Chapter Five — Lemonade Skies
(Inara's pov)
If anyone asked, I'd say Elias and I were just friends.
Tess said we were "emotionally dating."
Naomi said he was "Inara's future husband."
I said they were all insane.
But lately, even I wasn't sure.
Westbrook High's courtyard buzzed like a beehive that Thursday afternoon. The sun was melting everything into gold, and Elias was sprawled on the grass beside me, one arm flung dramatically across his face.
"I think I'm dying," he said.
"You're lying in the shade," I pointed out.
"Exactly. I'm bored to death."
"You could do your homework."
He peeked at me through his fingers. "Or I could convince you to come to the boardwalk after school."
I groaned. "You have a talent for bad ideas."
"They're not bad if they make you smile."
That made me look up from my notebook. "You sound like a Hallmark card."
He grinned. "My future career, clearly."
Tess dropped her iced coffee onto the grass, startling us both. "If you two get any cuter, I'm gonna throw myself in traffic," she announced, flopping down dramatically.
Elias sat up, brushing grass from his hair. "Join us, Tess. We were discussing the philosophy of fun."
"I was discussing how to get my essay done," I corrected.
Tess leaned back on her elbows. "Elias, seriously, do you not have any guy friends? You're glued to her lately."
He laughed. "I like good company."
"Uh-huh. Just saying." She gave me a pointed look, one that said don't get too comfortable.
I didn't answer. Tess had been off lately — moody, distant. She'd always liked being the loudest voice in the room, and Elias had accidentally stolen a little of her spotlight just by existing.
After the final bell, Elias walked beside me like he always did, our shadows stretching long across the sidewalk.
"So… boardwalk?" he asked hopefully.
I hesitated. "Only if you buy me lemonade."
"Deal."
The Hallowridge Boardwalk wasn't much — two rows of small shops, a carousel, and the smell of salt and fried dough — but it was ours. We spent hours there, racing down the wooden planks, laughing too loud, and daring each other to try terrible carnival games.
At some point, Elias pointed to a booth selling cheap sunglasses.
"You'd look amazing in these," he said, picking up a bright pink pair.
"I'd look like a confused Barbie," I replied.
He grinned. "Exactly."
I tried them on anyway, and he doubled over laughing. "Perfect. You're keeping them."
"Not a chance."
He handed the vendor a few bills before I could protest. "Consider it an investment in comedy."
When we finally sat on the edge of the pier, sipping lemonade and watching the sky bleed into tangerine, I felt something shift. The silence between us wasn't awkward anymore; it was full — like every unspoken thing we were both pretending not to feel.
Elias broke it first.
"You ever think about the future?"
"All the time," I said. "Scary amount, actually."
"What's in it?"
I smiled, swirling my straw. "A published book. Maybe an apartment with too many plants. A window seat. Peace."
"Peace sounds nice," he murmured. "I want noise. Music, cities, the kind of nights that don't end."
"You'd get tired."
"Maybe. But at least I'd live."
He looked out at the horizon, eyes catching the last flash of sunlight. For a second, I could see it — the future he wanted. Music, travel, joy. And then, cruelly, I thought, He'll get it.
I didn't know then how much that thought would someday hurt.
When I got home that night, Mom was humming in the kitchen, Dad reading in his armchair, Naomi building a tower of cereal boxes on the table.
"Inaraaa," she sing-songed, "did you kiss your boyfriend?"
"Naomi!"
She giggled. "You're red!"
"I'm sunburned," I lied.
Mom smiled without looking up. "It's nice you're spending time with friends, sweetheart."
"Yeah," I said quietly. "He's… really good."
Later, while journaling, I wrote:
He makes the world feel louder, brighter. Like everything ordinary is just pretending to be magic until he notices it.
Then I scribbled it out. Too much. Too honest.
The next afternoon, Tess cornered me by my locker.
"So," she began, "are you going to admit it or keep pretending?"
"Admit what?"
"That you like him."
I blinked. "We're friends, Tess."
She smirked. "Sure. And I'm the Queen of England."
"Why does it even matter?"
"Because it's obvious. And if you're not careful, you're going to get hurt."
That last part lingered long after she walked away.
That weekend, Elias and I met at Maple Hill Park to "do homework," which was code for waste time and feed ducks we didn't actually have food for.
"You ever think about moving away from Hallowridge?" he asked, tossing a pebble into the pond.
"Sometimes. But I'd miss it. The quiet, the people…" I nudged his shoulder. "You."
He grinned. "See? You'd visit."
"You'd forget me."
"Impossible."
The wind rustled through the trees, scattering bits of sunlight across the grass.
"Elias," I said suddenly, "do you think everyone gets a story worth telling?"
He looked at me for a long moment. "I think everyone gets a beginning. What they do with it — that's the story."
"Then what's yours?"
"Still writing it," he said softly.
And somehow, that felt like a promise — one I wanted to be part of.
That night, as I lay in bed listening to Naomi's soft snores through the wall, I thought of his laugh, the sun on his hair, the way he said impossible.
And I wondered if slow love really was the safest kind — or if it only hurt slower, too.
End of Chapter Five