Oakley Ruby Oriana

ONE DAY BEFORE

I’m jolted from sleep as something lands square on my stomach. The air leaves my lungs, and I sit up in a second, pressing my hands into my gut.

Getting something thrown at me Isn't my favorite way to be woken up, but my sister tends to do it often.

I roll my eyes and drop the shoe on the floor beside my bed, before turning my back to her.

I harbor a strange resentment towards Dahlia, despite our shared blood. She tends to spend her time either annoying me or casting glares at the general public.

But today, something seems different. I decide to listen to the words leaving her mouth, something I rarely do.

I roll back over and try to make sense of her whining.

Eventually, I give up.

“What are you talking about?” I squint, trying to read her expression, but the light coming in through the window blinds me.

“Blades Oakley!” She’s angry now, “Someone is missing.”

Any drowsiness I was feeling disappears in an instant.

“Mom and Dad are making us go out and help them look.” She finishes, crossing her arms.

I shoot out of bed, clumsily pulling on dayclothes, tripping over myself. Dahlia may lack basic human empathy, but I don't.

I’m out the door in only a minute or two, ignoring the morning chill as I approach the murmuring crowd of people gathered in the street. I gently push myself towards the center of the circle until I’m right there with the woman, who I assume has some sort of relationship with the missing person.

She is trying to give a physical description, “...cut her hair short, she has big brown eyes, I’d say two or three inches shorter than I am…” She breaks out in sobs, and a man hugs her.

Questions arise around me. They ask if it's possible that she could be a runaway, if she's with someone, or if she's just lost track of time.

A few just look empty in the eyes, casting glances around, as if they know all the answers. I don’t understand why, until one of them vocalizes their worry.

“Do you think she broke curfew?” The comment is loud, and it silences most, but the woman wails even louder.

I feel sunken like the others. It was a probable answer, but not many were willing to accept it openly.

Breaking curfew is unheard of. This is the first disappearance I’ve ever witnessed firsthand. Of course, there were stories from the other towns in Candorless, but never here.

There would be signs, some reassurance that it had or had not happened. Right?

A group of people volunteer to search for the girl anyway. I throw my hand into the air, waving down the man who was earlier comforting the woman. He clearly had some sort of authority and is now gathering the small crowd, picking out the people he felt were eligible.

“Me! I want to help!”

He casts me a glance and shakes his head. I’m taken aback, but before I can argue, he cuts me off.

“No kids. We don’t know what we’ll find.”

I furrow my brow, “I’ve been alive for seventeen years, I’m sure I can deal with it. Plus, we have no proof it will be—” I pause for a moment, fishing for the right word— “Gruesome… She could just be with a friend or went for a morning walk and got lost…”

This catches the attention of the woman, and she grabs my shoulders, gripping them so tightly it aches, “You think she’s okay? Do you know where she is? You said a walk? Is she on a walk? Is she okay?” she asks exasperated, a glint of hope in her otherwise darkened eyes.

My eyes go wide at her frantic speech, and I gulp, “Uhm, no, I don’t. I’m just saying maybe we should think positive…” I say the sentence with a rush of air, and it sounds more like a question. She breaks out in sobs once more, throwing herself onto the shoulder of the man again.

He glares at me subtly, and embarrassment burns hot in my cheeks.

“No kids,” he restates, “go home.”

I nod solemnly, turning away so they don’t see my face fall. Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them away. My heart hurts for the woman.

I fear the worst, yet hope for the best.

I pray it’s all a wild misunderstanding, and the missing girl simply fell asleep at a friend's house, and would run home as soon as she realized.

I slink away, my feet moving faster than my mind. They won’t let me help, and I won't go home to deal with my sister, so instead, I wander.

I’m supposed to meet Rowan at the front of the town square, closer to noon. It’s too early, but I walk over anyway.

I feel like I have a strange, weighted fog wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me down. I need a hug. I shouldn’t need a hug. I didn’t even know the girl. I only hurt more for the woman, who I assume is her mother or some sort of guardian.

I carry their burden as if it were my own, making a very bright morning seem dull.

I continue walking until I reach our designated meeting place. I sit down outside the market, under a small tree, and mindlessly shift the dirt beneath my fingers. Hot tears burn pathways down my cheeks, and I wipe them away. They show no sign of slowing, so I stop trying. I just let them fall, watching them hit the dirt.

Maybe it will help the trees grow. I know it won't, but I let myself think so anyway. I try to convince myself I'm not entirely useless.

