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The front door closes. Have they left? I inch forward, and President Lattimer speaks again. “Mike has a point,” he says. Their voices are moving away from me. “Your mother would love a grandbaby. ”
There’s a pause. They’ve stopped walking, I think. “She’s only sixteen,” Bishop says. He sounds angry. It takes a split second for it to register that he’s talking about me.
“That’s the whole point, Bishop. The younger the parents, the better the outcome. You know that. Your mother and I were only seventeen when you were born. ” I can almost hear him smile. “And you’re perfect. ”
Bishop sighs. “I’m not perfect, Dad. ”
President Lattimer chuckles. “Close enough to count. ”
I know Bishop suffers under the weight of his father’s expectations, the same way I do with my father. His father believes he’s perfect. My father believes I’m flawed. But our burdens are similar. Bishop constantly having to live up to some impossible ideal. Me having to constantly prove I can be more than a disappointment. Is he as weary of it as I am?
President Lattimer lowers his voice, and I have to press forward to hear him. “You are trying, aren’t you? Everything’s okay in that department?” He sounds uncomfortable and it might be enough to make me laugh if I wasn’t so angry. I want to storm out into the hall and tell him it’s none of his damn business.
“Everything’s fine,” Bishop says, impatient. “But maybe we’re not ready for kids yet. ” I hear the front door open. “Ivy gets a say in this, you know. It’s about what she wants, too. ”
“Well, of course it is. ” President Lattimer is agreeing with his words but not with his tone.
“Besides,” Bishop says, “there’s plenty of time. ”
“Less than you think. ” President Lattimer’s voice is sad. “There’s always less time than you think, Bishop. So don’t waste it. ”
The door closes and one set of footsteps heads back in my direction. I shrink against the wall, but they stop before reaching the library. Another door closes.
He’s gone back into his office. I sneak out of the library, down the hall, and out the front door before anyone else appears.
I take the long way home, walking off the excess adrenaline flowing through my veins. I probably could have come up with an excuse if I’d been caught lingering outside President Lattimer’s office, but the near miss still scared me. It makes my palms sweat just to think I will have to attempt it again soon.
The house is quiet when I get home, and I think maybe Bishop went somewhere else instead. But faint splashing sounds from the backyard draw me out onto the screened porch. Bishop is kneeling in the grass, washing clothes in the old metal trough. He put too much soap in, as usual, and suds overflow over the sides of the tub and decorate the lawn like miniature snow drifts. I watch him for a few moments, then step outside onto the back steps. It’s a beautiful day, not as hot as it has been, but the sun is high in a powder blue sky painted with white streaks of clouds. On days like this it’s hard to believe we almost ruined the world not all that long ago.
“You’re working hard. ”
He startles, his hand knocking against the side of the metal tub. He looks up, shaking out his knuckles. I give him a shy smile, one hand shading my eyes from the sun. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. But everything seems different since we kissed. I know how he tastes now, how his skin feels under my hands. It shouldn’t make that big of a difference, but it does. We’re more than just roommates now. More than tentative friends.
“You’re home early,” he says.
“It was slow at the courthouse. Victoria said I might as well take advantage of the down time. ”
He smiles at me. “Well, come put your down time to good use. ”
I slip off my shoes and leave them on the step. “Are they rinsed?”
“Yep. Just need to hang them. ” He holds up my bra and I snatch it from his hand, my cheeks flushed. “I’ll do the sheets,” he says, smothering a laugh, and I attempt to give him a stern look that’s completely ruined by my grin. “Good idea,” I say.
Bishop is on the last sheet when I step up next to him to help, a clothespin between my lips and one in my hand. “There,” I say, once I’ve clipped them in place. I smooth down the sheet with both hands, making a crisp, flapping sound. We are cocooned between the two clotheslines, a sheet hanging on either side of us. We have made a bedding fort.
He is facing me, close enough that I can see every fleck of darker green in his eyes. “Come here,” he says, and the intensity in his voice surprises me. He looks breathless, like I feel, and so impossibly beautiful it makes my chest ache.
I hold out my hand and he takes it, pulls me flush against him. My arms weave their way around his neck. I’m tall enough I don’t have to stand on tiptoe when we kiss; a slight tilt of my head and his lips are right there.
My body thrums against his like a plucked string, my mouth not quite relaxing the way it did last night. His hand tightens briefly on my back and then loosens. He’s leaving it up to me whether I want to pull away. I know I should. There’s a moment where it could go either way, but then I press even closer, my lips part, and his hand on my neck tightens. A tiny sigh escapes my mouth and he catches it with his.
These kisses should feel less intense, in the bright daylight, standing upright instead of lying against each other. But they don’t. Shrouded by the sheets from the bed I still sleep in alone, the unforgiving sun on our shoulders, the contact feels more intimate than it did in the private darkness of the screened porch. Maybe because we’re slowly beginning to learn each other.
When he pulls back, I keep my eyes closed, the sun lighting up the inside of my eyelids with a warm golden haze. He cups my face in both hands, runs his thumbs along my cheekbones. “How about that skirt?” he whispers. “And your top? Maybe we should go ahead and throw them in the wash? You know, so we don’t waste water. ” He moves his hands down to lightly grip my hips, one finger finding bare skin under the hem of my shirt.
I open my eyes, and I know without looking that their gray light is shining. I rest my forehead in the hollow of his throat, laughter bubbling out of me. I feel, more than hear, a peaceful hum from deep in Bishop’s chest. He tips his head down and rests his lips against my hair. I am content to stay that way and he seems to be, too. And so we do. A boy and a girl holding each other between the sheets.
I dream about him now. Almost every night. Not good dreams where he’s making me laugh or kissing me or touching me with his strong hands. Dreams where I stick a knife in his chest or put a bullet in his brain or smother him in his sleep. Every possible variation of horror I will potentially inflict. I wake with wet cheeks and a pounding heart. In those dark hours of night, when the house is silent around me and he sleeps on the other side of my bedroom wall, I know down deep in my soul that I cannot kill him. That I would rather die myself than be the one to take his life. But I don’t know if I can save him, either.
