Midnight Lily (Signs of Love) by Mia Sheridan Read Free Book Online Page A

as I passed her. "Thanks," I said, smiling at her again.
    The color of the sky dimmed, and the moon appeared, lighting the small canyon with a muted glow. When I'd almost reached the bottom, the last two stairs fell away. I hopped down and then reached my hands up to Lily. "Here," I said, placing my hands around her waist, "let me lift you down." Something about my hands around her waist felt more intimate than I'd intended and warmth filled me as I lifted her down to the ground and she stood in front of me, looking up into my face. "Okay?" I asked. My voice sounded strange in my ears, hoarse, gravelly.
    "Yes, I'm good. But you're still . . ." She looked down to where my hands still rested. I pulled them away quickly.
    "Sorry," I breathed, shaking my head. I looked up and around. "What is this place?"
    "I'm not sure," Lily said, stepping away from me. "But here, look." She moved to a large rock at the edge of where the rocks met vegetation and pushed some leaves aside. Carved into the rock was a kind of very small room with a window, perfectly square and obviously man-made. And at the top of the window was a carving of some sort. I looked more closely.
    "Are those hands?" I asked.
    "Yes. They look like they're reaching for each other, the fingertips just barely touching."
    "Huh," I said in wonder.
    "There's a place several hours from here where ancient people built whole houses under cliffs—right into the rock. It's almost like they just barely started one here and then decided to go somewhere else instead."
    "Hmm," I hummed. "I wonder why." I ran my hand along the sill of the window before moving aside and leaning into the small opening, barely big enough for two people to lie down. When I leaned back out, Lily was tracing the carved hands with her finger.
    "It's just so strange to think about someone standing here once upon a time carving these hands, thinking whatever he was thinking, maybe worrying about something, maybe annoyed about someone." She smiled softly as she watched her own finger moving around the carving of the hands. There was something sensual about watching her finger move that way, and I almost felt as if I could feel it on my own skin, tracing, exploring . . . I couldn't help the warm shiver that moved through my body.
    "Maybe thinking about a girl," I supplied.
    She looked at me and her smile grew. "Maybe." She looked back to the window and put her hand on the sill, tilting her head. "Seems so funny that a person, all his thoughts, all his ideas, all his feelings, can be here one minute and just . . . gone the next."
    I studied her profile as she continued to stare through the window. And I knew just what she meant. I'd thought the same thing when I'd lost my best friend. How could he be so alive, so vibrant, so filled with all those things that were only him , and then just . . . gone. Where did he go? "I know what you mean, Lily," I said. "I've thought the same thing."
    Lily's lips tilted up ever so slightly though she continued to stare ahead. "But you know what's even worse?" She looked over at me, her smile fading, her expression becoming sad. "Leaving nothing behind. No proof that you ever existed, not something like this," she moved her hand on the sill, "and no one to remind the world that you were here, even for a small moment in time. No one who might brush their fingertips against your own and know the feel of you, even in the dark."
    I blinked at her, opening my mouth to speak and then closing it again. What she'd said hit me as so very profound . For some reason I felt filled with emotion. That was my job now. My job was to keep my best friend's memory alive, the him that only I knew, the him he didn't show anyone else. His parents were gone; he didn't have any brothers or sisters. I was the only one here on earth who had known the real him. Something about that thought, the responsibility it suggested, both filled me with a sudden surge of joy, and a strange aching sadness, maybe even