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They stood in the dark while a cold sea mist swelled, frozen. Drum locked in whatever pain and distress made him believe in his guilt, his lack of worth, and seek an unorthodox shelter, and Foley clinging to an unreasonable expectation that Drum could be her less ordinary when he was a man most in need of the security of being more ordinary.
She moved a hand to his face. “I have to go.” She had to not come back and that was terrible in its rightness.
His grip on her neck softened and he dropped his hand away. He moved his head so their foreheads rested together. “See you in the morning.”
She shook her head because that was safer than opening her mouth. She rubbed her thumb across his cheekbone, knowing this was the last time she was going to touch him.
“It’s a full moon tomorrow night. I’ll light a fire to keep you warm.”
She said, “I can’t,” and the smallness of her voice, the way it wavered, told him what she couldn’t say. It wasn’t about the morning or the moon, it was about these moments stolen from life, an imaginary wonderful that had no real world parallel. She couldn’t build a relationship with a man who was homeless and preferred it that way.
He sucked in a breath and his hand came back to her neck. “No.”
“I can’t.”
“Please don’t.”
“It’s not right. You need help. I’m making your life seem normal. It’s not normal.”
He pulled away, both hands lifting to his head, a Hugh-like gesture of despair, the frost on the grass crunching under his feet. He paced in front of her, a few steps left, a few right.
Words jammed in her throat, tears coursed down her face. They’d never played a video game, never talked on the phone, never gone to a bar or eaten a proper restaurant meal. She couldn’t have him home to her parents’ for dinner. She couldn’t talk about him at work, introduce him to her friends. They’d never kissed and yet he was her moon, her stars, her sun, all burned up in a meteor shower.
She caught his hand and he stilled. He said, “I understand,” in a voice that was cut up and corrugated, and the rift inside her ripped wide. She threw herself at him, encircling his neck, pulling their faces close.
One heartbeat and he wrapped his arms around her. Two heartbeats and he’d lifted her to her toes. Three heartbeats and their eyes locked. Four and she did an unforgivable, unrepeatable thing.
She kissed him.
20: Knockout
Foley’s kiss detonated inside him, shattering his peace, resetting his expectations. Drum clamped a hand to the back of her head to hold her in place as the sweetness of her mouth made his blood surge. This was wrong, but he couldn’t stop it. This was devastating, but he wanted more.
It was one kiss, the briefest press of her lips to his and it knocked sunrise out of the sky. He’d never see it again without missing her heat, without craving her touch.
She made a soft sound of surprise and she kissed him again, her fingers digging into the back of his neck, her short nails bitin
g. This time her lips parted and he tasted her, fear and delight, bravery and regret, and he gave her his tongue, his flavour, fault and shame, and she swept them away, so all that remained was the sensation of her warm, wet mouth, her throaty sighs and moans.
He curled around her and made her his haven, his place, his new home and yet he knew the weight of him could demolish her. But he couldn’t stop. He took her kisses and he made them longing and lust, built of them a flimsy promise he’d try to be different, try to explain.
She kissed him and her face was hot and wet, and she climbed his body like it was a rock wall, and he wasn’t cold, and he wasn’t sorry, and he wasn’t wretched about everything that had happened before now.
All his pain, his confusion, was shunted aside with the sting of her teeth and the slick of her tongue. They bumped noses and caressed each other. Pausing, panting, taking more. He planted his feet hard so he could hold her steady, so he could be the shore she broke on, because this would break her, that was the way of it, and when she was ready he had to let her go.
Until then, until she needed her freedom, he took her lips, her mouth, her throat, the curves and angles of her through too many layers, too many considerations, and he learned them so they’d keep him warm like a blaze in an oil drum when this was over.
She ended it with the same kind of wrench she’d started it with, unwinding from him in increments, withdrawing from him in stages; a closed mouth kiss, a hand through his hair, her feet to the ground, her face pressed to his chest, her hand in his, then their arms stretched long till only their fingers touched.
“I can’t,” she said, voice broken, and he let their fingers separate, let her go.
Drum watched Foley run across the park. He waited till he thought she’d made it to her car and then he waited longer, knowing she might sit there before she drove away.
He walked the streets for the rest of the night, too keyed up to sleep. Tomorrow he’d be alone again. Tomorrow he’d replace the shine that was Foley with the existence he’d chosen, because he’d been wrong to think he could have her in his twisted life without hurting her.
He had no odd jobs to do and no money for breakfast, and it was too cold to sleep. From the cliff he could see the skating rink set up for Ice by the Sea. The council had brought in the last of the fir trees in big pots yesterday to make the whole thing look like Christmas in July, if it were ever planted on a surf beach. This weekend the first skaters would hit the ice.
He kept to the cave that whole day, but hunger drove him out Sunday morning. He hauled garbage for Tony in exchange for a bacon and egg roll and coffee and a big bag of bruised fruit, and then he went to watch the skating. There was a large crowd he could get lost in. He leaned against the railing and sipped his coffee. No one on the ice could skate with any degree of anything but luck. He’d learnt as a kid, but he hadn’t been near skates in years, wondered if it was like riding a bike, like flying a plane.
