We had no formal pretenses or stilted checking off of moments—compliments paid, batting of eyes accomplished. It was just…us.
“Us,” he repeated uncertainly. “That is…if you’d like there to be…an us?”
He licked his lips and I wanted to reach out and squeeze him. He looked unspeakably uncomfortable, as though finally putting a definition to our relationship left him vulnerable and worried.
“I…I’ve grown quite fond of you, Verity. I hope you knowthat.”
I nodded, fearing any words from me would break the moment.
“I never allowed myself to imagine ever being in this position…meeting someone as lovely and wonderful as you are, so talented and smart, and such a good fit…”
He reached out and placed the palm of his hand over my cheek, brushing his thumb across its soft curve. I offered a smile to encourage him on.
“I’d always assumed, because of this”—he tapped his free hand against the wheelchair’s arm—“that I wouldn’t ever marry.” A burst of red broke over his face, staining his cheeks and neck, and he pulled back, his hand swiping through the air as he tried to sort out his words. “Not that I’m saying we’ll be married. I just…I only…” He scrunched his eyes closed. “What I’m trying to say is…I should very much like to court you, Verity Thaumas, if I may.” The words poured from him in a heated rush as if he couldn’t get them out fast enough. After a moment, he dared to peek at me from one eye. “You…you’re laughing at me!”
I couldn’t contain my smile. “You sound so nervous right now.”
“I am,” he admitted.
“I’m sorry,” I said, covering his hand with an encouraging caress. “You needn’t be…you know that, don’t you?”
“It’s a difficult subject to speak on and it’s why I’ve not brought it up till now…I like you, Verity. More than like…I…I care for you. Deeply.” He raked his fingers through his dark waves. “You’re the first thing I think of when I open my eyes and the only thing I spend my nights dreaming of. But I know that a life with me…with this chair…may not be something that would appeal to you.”
My heart swelled with hurt as I imagined all the dark and lonely thoughts racing through his mind. Carefully, I scooted down the bench, drawing closer to him. “It’s never bothered me before,” I promised. “And I can’t believe it ever would.”
“You don’t know that,” he protested. “You—”
“I know I want—that I’vealwayswanted—to do this,” I insisted, and surprised us both by leaning forward and pressing my lips to his.
It was our first kiss,myfirst kiss, and it was…
It’s only a first kiss,I reminded myself, feeling oddly detached from the moment.
I registered that he tasted of lemonade and berries and the sweet afternoon sunlight. My fingertips slid along his face, tracing the lines I’d drawn dozens of times but never truly understood till now.
I analyzed each action, every movement, every sensation, his scent, his taste, and was left with a troubling hollowness in my chest. Wasn’t I supposed to be feeling something? Wasn’t I supposed to be caught in a wave of ecstasy, swooning and breathless and…something? Anything.
Was this…
Was this all there was to a kiss?
That couldn’t be right.
Poets didn’t write sonnets about this.
Songs were not sung over feelings like this.
This felt…perfunctory.
I pulled away, trying to figure out what I’d done wrong. What we’d done wrong.
Was it the angle? The pressure?
Alex smiled but I found I couldn’t read it, couldn’t guess at the thoughts running through his mind.
Was he as confused as I felt?
I was certain I desired him—I thought of him often and in increasingly intimate ways—but had I been wrong? Or were the physical aspects of love impossible to live up to the wild fantasies of an overactive imagination? Though wholly inexperienced myself, I was no prude. I’d skimmed through my sisters’ tattered romance novels. I’d been to the opera. I knew what a gloriously thrilling moment a kiss was meant to be.
