“What am I supposed to be feeling?”
“Everything is perfect right now,” he said,lifting a hand to tuck my hair behind my ear.
I snorted a laugh, rolling my eyes up to thestarlit sky. “Everything’s always perfect with us, idiot.”
“Nothin’ will beperfect until you’re back.”
I sighed at his backpedal toward the dramatics,and tapped my fingers against his chest. “I’ll be back for holidays andweekends when I don’t have to study, and you’ll come down to see me when youcan. It’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, and after that, we’ll be apart again.Nothin’ will be perfect until you’re back for good.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I said, leaning downto kiss him. “It’ll be fine.” I said it again, and I wasn’t sure if it was forhim or me.
I remember his smile was so sad, and he sang aline from that song in a hushed voice.
“You remember that one? Mam used to play it alot when we were little.”
I couldn’t understand the hollow ache thatbegan to fill my heart at the sound of his voice, all at once quiet andoverpowering against the crickets and night noises. I excused it initially asthe emotional after-effects of the night’s events; new steps in ourrelationship, new pleasures, and new anxieties over leaving him and my home.Because that seemed most logical, and it almost worked.
But soon that feeling left me worried, becauseI understood what it was: the interruption of distance. A separation that wehad never known before in the memorable parts of our lives. It felt like aforever goodbye and it invaded my bones like a rampant cancer, swallowing mewhole. I kept screaming with my inner voice, that it was a temporary thing, asI had said to him earlier outside of the college. But the bigger, all-knowingpart of myself already knew, and that hollow ache turned into a heart-shatteringfear of never knowing what it would sound like—what it wouldfeellike—to hear Patrick Kinney sing that stupid old song in the bed of his stupidold truck.
As I drowned in that empty hurt, I was suddenlydesperate for those few more minutes, when everything was perfect. So, I liedto him. “I don’t really remember. Will you sing it to me?”
Patrick wasn’t a little bitch, and I suspect heconsidered Singing Love Songs to be on that list of Little Bitch Things. But,after shooting me a hard look of discontent, he puffed his cheeks around a sighand cleared his throat. He began to sing awkwardly to the stars with the waterand crickets as his only music, and I closed my eyes, taking in the lyricsuntil he found confidence in his voice.
Those last verses, he sang directly to me. Helifted my chin, looked in my eyes, and sang about sweet things and sugar babiesand never growing old again.
It was the first time of many before I left forschool, and when I was away, he’d sing through the phone, filling the distancebetween us with a hushed voice. Then, when we were together, we’d make love andhe’d sing for me under the stars. It was our few minutes of perfection, our fewminutes of Patrick and Kinsey without empty aches and goodbyes.
Our sweet thing.
CHAPTER 18 |
Fumbling Hands & Light Bulbs
“What did Itellya,Kins?” His nose brushed against mine, nuzzling.
“What did you tell me?”
“I toldyathings would be perfect again when you were back for good.”
I laughed lightly, sliding myhand over his chest, onto his shoulder. “Things are far from perfect, Patrick.”
“Ah, but I disagree. There arethings that need to be ironed out, sure, but you’re here, with me. That’s a lotbetter than it was a few years ago.” He laughed, resting his forehead againstmine. “Hell, a day ago, I never thought I’d be given two minutes alone withyou, and look at us. So, ifyaask me, I’d say wehave a pretty solid foundation to work with, and that, to me, is perfect.”
His body remained hoveringover mine, arms on either side of my shoulders, locking me in place. I couldhave pushed him away, could have scrambled out from underneath him, but thekiss on the couch had more than solidified that wouldn’t be happening. My bodytingled with electrifying anticipation, nervous of disappointing him, ofdisappointing myself, and my thoughts were snubbed out with the brushing of hisnose against mine. The light grazing of his prickly upper lip against mine. Thedelicate embrace of his bottom lip tracing a line against mine.
“Kinsey.” My name was hisbreath, heating my lips.
My eyes fluttered shut, mylips parted with a verbal sigh in response. My hand, resting on his shoulder,felt the contractions of muscle as he lowered himself onto his forearms,outstretching his legs against mine. Chest pressed against chest, breath insync with breath.
“Open your eyes.”
They were so heavy, myeyelids, but I complied. The corner of his mouth curled. One dimple. “Good.Now, if I wanted to kissyaagain, you’d be okay withthat?”
I nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”
He nodded, biting his lower lip. “That’s good. Now, what ifI wanted to, I don’t know, feelyaup again? You’d beokay with that too?” I arched my back, pressing my chest firmly against his,and that was all the response he needed to smile, his tongue running over hisupper teeth. “That’s good. So, uh, one more question—”
