~Peregrine Storke~
Morning brought light. Wonderful, beautiful, brilliant light. It also brought rain. It was the drop on my nose that woke me. The sun blinded me. In Awkward, the sun shone even when the weather was bad. The drops came harder and faster.
Foster groaned, his fingers rubbing the place on his arm where I’d been laying. “I’m not sure what’s worse,” he complained. “The fact that the rain is making my sudden need to pee worse, the feel of pins and needles in my arm, the hunger in my gut, or the fact that the rain is making you look naked.”
My head snapped up, my gaze following his to my chest. The tunic was growing wetter, the fabric clinging to my braless torso.
I crossed my arms. “The need to pee can be fixed,” I pointed out.
He pushed himself off of the ground, his hand rubbing his face. “True that.”
As he sauntered into the trees, I ducked into the forest, using the opportunity to relieve my own bladder. This had to be the least idealistic adventure ever. To say I was uncomfortable would be an understatement.
“Does this rain taste like coffee?” Foster called out.
“The caramel-flavored kind,” I replied.
I was back at the tree when he reappeared. “You couldn’t add a little chicory in there?” he asked. He lifted his head, his mouth open. Water slid down his face, beading up around the stubble on his jaw before sliding down his neck. His shirt clung to his chest. It reminded me of my tunic, and I crossed my arms again.
My gaze slid to his arm, to the tattoo on his bicep. “Why the wolf?” I asked.
He dropped his head and lifted his arm to glance down at the design. “It’s a Celtic wolf,” he said.
I knew that. The Evans had a strong Irish heritage. Camilla and Foster’s grandparents were born in Ireland. I’d visited their grandmother on several occasions with Camilla. She was a very superstitious woman full of interesting stories. Their grandmother had passed away a few years back; I’d been with Camilla when they went through her things. I’d seen a lot of Celtic knick knacks around her home, and she’d had a necklace with the wolf on it.
Foster and I started walking, an unspoken urgency in our steps. We were running out of time, and we knew it. The rain kept falling.
“The wolf is many things,” Foster said suddenly. “He is loyal, strong, and friendly. He is cunning and compassionate.”
I stared at the tattoo. “Did you mean for it to represent you?”
He hadn’t had the tattoo before the military.
Foster glanced at me. “You sound so skeptical.”
I stiffened. “No, it’s just—”
Foster chuckled. “It’s what I’d like to be. We both know I certainly don’t fit that entire description.”
My head lifted, my tongue catching the rain. It wasn’t enough to quench my thirst, but it helped to fool the stomach. “You fit it better now,” I muttered.
Foster watched me. “The wolf is a source of lunar power,” he added. “In Celtic lore, he hunts the sun at the end of the day and swallows it to make way for the power of the moon.”
As Foster walked, the wolf moved with him, his open jaw toward the sky. “That’s … poetic,” I murmured.
Foster laughed. “A poet I’m not.”
The rain grew heavier at moments and slackened at others, the water seeping into our clothes and down into our shoes. My hand found the sketchbook at my waist. My fingers itched to draw, to sketch the way the elf-giant had looked, to recreate Foster as he was now.
Foster’s gaze followed my hand. “You’re talented, you know.”
My fingers rubbed the end of the pencil. It was just as sharp as it had been when I’d recreated the Swamp of Sadness in a sketch.
“Do you have anything you like to do?” I asked.
Foster threw me a look. “You mean other than being a jackass?”
I stepped carefully over a fallen log, the top of it covered in silver moss. Another not shining artistic moment of mine.
“You know, during those moments when you take a break from making up rhymes,” I teased.
There was forgiveness in my voice, a token of friendship. He’d made up the rhyme, but he hadn’t abused me with it.
Foster glanced at me, surprise in his gaze. “If you were Camilla, you’d hold a grudge for much longer.”
I snickered. “She never forgets anything. She’ll throw the smallest disagreement into an argument two years after it happened.”
“My mother’s worse,” Foster revealed. He turned away.
I stared at his back. Foster was a tall man. He looked strange walking through a fairytale, like an imposter. It made me wonder if I looked the same way. The last time I’d sketched in the original story of Awkward, I’d been seventeen. That was two years ago.
“I like to build,” Foster said suddenly. He slid down into a ditch, and I followed him. He offered me his hand, his grip strong as he tugged me up the other side.
“Like your dad?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Foster answered. “It’s not a lofty ambition, but I like doing things with my hands. Making something. It feels useful.”
“I think it’s great,” I told him.
I stood next to him on the edge of the ditch, my eyes meeting his. Rain slid down our faces like tears, our eyes red from lack of sleep.
“Perri—” he began.
He was interrupted by a scream.
Chapter 17
“That awkward moment when you discover peer pressure isn’t tempting anymore, it’s annoying.”