35 | FOREST SEA SALT

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35

EMBER

When I input Michael Lund's number into my phone, I had to resist the urge to type in 'BLONDIE'. In the end, the urge won out. I've been itching to call again ever since that night at the playground. I didn't think I could be addicted to something so quickly, but that call was a drug that injected my arteries with light and allowed me to exhale the shadows in my lungs.

To have a friend again.

Cade hasn't shown up again. I've called him a few times after waking up last night from a horrible nightmare that he jumped off a cliff, but I was sent to voicemail each time. The pebbles under my palms remind me of the ones that buried themselves into my knees that night on the street. I didn't realize how much I missed Cade Blackwood until he was—

"Ember?!" Michael calls, a panicked edge to his voice. I get off the ground in front of his car and shake my hands off on my bare legs.

"Yeah?" I walk around and try not to visibly shake in the cold. "What's wrong?"

Michael stares at me before shaking his head. "Here," he says, sticking out a piece of fabric. It's a dark green, the colour of Toronto University. "It's freezing and you're not wearing anything."

"No I'm fine," I quickly say, throwing my hands up. This is too intimate—too much like one of the only pieces of Grey I have left. "I'm not cold. I'm just going to go back to the dorms now. Thanks again for not kicking me out. I think this was good for me tonight." I give him my best attempt at a smile and turn around. "Bye, Blondie."

"Ember, take the goddamn sweater."

I halt at the deeper, more assertive tone in Michael's voice. Is that...irritation? So what? I don't want his sweater! If I freeze to death on the way back, then so be it. I don't care.

I spin around to see him holding out the sweater. There's a pleading edge to his expression. He gnaws on his bottom lip and blinks in anticipation.

"I'm all sweaty and gross," I remind him, pointing to my appearance. I'm hot and cold at the same time and it's highly uncomfortable.

A breeze hits my skin and it takes all my energy not to wrap my arms around my frame and cower from the cold.

"I don't care," says Michael, "just take it. You're going to freeze." He underhands it my way and I almost drop it. There's white embroidery on the front that reminds me of the Basilisk's Bite shirt I never got. Cade was excited. I was hopeful.

"Toronto University Music," I read aloud, still curious about what Michael really studies. He told me he was a groupie, which is obviously a lie. I don't know anything about him. That's why I can't take this sweater.

I walk up and jut it back into his hands. He huffs and does the same, so now I have it. A chill shudders through me. Am I being too stubborn?

No! I don't want the sweater!

I throw it over Michael's shoulder and then back away slowly, satisfied. Now he can't—

Michael roughly shoves the thing over my head and oh god it's so warm. I wish I didn't love it, but I really, really do. It's so big and cozy and it smells like the forest.

My head pops out the top and I mock scowl, trying to keep up my mood.

Michael sighs. "Just let me do this for you," he pleads, pulling the sweater down around me like I'm a child. "It's cold. You can just give it back whenever you're done with it." He even goes so far as to pull my braids from the back and drop them over the hood. He's too rough, but I can tell he doesn't mean to be. He then lifts the sleeves up. "Put your arms in."

"I'm not three," I inform him, returning to a genuine scowl.

"Could have fooled me," says Michael, jerking the sleeves to get his point across. "Arms," he insists. I mutter to myself about how pushy he is before sighing and putting my hands through. So damn soft.

Michael stands back and runs his eyes over his handiwork, so I do, too. The sweater is too big. No one would be able to tell I'm wearing shorts.

Embarrassment floods my cheeks and not because of the sweater. I can't believe I thought I could slip into Skyfall without being noticed. I thought Michael had left through the back! I found an exit on the second floor that I could have used after I was done. I had it all planned out.

Is it breaking and entering? I mean, yeah, probably. Did I care at the time? No. I just had to escape my dorm.

Cameron Sun has been in the suite for hours messing around with Vanessa. They're excited and annoying, so when I got back from my physics class and found that they were still having sex, I threw on the only athletic wear that I brought to Toronto and fled. Noor wasn't even around, the smart girl. She knows. She understands.

Then Michael saw me repeatedly fail for hours on end. It's embarrassing. I just couldn't figure it out. That didn't mean I was going to give up, no matter how frustrated I became.

Between us, Michael says nothing more. His eyes fix on my legs. Or maybe my feet, I can't be sure. His hands knot nervously in front of him, smooth and tanned, laced with veins. Climber's hands, I realize. I start to wonder about his music. I'm sure he couldn't play violin or cello with those hands. Aren't his fingers too big? Too rough?

I clear my throat and just ask. "You never told me what you're studying. The instrument, I mean."

A ghost of a smile appears on Michael's lips. "Piano," he says softly. "Concert piano." He brings his hands up. Maybe he noticed me staring. "Their full of callouses, I know, but it doesn't hinder my playing." He flexes his fingers a few times. "My professors care more about the tops of my hands than the bottom." He flips them so the smooth skin and veins are on full display.

"Your hands are nice," I sigh. Shit. I said that out loud. I try to backtrack while avoiding his eyes. "I mean piano is nice," I correct myself. Time to change the subject. "I've tried guitar a few times. I'm not great."

Michael grins slightly, pocketing his nice hands. "I'm sure you're better than you think," he offers.

But I'm really not. My hands hurt after playing for more than five minutes. Still, not like they hurt now. I begrudgingly take a look at my own hands. I've been avoiding this since I felt something tear into my palm about an hour ago. I just ignored it, but I know I hurt myself.

I take a look and exhale a shaky breath. "I won't be able to play for a while," I say between us, shaking my head. My skin is red, bloody, and torn. Nice. Great. I close my fists and pain sears into my bones. Wow, I did a number on myself. At least it's something else focus on. That's more important.

"I have special stuff at my apartment," Michael says. I look up, confused. "For your hands," he adds.

That doesn't sound right. I can't just be going to people's houses at night in random—

"I'm not a murderer," says Michael. "I've just torn up my hands so many times that I know how to fix it. But it's up to you. I'm not trying to—"

"Okay," I say, not overthinking it. If I go with Michael, I don't have to go back to the love fest at my dorm. At least for a while.

"I won't—" Michael continues, then stops, shocked. "Okay?"

I nod. "I'd appreciate that, thank you." And I really mean it. All his kindness is softening me up. I point to the old SUV beside us. It's somewhere between green and blue with gold trim. It's in great shape, clearly taken care of.

"Yeah," says Michael, nodding to my silent question. "Hop in."

I walk around the side and open the passenger's door. The car smells like the sweater, which must just be what Michael smells like—forests and sea salt. It surrounds me and I let it, sinking back into the fabric seat.

I'm going to be better. I'm going to go to Michael's apartment and let him fix my hands. And maybe, if he asks, I'll tell him why they're hurting in the first place.








A/N

If you could write an end to this book, what would it sound like? It can be short or long, just comment it.

Thanks for being here ♥️

-Laurel


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