A soft hand reaches down and angles my face up towards his. I smile up at him despite the tears I cry.

But when my eyes meet his, I feel my lip quiver. He is kneeling by my side, looking at me as if I were a kicked puppy. I feel like one.

He holds my hand in his and utters soothing words of comfort; Yet I ramble over them.

“I couldn’t do anything. They won't let me help, and she was crying, and I made it worse. I didn’t know what to do, Rowan. I can’t make it better.” My voice can't hold a steady tone and quivers with every sorry syllable. My voice gets higher the longer I talk, but Rowan cuts me off, pulling me into his arms. He is warm and helps the swelling sadness inside slow.

It’s not often I get hugs from him; he’s not the most physically affectionate person. He never hesitates to hand them out when he sees I’m struggling, though. He knows they make me feel better.

“Oakley, it's not your fault.” his voice is low and soothing, the familiar rasp an instant comfort, “You know that, right?”

I pull away just a few inches so he can see my nod, but feel the instant regret at the absence of warmth. I miss the embrace, which is absurd because I've only just lost it.

“Good. Is there anything I can do? Anything to make it better?”

I shrug, “Can you just distract me? Do something?”

“That I can do. I’m almost sure I owe you about a dozen cinnabuns.” He holds my face in his hands for just enough time to wipe away my last tear, which makes me laugh.

His face softens at the sound. It’s the exact smile I wear every day, yet he looks at it like I change it out for a brand-new one each time. I smile even bigger at the thought. The corner of his mouth tips up, but his eyes show his real smile. They dance like silver smoke, and I'm captivated in a second.

We walk through the carefully crafted roads, enjoying the warm sunlight that bathes the area in golden shades. Each booth was unclaimed, and each shop moved daily. It was a first-come, first-served type of thing.

It never got boring that way. Always jumbled up, with an array of irregular shops scattered in the mix.

I stop to look at each cart and tent, so each person's work is seen by at least one set of eyes. Rowan looks at the booths with me, but he is mostly silent. He seems to go non-verbal when others are around, like they might jump out and bite him if they see past his walls for even a minute. But I don’t mind, I enjoy his company.

I only make ten booths before Rowan's offer becomes too tempting to ignore.

From there, it’s a game of hide and seek, twisting down the aisles, trying to find the cart with our desired prize.

Once you get close, the heat drowns you, but it’s worth it for any sweet treats you can snag. And in a heartbeat, we find it.

The smell alone is enough to make my mouth water.

We greet the workers, who are now familiar with our faces. Rowan buys the dessert after a playful debate about who should pay the expenses.

We walk to a nearby tree, the branches providing a breath of cool air. They come in a small basket, which I set on the ground between the two of us. I grab a cinna-bun for myself and hand another to him.

I sit with my legs crossed beneath me and bite into the bun. I see stars, the warm, sugar-filled cream in the middle spills into my mouth, and the cinnamon-sugar sticks to my lips. I happily lick them off before shoving the rest of the dessert into my mouth.

“It never ceases to amaze me how happy these make you.” He says simply.

“I think I would sell my soul if I could have these every day,” I answer back, reaching for another.

“Woah, there will be no soul-selling.” He retorts.

I shrug, unable to hide my happiness, “What a shame, I already have a buyer.” I joke back, he lifts his eyebrows feigning intrigue.

I finish, “Guess I’ll just have to cancel.”

He drops his head into his hands. I assume he’s questioning what he is going to do with me, as most do.

We chat mindlessly while we finish off the food. And I mainly mean me, Rowan only ate a few, claiming he couldn't stomach any more.

We make our way back to the market, having at least thirty more things to look at.

I pull him over to a wooden booth with strange hats on every surface that could hold them. The shop owner is nowhere to be seen, but I don’t mind.

I pick up a top hat and gently place it on Rowan's head, flicking the rim before I turn to grab another. He takes it off almost immediately, putting it on my head.

I glare at him, which seems to be the reaction he was hoping for.

His shoulders are slumped, and he’s not entirely tensed up. He’s having a good time.

I switch between hats, my favorite being a laughably large blue one with a flower on the side, almost as big as the hat itself.

I’m asking Rowan's opinion on said hat, a smile already refusing to leave my lips.

But before he can answer, a sudden crash sounds.

It’s loud, like an entire building collapsing, and I cover my ears, still laughing.

I’m surprised, but my curiosity is piqued.

That was, until I saw Rowan’s eyes go wide and watched his whole body go tense.