Indigo

“You came,” he said, standing up from Sophie’s bench. I took a step toward him, shoved my hands into the pockets of my robe. I could barely make out the features of his face, but I knew he was smiling. It was in his voice.

“Hi,” I said like a moron.

“Hi, you,” he said. We stood there for a long moment. He took a step toward me, and then another. I tipped my face up to him. We were close, so close, and I didn’t back away.

“What is it?” I said, breathless.

“I have to tell you what I know. I have to tell you about Dell. How he died. What I think happened, Corrine.”

“He died?” I asked, taking a seat on the garden bench. He paced a little bit.

“The whole thing is a little foggy, like memories can be when you’re little, you know. I was only eight. Cale was twelve or thirteen.”

“Your brother?”

He nodded. “Dell was his friend. They hung out all the time, started getting into trouble. Anyway, I’m not making sense.” He stopped. Ran his hand through his hair. “There’s a lot to the story. But the gist is that looking back, I think Dell had the touch.”

“His aura was like mine?”

“In a way,” Rennick said. “I think maybe when I was about eight, he saved me.”

“You’re kidding.”

Rennick shook his head. “We were fishing, Dell, Cale, and me. I went out too far at the end of the wharf. Fell in. Couldn’t swim back then. I had a huge fear of the water. Used to have all these drowning nightmares. Anyway, we were fishing on Algiers Point, and the current swept me along down the shore. By the time Cale got me out, I mean, I don’t know. I can’t remember it. Not well. But I think I was gone. I was outside myself. Hovering. I think I was dead.”

“Jesus, Rennick.”

“I watched him save me. He put both his hands on my chest, and something racked through his body. And then it was like I got sucked back into myself. Came back, sputtering water.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

But Rennick ignored me now. He was remembering. “Dell was a normal kid. He was always around. He and Cale still hung around a little in high school. Dell knew what he was by then, I bet. There was a car crash, some kid trying to outrun a train out in the Marigny one night. Two kids got killed. But Dell was at the party where they were headed. Anyway, I’m not sure, but I’ve heard kids tell it, and I think … I think he saved the girl. April, her name was. And he died.”

“How did he die?”

“I think he used himself up.”

I processed this. “That’s why you were scared today.”

“I’m still scared. That you could give away your spark. Use it up. Whatever it is.” And I thought about those frog legs. Electricity made them move, mimicked life. But what was it that Dell—or I— could also give them? Life?

When you put it that way, the enormity of it squashed me. The pressure that would come with it. The sheer vastness of responsibility. This thing was ginormous. Why me?

Rennick sat down next to me, our legs touching, and I looked into his eyes. There was fear there. What else?

“Rennick …”

I watched him searching me with his eyes. I recognized something in him. Something I knew too well, from the mirror. He was telling me about Dell. But … Things fit into place then, and I got it. I understood. I realized what was at the heart of all this for Rennick.

Guilt. Overwhelming and inescapable.

Cale’s anger. Blame.

“Oh my God, Rennick.” I swallowed hard. “She died saving you. You were stillborn. And your mother used herself up to save you?” He hung his head. “This is why you’re scared. Oh, Rennick, I’m so sorry.” I reached for him but then caught myself.

Rennick stood up, turned away. Then he gave a nearly imperceptible, defeated nod. “Corrine, I—”

“Rennick, you are not responsible for what happened to your mother. Oh, Ren.” I stood and moved toward him. I wanted so much to comfort him, to hold him in my arms. But I couldn’t. Yet.

“She painted porcelain.”

“Your mother?”

“She painted porcelain dishes, teacups, plates. She was an artist.” I didn’t know what to say to this, so I just let him talk. “She had blond hair like Cale. Dad says she was the worst cook this side of the Mississippi.” He laughed.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Or yours,” I said. He turned back to me, nodded.

“I know that. Usually. Sometimes.”

I understood this.

He closed the distance between us. I tipped my face up to his. In the moonlight, his eyes shone, glittered. “I want to kiss you,” he whispered, leaning in toward me, his lips an inch from my ear. “I know you aren’t ready. But I just wanted you to know.” His voice was music, the notes playing down the skin of my neck. I closed my eyes and leaned in, let his breath play over me.

“A lot has changed,” I said finally, opening my eyes. “The bugs, the crayfish. I—”

“Between us,” he said, and he was looking at me so intently. My eyes had adjusted, and I could see that worry line in his brow. I could see the want in his eyes. “I can keep from touching you,” he said. “And I will. Still,” he said, swallowing, “I just needed you to know that I don’t want to stop myself.” I watched the silhouette of his Adam’s apple in the moonlight, transfixed. “You can’t hurt me, Corrine.” He tipped my head back up to him, and I let him, met his eyes. “You didn’t kill Sophie.” I looked away, took a step back. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t leave.”

“I was there,” I answered. “I know what happened.”

“But you tried to help Seth. You must believe it on some level.”

I nodded. “It’s …” I couldn’t really explain it. “It’s hard to give it up.”

He leaned closer again, and I let him. Again. His breath was on my neck, and then his hand was on the small of my back. He pulled me to him, and I let him. I melted into him, my body against his.

The warmth, the comfort of being held. My throat closed against the emotion of it.

“Corrine,” he breathed into my hair. “Corrine, please don’t push me away.”

“Rennick,” I began to protest, but I inhaled against his T-shirt, and then I just sighed, let myself relax into him. I let him hold me, his chin resting on top of my head, my hands still balled in my pockets. I listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Da dum. Da dum. And I thought it would be perfectly okay if I never moved again.

“Corrine,” he whispered, his words shivering down my neck, his hands tracing the knobs of my spine. “Corrine, touch me.” His voice was low, soothing. “Believe this is okay.”

“I can’t,” I said, and after a long moment I pulled away. He was right. I was on the precipice. I was. But I wasn’t ready.

“Why?” he asked. And he looked hurt. “You saw what you did today. You know—”

“I’m scared,” I said. And this was the simplest way I could explain it. His eyes were not mad, not angry. But there were other things there. Longing. Frustration. Worry.

I turned and ran back up the porch. Things had changed but not changed. Things were better but not better.

In my room, in the dark hours of the morning, I needed to move forward somehow. I pulled my violin from the dusty hiding spot under my bed. Mia-Joy was right. She had to be. It was tied to my emotions. And this was