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Cool Story: TEENYBOPPERCLUB were the physical manifestations of Caleb's violent restlessness, kept tightly under sullen lock and key. Part of his attraction, she had to admit, part of his attraction. She remembered Caleb the first time she had seen him, leaning heavily on a table at his own art exhibit. He had a glass of wine in his hand, but he was not drinking. Occasionally, he would bring the glass to his full lips, always thrust forward in his prominent pout, but the red line of the wine never got any lower, and she had thought he was spitting it back out. And so he was. Later, she would discover that he never quite trusted himself, that alcohol encouraged that part of himself, that tight, loaded-cannon part, of which he was terrified. It was his dark child, the one he kept firmly hidden in the cloak of his skin. His little Heathcliff, she thought now, ruefully. And it was this part of him, she knew, that would, one day, one hour, compel him to leave. Not too close, she had thought, I won't get too close and then he won't have an excuse to leave. I will be good, I will be quiet, I will not pry. I will let him be.
