anymore,” I mutter.
    “Pity. You were really good,” he comments.
    I snort softly. “You've never heard me play.
    How do you know?”
    “I just do.”
    “Right.”
    I know he's staring at me, for I can feel his
    gaze on my face like a touch. My skin flushes.
    “I wanted to be there. You know I did. Is
    that really why you quit?” Gentleness
    permeates his tone, still I also detect a whiff
    of wariness.
    “I quit, because I was bored.”
    “Such a waste,” he mumbles.
    “Look, I still have the guitar you gave me. If
    you want it back to resell it, or whatever, you
    can have it.” I manage to sound calm and
    detached. I concentrate on driving, on the
    street and on the other cars. Inside, though,
    I'm crying, punching, crumbling.
    “Fuck you, Brina!” He's angry, offended,
    hurt.
    “Right back at you, Eagan,” I rasp out.
    We deliver the words to each other wrapped
    in ice. I can almost feel their cold bite on my
    fingertips. I'm tempted to examine them to see
    if they're bleeding
    “I'm trying to be your friend, Brina. Again.”
    Anger has abandoned his voice, now he sounds
    sad.
    I'm glad my eyes have something else to
    focus on, as I don't want to watch his
    expression marked by disappointment and
    sorrow.
    “Friends don't judge, Eagan. Friends accept
    and understand. If I tell you, I want to play air
    guitar for the rest of my life, your only
    comment should be: Can I be your groupie for
    the rest of my life?”
    He laughs. I finally glance at him. His fingers
    are pressed against his temples, stroking away
    the tension; but he's laughing.
    On the way from the parking lot to the movie
    theater we don't talk. I stare at my shoes, at
    the gravel, at the people around us. Eagan
    grabs my hand and his fingers brush the fading
    calluses on my fingertips, left there by the
    strings of my almost forgotten guitar. I sigh
    and brace myself for another argument. It
    doesn't happen.
    Instead, I'm pulled, pushed and then I find
    my back against a wall. Eagan's taut frame is
    bent toward mine, and my body is arched
    toward his. We create a peculiar sculpture of
    opposite forces. He cups my face in his palms
    and makes me look up at him. His lips are so
    close to mine, that I feel the whisper of his
    breath against my mouth; I smell mint and a
    hint of beer. I desire a kiss so desperately, my
    body is humming with longing. I curl my fingers
    around his wrists.
    “I hate fighting with you,” he admits
    huskily.
    “I know. Me too.”
    “I need to hold you.”
    I nod and let him fold his arms around me. I
    bury my face against his chest and utter soft
    sounds of contentment as his warmth leaks
    into my skin.
    I glance at our shadows painted on the
    gravel by darkness and streetlights; we're not
    opposite forces any longer, we're one single
    being.
    Italians are genetically incapable of standing in
    an orderly line, so much so that the movie
    theater seems more crowded