Page 52 of Jacob Michaels is Dead

Lucas sighed.

“I love you, too.”

Then he leaned down, and his lips found mine. For several long seconds, our lips, no longer amateurish in their movements, pressed together passionately. When Lucas finally pulled away, he was smiling, his eyes dreamy, but there was also concern.

“Is tonight the night?” He asked gently, his fingers finding my hair.

“Yes.” I nodded slowly, my eyes closing at the feel of his fingers in my hair.

“Are we still going to…ya’ know?” He whispered his question.

“Yes.” I tried to smile, but I was nervous. Not for the sex, but for the second part of our plan. “And then…”

“I don’t want you to go.” He swallowed hard, fighting his tears back.

“I don’t want to go,” I said. “But…I have to. You know that, right?”

“I wish I could go with you.”

“Me, too.”

“But you’ll come back.”

“Always.”

“We’ll always be together?”

“Even in death.”

Oma was in the kitchen like she always was, preparing another breakfast, humming a tune to herself, cupboards suddenly slamming shut, and shadows shifting as I gamboled into the room. Bacon and biscuits and sausage gravy perfumed the air—the signature scent of Oma’s house in the morning. Too hungry to entertain propriety, I plopped down into one of the kitchen chairs, prepared to eat. I was hungry. I was always hungry.

“What have I told you about flingin’ your ass into my kitchen chairs?” Oma turned around; the large kitchen spoon in her hand was coated with gravy.

It made my mouth water.

“I’m sorry, Oma.” I blushed. “Your cooking just always smells so good.”

“I guess I can take that as an apology.”

She cackled and turned back to the stove. Oma had rules in her house and a strict sense of what was and wasn’t proper behavior. While she was quick to correct breaking the rules or displaying improper behavior, she was just as ready to laugh and forgive. Oma wasn’t one to ever genuinely hold a grudge against anyone. Besides the Kelly family. As far as I knew, she’d never actually punished me for anything. Of course, Oma had a way with her looks and her words that let one know you would never want to suffer one of her punishments. So…I was a pretty good kid.

“Now,” Oma said, the metal spoon scratching against the cast iron skillet, “what have you been up to the last few days?”

Summer sun was streaming through the window, making everything look soft and lazy and warm.

“Nothing.” I shrugged.

“Nothin’.” She snorted. “Nothin’ my wrinkled ass, Robbie.”

“Oma…”

She waggled her head. “Rob.”

“Thank you.” My pubescent voice cracked.

“I’ll never get used to calling you that.” She turned to me, putting her fists against her hips. “You’re not a ‘Rob.’ You’re too damn sweet to go by ‘Rob.’ I’m just goin’ to call you ‘Robbie’ until you feel like a ‘Rob,’ and you can hate me if you want.”

She gave me a wink and turned back to the stove. Since Oma’s back was turned and she couldn’t see it, I let myself smile.