C. G. Drews

Don't Let The Forest In

Cassidy Nolan

It hadn’t hurt, the day he had cut out his own heart.

Andrew had written about it later in spidery lines from a sharp pen—a story about a boy who took a knife to his chest and carved himself open, showing ribs like mossy tree roots, his heart a bruised and wretched thing beneath. No one would want a heart like this. But he’d still cut it out and given it away.

Because here was the truth about his friendship with Thomas Rye:

Once upon a time, Andrew had cut out his heart and given it to this boy, and he was very sure Thomas had no idea that Andrew would do anything for him. Protect him. Lie for him.

If they stood any closer together, they could fit into each other’s skin.

“I want you to say it.” Thomas’s voice steadied. He could pin Andrew to the wall with the way he shaped those words.

Sometimes Andrew thought Dove and Thomas were in the midst of their own three-act play: first friends, then enemies, and then—

Andrew was sure of one bitter truth: He’d rather have his lungs punctured than watch Dove and Thomas fall in love.

Sometimes he’d lie awake at night and unpack all his feelings about this boy-shaped hurricane named Thomas Rye. He didn’t know if he wanted to 

 Thomas—reckless and uncontainable—or if he wanted to kiss him.

Thomas’s work, unmistakably. A stark winter forest, every tree burned with white frost. A boy with horns and roses grown from his eyes held a knife, and he was midway through carving the heart out of another boy with moth wings who knelt in the leaves, his face tilted upward in supplication. Vines blossomed around them, tangled and unruly.

But he didn’t know what part of himself was safe to hold on to.

Their story had begun in the forest, a collision both violent and beautiful.

“He won’t touch you again,” he said.

Andrew could hardly breathe. “You’ll be in trouble.”

The light in Thomas’s eyes was bold and ferocious. “But he won’t touch you again.”

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