“Who cares about queens?” Peter crows. “Kings, maybe. But queens?” He makes a pfft sound.
And with that, I’ve had enough. I push myself up off the rocks and start to head back.
Back where? I’m not sure. Just away. From him.
I stomp down Skull Rock. The tide is low enough that there’s a sandbar connecting it to the mainland, and thank goodness for that. I don’t have the happy thoughts to fly.
He’s terrible. Honestly, he’s horrible, don’t you think?
He’s completely, entirely, completely awful.
Self-involved, petulant, vain—
“Wait,” he calls, flying after me. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”
He lands in front of me, and I stare up at him.
The sun’s behind him now; his face is in the shade.
I know you’d like me to say he’s less beautiful, but that would be a lie.
Peter Pan is spectacular in all manners of lighting, at every time of day, regardless of where the sun may fall on him. Shadows on his face don’t dull his beauty; they sharpen it. The sweet angle of his nose is accentuated now with the new freckles the day awarded it, and his eyes are, in fact, noticeably brighter now that the sun is setting, as though all day long, the two have been competing to be the shiniest thing around us. There’s just a flicker of light that rests atop his cupid’s bow, as if almost there by some kind of magic, and I swallow heavily, because three seconds ago, I hated him, but now he’s in front of me again and it’s waning. What is that?
I shake my head at him. “You’re the worst.”
“No, I’m not.” Peter’s face pulls. “I’m the best.”
I give him an exasperated look. “No, you aren’t. You’re infuriating and rude and—”
“How am I rude?” he interrupts me.
“You interrupt me.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just now.”
“Still rude.”
He sticks his chin out a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. “Before that then?”
I stare up at him, my nose in the air. “To normal people, my story is impressive.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, who cares about normal people?”
I point at him. “Rude!”
“Fine!” Peter rolls his head back, tired. “I’m impressed.”
I smack my hands on my face, annoyed as I push past him. “Don’t just say it!”
He growls at the back of his throat. “You don’t know what you want!”
I spin around to face him again. “What I want?”
“Yes!” he yells, getting right up in my face. “You don’t know! You’re just yelling because you’re a girl, and girls go stupid like this!”
“No!” I stare him in the eyes. “I’m yelling because I’m angry at you!”
He stares at me for a few seconds, blinking. Five times, to be precise. I counted them. They demanded me to.
Blink. Blink-blink. Blink. Blink.
“Girl…” Peter ducks to hold my gaze. “Why are you angry at me?”
I do try my best to glare up at him, to remain angry, but it’s difficult. Counterintuitive almost? It’s not what you want to do.
I remind myself that being cross at a man is one of a woman’s main advantages in life and love, so I cross my arms over my chest and try my best to look like I’m not thinking about his shoulders and how big they are.
“‘Girl’ is not my name.”
“Daphne.” He tilts his head the other way. “Beautiful Daphne.”
I turn my back to him for the sole purpose of making him fight for me more.
“Clever Daphne,” he says, moving around me so we’re face-to-face again, one hand on my waist, the other on my arm. “Infinitely-more-beautiful-and-clever-than-everyone-else-in-the-entire-universe-except-for-me Daphne.”
I roll my eyes at that, yet still, I’m swooning a tiny bit on the inside.
“Girl, why are you angry?”
I breathe out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.
“You spent the day with Calla,” I tell him, trying my best not to sound pouty about it, even if I am a bit.
“Today, you mean?”
“A bit.” I shrug.
Peter gives me a grumpy look. “Well, don’t be angry for just a bit.”
I put my hands on my hips. “And about a hundred other days since I’ve been here.”
“Have I?” he asks, curious.
“Yes.”
He thinks about it, like it’s news to him. “What do we do?”