Golden by Jessi Kirby Page A

where we were sitting. They were more like skeletons of trees, with bare branches and no sign of life left on them. On one of them someone had carved the words I WAS HERE into the bark, which seemed eerie and sad in a way.
    â€œCan I see?”
    He slid off the log onto the ground next to me and handed me his sketchbook. The trees on the page didn’t look like the real ones at all. They danced with shadow and light and practically swayed in the breeze that blew cool and soft over us. Even the words I WAS HERE looked freshly carved into the bark.
    â€œThis is beautiful.” I traced my finger over the branches.
    He looked down, seeming almost embarrassed or shy about it. “Thanks.”
    â€œNo, really. This is like something you’d see in a gallery. It’s . . . is art something you want to do for a living?” The thought of it, of him, wanting the same thing I did ran electric through me.
    He shook his head and took the pad back. “Not really. I’ve thought about it, but for now I just kind of do it for myself.”
    I nodded, so close to telling him I felt the same way about painting. That I understood, or used to. That a long time ago I knew what it was like to do something purely for myself. But then I noticed the black ink of a tattoo on the underside of his forearm. I wanted to reach out and touch it, but I pointed instead. “So is that just for yourself too, or can I see what it is?”
    He looked down and turned his wrist so I could see it. “That . . . was my sixteenth birthday present from my brother. It’s what he does.” He glanced from the tattoo to me. “I thought it was cool three years ago, but it’s kinda cheesy now, huh?”
    â€œThat depends on if you just picked a symbol off the wall or if you got it because it actually means something to you.” I looked again at the three joined spirals, then brought my eyes back to his. “Does it? Mean anything?”
    â€œIf I tell you, you can’t laugh. Like I said, I was sixteen. And I thought I was being deep.”
    â€œI promise,” I said, ready to laugh. Then without thinking I ran my fingers over it just like I’d done with his drawing.
    His arm tensed under my touch. I drew my hand back. He cleared his throat. I looked at my lap. And the moment hung there between us, heavy, like clouds before a storm.
    â€œIt’s called a triskelion,” he said. “Each spiral stands for something.” He pointed to the top one. “There’s motion, like taking action or moving forward. There’s evolution—that’s growing or changing with life. And then there’s illumination, which is understanding or knowing.” He paused, maybe waiting for me to laugh, but I didn’t.
    â€œIt’s like the three parts of life,” I said.
    â€œYeah. The parts I want to remember to do.” He smiled, then picked up a piece of pumice and tossed it in the water, where it floated on the glassy surface in front of us. “You ever go swimming in this lake?”
    â€œNever.” I wiggled my toes and felt the icy needles of the water.
    â€œYou want to?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œI think I might.” He stood up and pulled his shirt over his head, then went for the belt that hung low on his hips.
    I forced my eyes away from his bare chest and out to the center of the water, hoping it might temper the tingly warmth that spread out in my own chest, knocking my heart around against my ribs. “I think I’ll wait here,” I said. “With my clothes on.”
    He stepped out of his jeans and tossed them over the log. “Suit yourself.” Then without another look at me he turned, took two long strides toward the water, and dove into the icy blue of the lake. Just like that. Fearless. When he came up, he was gasping for air. “Holy shit, that’s cold!” He halflaughed, and made his way back to me at the edge