“Why?”
He pressed play, and skipped through the songsuntil he found the one he was looking for. The piano notes of Van Morrison’s“Have I Told You Lately” played through the tinny little speaker, and Igroaned, rolling my eyes at the cheesy pick.
“Why?” he echoed, taking my hand in his,wrapping his arm around my waist.
“Yes!”
“Because I didn’t spend an hourlearnin’ to do this shite fornothin’,that’s why.”
He played it off like he was so tough, so cool,but his chin found a comfortable spot on the top of my head, and he held meclose.
The music, that dance, acted as the closingcredits to our high school days, the last moments of our youth. I hadn’trealized it at the time, but shit, those tiny moments of teen-hood werewhizzing by us at lightning speed. And I wish he had chosen a longer song, I wishhe had insisted on a second one. I wish he had done something,anything,just to prevent us from closing the door on childhood, being grounded, andsimple problems. To prevent us from stepping into adulthood, leaving home, anddifficult issues. For just a little while longer.
But looking back, I don’t think it could haveever lasted long enough.
?
I don’t know when, but the song had ended, and my arms heldonto his neck. His arms were still around my waist, and we swayed to the soundof crickets and creaking floorboards. Almost as though it were a do-over; asecond chance at a longer dance, at prying that door to our childhood openagain. To live there forever, in an innocent world before mistakes and kids andfailed marriages.
“The music stopped,” he finally said, his voice muffled bythe top of my head.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Okay.” He tightened his grip on my waist, pressing mystomach against his strained groin, and just like that, it was too much. Asharp inhale, and I pulled away, knowing my cheeks had flushed and my pulse hadquickened, palpitating rapidly in the base of my throat. I coughed, and mystomach did a few awkward somersaults at the knowledge that he was visiblyturned on. I touched the ends of my hair, smoothing them over and over, just tokeep my hands from reaching out and touching him.
“So?” I asked, looking up at him and his eyes, fixatedentirely on me.
Christ, those eyes.
“So, what?”
“Do you still like dancing?”
He nodded slowly, his eyes revealing a glimmer of lust and sadnessunder the twinkle-lights. I thought he would say something that would bringforward the emotions I was struggling to fight, and to keep that fromhappening, I forced a smile.
“So, how did you get out of dancing at your own wedding?”
Patrick chuckled at that. “There was no dancing.”
“What do you mean?”
I sat down on the bench that wrapped around the innerperimeter of the gazebo, and taking that as an invitation, he sat beside me. Heleaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees, and wrapped his hands aroundthe back of his head. I knew that stance. It was the Difficult Topic stance.
I hated it.
“We were married at Town Hall by thefeckin’Mayor,Kins.”
“Okay, but you didn’t have, I don’t know, a reception?”
He shook his head. “Nah, it was all aboutgettin’ it done quick before anybody could say anythingabout the,ehm,situation,as Mam and Da likedto so lovingly call it.”
“Oh.” I picked at my fingernails. “I had no idea.”
His hands dropped to dangle between his knees. “Of courseyahad no idea, Kinsey.You ran away sofeckin’ fast,yadidn’t have a chance to find out.”
His voice was deep and rough, choked with ancient emotion.I tried remembering when his voice had gone from boyish to manly, and Icouldn’t. I had known him during the pinnacle of puberty and changing voices,but I couldn’t remember.
Other things were just more important, I guess. Moreimportant than voices.
