With every broken bone, I swear I lived
Misunderstanding and feelings of rejection were easy things to stumble over, and Maea's only experiences with heartfelt conversation were the tumultuous almost-quarrels she'd had with Sunjata in the past. Volatile and fraught with emotion, she had learned that words were weapons that would hurt if not used with caution.
That Harper didn't react harshly to her evasion was surprising in contrast. Puzzled yet relieved she accepted the hand he offered and let him help her up. And because her legs felt unsteady, and because the wind was cold after being nestled against him for so long, she kept his hand in hers as they walked across the weed-choked front yard, turned right by the well with its cracked bucket, and reached the meandering path that led up the hill.
For a time Maea just enjoyed the stillness and the way it settled her nerves. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees ahead, and as they ducked in between the first rows, the scent of apples hung tantalizing in the air. Some fruit had dropped already and rolled away from their feet, bruised and moldering with damp and the bite of pests, tangled into long grass and winding brambles. It smelled like home, and like loss, and oddly enough, like hope.
Reaching up to a low-hanging bought, Maea plucked an apple and offered it to Harper. "The red ones are sweeter, but these yellow ones were always my favorite," she remarked. "What do you think?"
That Harper didn't react harshly to her evasion was surprising in contrast. Puzzled yet relieved she accepted the hand he offered and let him help her up. And because her legs felt unsteady, and because the wind was cold after being nestled against him for so long, she kept his hand in hers as they walked across the weed-choked front yard, turned right by the well with its cracked bucket, and reached the meandering path that led up the hill.
For a time Maea just enjoyed the stillness and the way it settled her nerves. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees ahead, and as they ducked in between the first rows, the scent of apples hung tantalizing in the air. Some fruit had dropped already and rolled away from their feet, bruised and moldering with damp and the bite of pests, tangled into long grass and winding brambles. It smelled like home, and like loss, and oddly enough, like hope.
Reaching up to a low-hanging bought, Maea plucked an apple and offered it to Harper. "The red ones are sweeter, but these yellow ones were always my favorite," she remarked. "What do you think?"
maea
