Page 84 of Florescentia

I stepped into the crossway, getting a good view of the traffic before I reached the other side. The minute my heel hit the opposite pavement, the cars seemed to erupt to life, resuming their normal functions.

Did I not tell him no meddling?

I waved my arm for the next commercial driver. One eagerly pulled over, the poor man probably thinking it was an emergency, based on my frantic waving.

“Wildwood,” I said, slapping the half-eaten candy bar between the front seats of the coach, the steam engine puffing in the front view.

The steam sputtered as the mobile sped off.

The path wound and quieted the farther out we went. The lights from the shops and homes became fewer, and the clouds in the sky became rich and dark. Water kicking up from the cliffs, as well as gifted from the sky, dotted the windows of the mobile, the engine struggling with the cooling temperatures.

“Here,” I said, “stop here.”

The driver pulled over on an overlook, stairs leading down to the pebbled beach.

“The tide is rising,” he warned. “I would stay on the overlook.”

I placed the money on top of the candy bar and left, the metal door clanking back into place.

The popping and humming of the locomotive was as loud as the roar of water. I leaned over the fence, the waves visible just above the trees.

A wild wind whipped against my head, pulling half my hair from its place when it took my hat. Not even the pins were strong enough to keep it attached. The curls whipped against my face, the cold mist numbing my cheeks and nose as I looked up. The water danced above, small sparkling things that clouded my vision, filling my eyes and salting my lips.

“Dorian!” The memories were rushing back to me.

“Where will you run? Into the sea?” Dorian held his arms wide, his shirt undone, suspenders hanging off his hips, and the widest grin you could ever imagine. Sand was already collecting on the bottom of his service uniform pants. In one hand, fizzing alcohol with the top freshly corked.

“I can swim.” I hiked up my skirts, my shoes and socks already drenched and sinking in the wet shore.

He hoisted the bottle at me, foam splashing toward my face as I shielded it with my hands.

Suddenly I was scooped up, his arms around my waist and his chin against my sternum. He spun me so fast I thought I’d get dizzy.

The laughs died down, then I steadied myself with my hands on his shoulders.

I brushed the wet black hair from his face, and a heaviness hit me. I couldn’t stop the tears.

“Don’t leave”—a quiet plead—“please stay.”

He didn’t say anything, but his smile only widened.

“Marry me,” he said suddenly. “Lucia, we should be married.”

My mouth fell open; I didn’t know how to reply.

“They’re unlikely to draft me if I am. We can run away together, far away, some other place.”

“But it isn’t guaranteed.” I swallowed my worries as hard as I could. “With how everything is escalating, they could still send you away.”

“But then I will be married to you, and I will die a happier man,” he insisted.

“Dorian.” I shook my head.

His lips crashed into mine, the salty rain pouring over our faces. The downfall was so thick, it was like a heavy fog. There was nothing in this world but us. Just me, him, and the ground we stood on.

Inside me there was an irresistible, unmistakable pull.

And I was past the point of denying it.