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This time, he traces the tip of his tongue along my top lip. But before he’s finished, I dart my tongue out, brushing mine against his.
“Mmm,” he moans softly, and I push my tongue a little farther inside his mouth.
This time, he lets out a deeper moan, and his hand slides from my ribs down to my hip. I angle my head and move my lips against his, prompting him to follow my lead.
I can’t remember ever teaching a man to kiss. Not that I expect to remember something like that since I can’t remember my own address. But I was always good at playing teacher when Lina and I played schoolhouse as children. Maybe this isn’t so different.
No, it’s definitely different.
The kiss is awkward and sweet as I move between open and closed mouth, tongue and no tongue, fast and slow, hungry and exploratory. But Walker is a fast learner. And before I know it, his weight is pressing me into the warm earth as my legs wrap around his hips.
We kiss like that for hours. We kiss until our lips are swollen and chafed. We kiss until our hair is matted with dirt and leaves, and I’ve rubbed away the dressing on my foot. We kiss until the sun begins to set, and the sky is as pink as our cheeks.
Hidden Stash
Five months earlier
As I sat curled up on the tufted leather sofa in my father’s study, I stared at his empty chair and tried to remember every single time I’d seen him sitting there. The first memory I could recall was when I was six years old. My mother was distracted, busy cooking a big batch of thumbprint cookies for a bake sale. I seized the opportunity to sneak into my father’s study while he was working, something we were never supposed to do. My father didn’t like being interrupted when he was deep in his creative flow.
I turned the brass doorknob so slowly, I was certain my father would not have heard a sound. But when I pushed the door open a few inches, he was staring right at me. I froze with sheer panic.
My parents never spanked us or locked us in a closet or made us skip meals, like some other parents. So I didn’t really know what kind of punishment to expect for disobeying the most important rule in the house. Somehow, this made me even more terrified than the time I’d been caught watching TV after dinner instead of reading, for which I knew the punishment was no TV for a month.
I wanted to flee. Maybe if I ran away fast enough, my father wouldn’t know if it was Lina or me who’d opened the door. But before I could move a muscle, he spoke.
“Come in, pumpkin,” he called out gently. He didn’t seem angry.
I pushed the door open and plodded toward my father’s sparse writing desk, just a slab of polished mahogany with four spindly legs. My father abhorred drawers. He thought most people used them like waste bins; a place you tossed things you wanted to forget about.
My father pulled me onto his lap, and instead of punishing me, he read the book he was working on. I was the first one to see. And when I told my siblings about it, he didn’t deny he’d shown it to me. But he made them wait until it was published before they could see it.
After that, my father often came to me for my opinion on his children’s books. It was a poorly kept secret in our house that I was my father’s favorite. My siblings didn’t complain because my mother clearly doted more on Lina, the eldest, and Carter, her baby boy. But I was a daddy’s girl through and through.
Now that my father was gone, what was I?
I ran through the litany of memories I had of my father’s study, as if compiling enough of them would make my father reappear in that creaky desk chair.
The doorknob turned, and Marc walked in, looking far too handsome for the occasion in his black Dolce & Gabbana suit. He slipped out of his coat and hung it on the rack near the door, making himself comfortable. At least, that was how I interpreted his actions. I couldn't deny the house was too warm. Now that my father was dead, my mother could crank up the thermostat as high as she wanted.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, closing the door softly behind him.
I smiled as he took a seat next to me on the sofa. “Can you smell it?”
“Smell what?”
I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly. “It smells like coffee in here. He’s been dead for six days, and it still smells like coffee.”
Marc wore a reserved smile when I opened my eyes. “He probably has a stash somewhere in here.”
I laughed. “Of course. He started hoarding his beans when Mom started using grocery delivery. She always forgot to get his coffee.” My throat grew tight and painful. “I just can’t bear to be out there with them.”
“I know, honey,” he assured me.
“No, you don’t know,” I replied, turning to look out the windows behind my father’s desk. “He shouldn’t have been able to get in that car unattended. My mother should have been watching him.”
“Cass, this isn’t your mom’s fault.”
“I know that!” I shrieked, my hands trembling as I pulled the skirt of my black dress over my exposed knees. “I know. But that doesn’t mean my heart isn’t breaking. It doesn’t mean I’m not desperate for answers. How could this have happened? How could she let this happen?”
Marc knew better than to try to reach for me. “We’ve been over this. Your mother only left him alone for a few minutes. She had no idea he was going to take the car out for a drive.”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” I said, shaking my head. “And I can’t be out there with them, trading stories with all the uncles and aunts and cousins who never visited him after his diagnosis. I can’t do it.”
“And I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to do that. You have every right to be angry.”
My anger only seemed to grow the more Marc consoled me. “Please don’t patronize me. You see me suffering, and still, you sit on your throne of secrets. Please…just leave me alone. I need to be alone.”
“I would rather not leave you alone when you’re this upset.”
I rounded on him. “What do you think I’m going to do? Get in the car and crash into a fucking tree?”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. “It was an accident. Your father didn’t commit—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Just please leave me alone.”
“No. I’d be a cold-hearted idiot to leave you alone right now.” He reached out slowly, placing his hand on top of mine. “I promised your dad I’d take care of you.”
My eyes welled up with tears as I recalled the poem my father wrote for our wedding. “He thought he didn’t know me.” I swallowed the lump in my throat as I looked into Marc’s eyes. “How can you be so sure you know me?”
His face grew ashen as if I’d said I wanted a divorce.
“How does that feel?” I said, then I got up and left to join the other mourners.
Echoes
It took a lot of begging to get Walker to agree to paint something for me. I offered to help him fix the car. I offered to paint the whole house. He wouldn’t bite. In the end, my offer to sleep in the same bed as him was the clincher, but only if he was allowed to paint my portrait.
I’m not going to tell him that I’m the one getting the sweet deal. I’ll just let him keep on believing I made an enormous compromise.
As I sit on the plaid blanket on the grass in the backyard, Walker and his wooden easel stand about fifteen feet away. He’s facing west, hoping to get a good composition of me relaxing with the sun setting over the tree line behind me. I feel like sitting in this position makes me look fat, but I don’t tell him that. Then, I might have to tell him how I got this loose skin and these stretch marks on my belly.
Now that I think of it, if I spend the night with Walker in his upstairs bedroom tonight, he might find out what I remembered earlier today.
I’ve lost three babies.
I don’t know what it means, but it likely means I’ve probably been in a relationship where we were trying to conceive. I try not to think about the possibility I might still be in a relationship. I wasn’t wearing a wedding rin
g when I woke up after the crash. It’s more likely I’m divorced or single.
Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that my family is probably worried sick about me. And I can’t shake this feeling I was trying to get lost when I crashed my car. But what was I running from?
All these thoughts race through my addled mind as I try to remain as still as possible for Walker. He’s an abstract painter, so I don’t think I have to stay perfectly still. Besides, concentrating on not moving my body gives me something to focus on other than these new memories.
But the peaceful stillness doesn’t last long.
“Tilt your seat back,” Walker calls out to me.
“What did you say?” I shout back.
He shouts louder this time. “Tilt your head back, please!”
I swallow hard, my mouth pooling with saliva as I’m hit with a sudden wave of nausea.
“Can you hear me?” he calls out, even louder this time.
Ignoring his request, I lie back and close my eyes as I’m bombarded with memories.
A college party. A dark backyard. Feeling lit up from the inside out.
An empty apartment. Looking out the window to the city below.
The bloody toilet in the teacher’s lounge. Pressing the lever to flush it away.
