Free The Memory Thief by Emily Colin

loaded my laptop into my bag, succeeded in taking it from me this time, and held out his arm. I stared at it. “What’s that for?”
    â€œYou,” he said, looking at me as if I were just a little bit dim. “There’s a bunch of steps between here and the dining hall, not to mention some uneven terrain, and like you said, balance isn’t your strong suit.”
    At a loss for words, I simply looked at him.
    â€œI promise not to let you fall again,” he said. “Scout’s honor.”
    And so I took his arm.

Eight
Madeleine
    It couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards to the dining hall, but that was more than far enough for me to feel ridiculous. More than anything, I wanted my arm back. For one thing, it seemed absurd to be making my way toward dinner with my arm threaded through his. He was a virtual stranger, and it’s not like we were on our way to the opera or something. Furthermore, I wasn’t so physically handicapped by my own clumsiness that I couldn’t walk the length of a football field without falling over. I didn’t need my own seeing-eye human to watch out for stray tree roots and crevices. Well, maybe I did, but I certainly didn’t want the world to know it. And then there was the matter of his physical presence. I was hyperaware of all the places where his skin touched mine, which, given the warm weather and our attire, was plenty. Every time I stole a glance at him, my stomach lurched, and from the smirk that was playing around his lips, I had the feeling he wasn’t immune to my discomfort.
    Yes, I wanted my arm back all right. I also wanted to rescind my agreement to his dinner invitation, closet myself in my room, and snack on my considerable stash of granola bars for the remainder of my stay. But I couldn’t figure out a graceful way to make any of this happen, so I kept on walking.
    The more uncomfortable I get, the quieter I become. Aidan was the opposite—either that, or he was as comfy as he could possibly be. The whole way to the dining hall, he made an alarming amount of small talk, mostly about the flora and fauna we passed along the way. After he’d pointed out three kinds of edible mushrooms, one kind guaranteed to give you considerable intestinal distress, and mountain golden heather (on the federal endangered species list, planted here deliberately), I recovered enough to give him the eye.
    â€œAre you a closet botanist?” I demanded, interrupting his latest observation about how beautiful the Devil’s walking stick was in the fall.
    He shook his head. “Nope. I just like nature.”
    I chuckled.
    â€œYou don’t?”
    â€œI’m not anti-nature, or anything. I just haven’t seen enough of it to have an opinion. I was raised in the city.”
    â€œWhat city?” he inquired, guiding me around a large gray rock that protruded from the path.
    â€œNew York City. Brooklyn, to be exact.”
    â€œBrooklyn has nature,” he said. “What about the Botanic Garden? What about Prospect Park?”
    â€œLet me amend that. I haven’t seen much—how should I phrase it?—uncontrolled nature. Which this definitely counts as, in my opinion.”
    â€œThis is uncontrolled nature?” Again with the eyebrow.
    â€œTo me it is.”
    â€œHmmm,” he said, compressing his lips into a thin line. He seemed to be trying to hold back laughter.
    â€œYou say tomato,” I muttered, staring at the ground in an attempt to wrest back some control over our progress. I was about to step onto a pile of moss when he stopped abruptly, then pulled me behind him. He kept a tight grip on my wrist.
    â€œHey,” I complained, trying to twist free.
    â€œShhh,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ground.
    Annoyed, I complied nonetheless. He began backing away down the trail, pushing me with his body. I felt like a cow being herded, and opened my mouth to protest, then shut