Saint

by Adrienne Young

But there was something about the helmsman that reminded me of gemstone. Like even when he wasn’t speaking, I could still hear, or feel, something in the center of my chest.

I looked at her one more time, tracing the shape of her face, her jaw, the curve of her throat. I etched it into my mind to keep for no other reason than I felt like

I had to. And then I turned and walked away.

“I’ve wanted you since the minute I saw you. That’s the problem, Isolde.”

“His name is West.”