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e side of my face. It’s slow and sweet and soft and real.
And I can’t breathe. I can’t even think. I can’t do anything but kiss him back. He doesn’t try to stick his tongue down my throat or anything. Instead, he slowly kisses me, drawing my lower lip between his and giving it a gentle suckle. I reach for his arm so that I have something to hold on to. Suddenly he pulls back, and he looks down at me, his chest heaving. “That was a little better.”
“Wow,” I say, unable to think. “Much better.”
He smacks his lips together. “You taste like peppers and mustard.”
I duck my head. “Sorry.”
He laughs. “I love peppers and mustard.”
And I love you, I think to myself. But I don’t dare say it, although it’s sitting right there in my heart. It’s beating against my ribcage, trying like a motherfucker to get out.
He leans over and I think he’s going in for a second kiss, but he’s really just going for a bite of my sausage dog. He grins as a piece of onion sticks to his chin until he slurps it up.
“Classy,” I say as I lean over and wipe his chin with my thumb. Then I wipe my thumb on his jeans.
“Thanks,” he says.
I look at the food he brought. “Where’s the funnel cake?”
“They were out,” he says around his full mouth.
“Aww man,” I complain.
“They’re making me one.” He jerks his thumb toward the concession stand. “They said about ten minutes. There was a line.”
“You’re my hero.” I bat my lashes at him, which makes him laugh. But then he sobers.
“I’ve always wanted to be somebody’s hero,” he says, almost reverently.
Marcy crawls across the air mattress and takes Barbara-Claire’s boat of chili cheese fries back with her. She sets them in front of her and eats while she plays.
“I want one of those,” he suddenly says.
I look toward Marcy. “A boat of fries?” I ask. “Were they out?”
He shakes his head. He chuckles quietly. “No, not fries,” he says. He points toward Marcy. “One of those.”
“One of what?” I ask, confused. I look around Marcy, trying to figure out what he’s talking about.
“A kid, Clifford,” he says as he rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind having one of those.” He nudges me with his elbow as I eat my sausage dog. “You ever think you might like one?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. But that gnawing feeling that’s been in my gut for the past few years suddenly turns into something real. “More lately than usual.” Like now.
“Why more lately?” he asks quietly.
I scratch my nose. “It always seemed out of reach before,” I admit.
“And now?” His gaze is deep and searching.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “You tell me.” Tell me something, please.
“If you and I could get along for more than five minutes, I would knock you up so fast.” He laughs out loud.
“I’m almost forty, Grady,” I announce.
“Then we’d have to get started quick.” He grins.
