Indigo (Gina Linko) by Gina Linko

Author:Gina Linko
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2013-10-22T04:00:00+00:00

The restaurant looked a little questionable from the outside, a bit tattered, weather-beaten, but when we got inside, it was charming, with candlelit tables and quiet music, not fancy, just nice. Clammy Joe’s, the place was called. Rennick filled in for people here once in a while, when he wasn’t busy with Dodge. The staff greeted him by name, and the pretty blond hostess gave me a smile when she showed us to our booth.

The place smelled of seafood—fresh and succulent seafood, like the Rawlingses’ place. My stomach growled. We sat in a corner booth. A cup of crayons was on the table so you could draw on the brown paper tablecloth. In the middle of the paper, a circle was cut out, exposing a hole in the table about six inches wide. Rennick saw me eyeing it.

“It’s the garbage can,” he explained. I gave him a funny look. “For all the shells. You really are from Chicago,” he joked. He smiled warmly at me, and I settled in. The place gave off a homey vibe. I couldn’t really explain it, but in that second, when I looked up at Rennick again, I saw his aura in the dim light—that’s what it had to be—and I saw the reds, the oranges, and purple, a thick wavy line of purple, especially near his head.

“What is it?” he asked, looking up from his menu. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nothing,” I said, checking out the menu. “What does purple mean in an aura?”

“Feeling. Connection. Love, maybe. Why?”

“No reason,” I said, and blushed. The heat rose in my neck, into my earlobes. Rennick. Purple. I tried not to think about what he was seeing in my aura. “So how long’ve you been helping out here?”

“A year or so. Since I moved in with Dodge.” He paused. “Thanks for spending the day with me.”

I nodded, smiled. “Thank you.” He watched me as we talked, his eyes never looking away from me. He studied me and it made me feel self-conscious and pained but also wonderful and worthy. I realized this was why I hadn’t known who Rennick was at the Shack that first day he looked at me; it was because he never looked at anyone. Never really looked. Not at school. Not here in the restaurant. No one. His focus was only on what was in front of him, and at school that was usually the worn paperback in his hand or the sketchpad on his lap. He never looked at people. Except for me.

I held on to this truth, and I watched it. The pretty hostess with fresh silverware. No eye contact. The people laughing one booth over. Nothing.

But here he was just staring at me. I realized I was mimicking his body language. My elbows were on the table, me leaning toward him over the hole in the middle.

I watched the way his mouth moved, always with a curve up at the ends. The shadows from the lone candle on the table played on his face and lit his deep blue eyes.

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