“You’re supposed to take her hand, Patrick,”she hissed.
Kate, the eight-year-old. So much older, somuch wiser.
Now, a man about to be married is said to haveclammy hands, but not Patrick Kinney. No, Patrick was smooth, Patrick wassuave. He was cool as a cucumber, and he smelled like one too, thanks to thecucumber sandwiches his mother had served before the ceremony.
And then, there were the vows, written lovinglyby Kate.
They were brief. Short and sweet—just like us.
“Okay, repeat after me,” Kate had said to eachof us. “I, (insert name here), take (insert name here) to be my awfully weddedhusband/wife. I promise to let you watch your favorite TV shows, and I promiseto never eat the last cookie. Amen.”
Our rings were made of molded tin foil onceused to encase Ring Dings, eaten as our dessert before the ceremony. I slidPatrick’s onto his finger, next came mine, and after we said, “I do,” I stood therereluctantly as he came for me with determination. He planted one on me, mushinghis kid-sticky lips against mine with enough force to squish my mouth againstmy teeth. I shoved him backward, knocking him on his ass, and our motherslaughed with hands clutched over their chests.
Patrick just stared. Never diverting his eyesfrom me.
So genuinely happy.
So genuinely in love.
?
“Patrick,” I growled for the hundredth time that night.
He jumped out of the truck before I had a chance to demandhe start it again. He ran around to open my door to find me with my arms foldedlike a scowling little kid, refusing to budge.Stubborn. That’s what Iwas, what I had always been.
Ten years of faraway stubbornness; two years ofround-the-corner resistance.
“It’s part of the plan,Kins,” hesaid, growling my name. He sent the hairs of my arms to stand on end.
“Whatplan?” I asked, looking out the window at mychildhood home.
The lights were on. My parents would know we were there,and if they didn’t, their dog would make sure they did. My stomach knotted atthe thought of our parents seeing us together. The things they would remember,the things they would hope for now ...
“The plan to make you remember that you’re madly in lovewith me,” he said, and grabbed my hand.
Should I tell him I haven’t forgotten?
No.
“I am not—”
He easily pulled me to the edge of my seat with hisHerculean strength, and went ahead with his bold moves and picked me up out ofthe cab. My arms instinctively wrapped around his neck.Traitors.
“Oh my God, put me down!” I squealed, tempted by theperfect height of his crotch in line with my knee.
I expected him to keep his grip on my waist, pressing meagainst places simultaneously foreign and familiar, but he didn’t. He let mybody slide along the front of his until my feet were on the ground, plantedfirmly to the sidewalk, where I had kissed him in darkness thousands of timesbefore.
And then, in my mind, I was sixteen years old, in mythirty-two-year-old body.
I could stand on my toes, I told myself, watching hismouth. I could pull him down to me like I always had, and bite that upper lip.I could kiss him the way I knew he liked. The way I had remembered after allthose years. How could I forget?
His lips parted, framed by a layer of stubble. “You can letgo now,” he said under his breath, looking down at me through hooded eyes. “Ifyou want to.”
I had to force my eyes away, and wrenched my hands from hisneck, taking a step back.
Distance was needed, distance was good.
Distance was torture.
