Our mouths open, our tongues dance and her arms twine around my neck. I caress her cheek and then allow my hands to roam. Along her back, into her hair and down her sides. Veronica shivers under my touch and presses tight to me, crawling onto my lap, leaving no space between. Her lips leave mine, graze down my cheek and we’re both breathing at a frantic pace.
“Let’s keep kissing,” she whispers in my ear then nips my earlobe. A new type of rush enters my system and it’s stealing all thought from my brain. “Just kissing, nothing more. But I don’t want to stop. Not yet. I just want to keep doing this.”
I nod my agreement. Her hands find my hair and her fingernails lightly scrape along my scalp as she presses her lips to mine again. A maddening heat rolls through my bloodstream—a rhythmic current begging and pleading for more. With the way Veronica holds on to me, she’s feeling the same driving pulse. I could kiss her forever and that’s exactly what I do.
VERONICA
Sawyer held my hand on the car ride home. We didn’t say much. We listened to the radio, we kept smiling at each other, and we kept holding hands. His fingers would slide against mine, I would trace his knuckles, and my heartbeat would rise with just the mere thought of kissing him again.
Taking the corner toward my house, I catch a glimpse of myself in the side mirror. My lips are swollen from the hours of kissing, my hair rumpled in way that shows I’ve been properly kissed and I’m almost terrified to look at my neck as I’m ninety-nine percent sure there’s a hickey there since I’m one hundred percent sure there’s one on Sawyer.
“Stay here,” he says as he parks in front of the house. It’s four-thirty A.M. and the world is still asleep. I should be, and considering school starts in a few hours, so should he, but he doesn’t seem to care we’ve been up all night and neither do I.
Sawyer leaves the car, rounds the front and opens the door for me. The action makes me joyous and causes me to be a bit shy. It’s a stupid reaction, I guess, but it’s real.
After he closes the door, Sawyer shines down at me as he takes my hand. We go up the walk and then he patiently waits at my side as I unlock the main door. Once inside, I close the door, relock it and have to stifle a giggle when Sawyer immediately uses his body to back mine up against the wall.
He’s solid and strong, and he feels so right against me. My hands wander up to his chest as his hands rest on my hips. If I stretch to the tip of my toes and kiss his lips, how long will we spend making out near the stairwell? Minutes? Hours? Days? An eternity?
“If we start this,” I murmur, “I don’t think it will end.”
Sawyer leans forward, nuzzles the hair behind my ear with his nose and pleasing goose bumps form. “Is that a bad thing?”
No. Not at all, but then I sigh. “It is if my dad finds us like this. He’s awesome, but he’s not that awesome.”
But that doesn’t stop Sawyer from nibbling on my ear then placing delicious kisses along my neck, nor does it stop my fingers from curling into his shirt and dragging him closer to me. He draws me in for another round of kissing, and my slow and hazed mind decides this is one the most brilliant ideas I’ve ever had—sharing this night with him.
“Do you want me to stop?” Sawyer asks between kisses.
I gasp as he kisses the sensitive spot behind my ear. “No.” Yet I uncurl my fingers, place my hand flat against the hard plane of his chest and lightly push. Because Sawyer’s a real man, he immediately backs away and gives me my space.
He hitches his thumbs in his pockets and he looks so adorable that I want to drag him back into me again. But daylight will be breaking soon, our proverbial midnight, and we’ll both be forced to return to reality. Him being Sawyer Sutherland, popular, cool guy, and me being the weird, quirky girl who lives upstairs from him.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say.
“Does it have to end?” he asks.
“The daylight about to break says yes. I, at least, get to sleep on our way to Florida. You have to go to class.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He shrugs his shoulders like he’s unsure of himself, which catches my attention because Sawyer Sutherland is the definition of confidence. “I mean what happened tonight between us. Me and you. It just started. Does it have to end?”
What Sawyer is suggesting is so sweet, so beautiful, but impossible. “What do you see when you look at me?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“Maybe.”
Sawyer is hesitant as he steps toward me, giving me the room to reject his advance, but I stay still because his being close creates sensations in me I want to feel again. He touches one of my curls and the slight pull on my head sends pleasurable shivers down my spine.
“I see beauty.” His voice is so deep, so sincere that it vibrates along my insides. “I see someone who’s intelligent, funny, confident, and unique.”
I search his face, his eyes, desperate to see if there’s more, waiting for him to bring up the tumor like Leo would, but he doesn’t. Probably because he doesn’t understand my situation, not like Leo did. Leo saw the agonizing way my mom died. He saw how it affected me, affected my father, how it tore our family apart and turned our lives upside down.
“I see someone I like being with,” Sawyer continues, “and I hope someone who likes being with me.”
My heart stutters because I like being with him. So incredibly much, and it warms every part of me that he feels the same. He knows I have a brain tumor, but he doesn’t understand what my future holds and what his future holds if he cares for me.
I don’t want this to end, but if he and I get any more serious than we already have, I’ll be forced to tell him the truth—that I’m dying. By the grace of God, Sawyer doesn’t see my tumor, but me, and I selfishly don’t want to lose that.
Nerves feast on my stomach as I don’t know what to do. With or about him. I don’t know if I should run away to save us both from pain, or maybe it would be better if I don’t run at all.
“I like being with you, too,” I say, and while that’s not a new declaration, there’s something in how I become shy as I say it and how his eyes glint with happiness that makes this moment absolutely sweet and terrifying.
Footsteps on the stairs and Sawyer glances over his shoulder. My pulse quickens as there’s no one there, but we both hear the footsteps continuing down each step. Sawyer moves to stand in front of me, as if he can protect me from the unseen.
“Who’s there?” he says, but no one answers.
“It’s four forty-five,” I say. “It happens every morning at this time. The same as at midnight, but these steps are always heavier, darker than the ones at midnight.”
We both stare, seeing nothing, but the hair on my arms stands on end, and when I look down, Sawyer’s skin is prickling as well. He feels it, the energy, the ghost. My mouth turns up as I run my hands along his arms. “Do you believe now?”
Sawyer raises an eyebrow as he returns his attention to me. “I believe it’s an old house that settles with the changes in air pressure.”
I seductively tilt my head with a pout. “Is that what you believe?”
I love how Sawyer’s eyes darken as he watches my lips. “Which answer gives me the greater odds of kissing you again?”
I laugh, and as he leans in for another round, the door at the top of the stairs opens and Sawyer and I jump.
“I see you on the monitor,” Dad says, and I swear to God I blush from head to toe. “You need to come up, and Sawyer needs to decide what type of man he’s going to be.”
“Great,” I whisper, but I give Sawyer major credit when he offers me his hand. I take it, and we walk with our fingers linked together up the stairs.
“Sir,” Sawyer says as Dad stands at the door indicating for us to walk in. Once inside, I see Mom at the piano bench. She turns her head, and when our eyes meet, a strange electricity hits me, headfirst. I’m stunned and then the world turns. Fast, too fast. Dizzy, I waver.
“Veronica?�
� Sawyer says, and there’s a strong arm around me. I don’t respond, I can’t respond. It’s like my tongue has become too big. Sawyer talks, Dad talks, there’s buzzing and then there’s complete and terrifying silence. The floor beneath me gives and I fall. Like a feather, down a hole and then I’m caught.
Sound returns, as if someone literally flipped a switch, and I’m able to blink, able to talk, able to function. As I go to regain my footing, I feel something soft beneath me. The couch. I’m on the couch. I sit up, and there’s immediately hands on my shoulders keeping me in place. Dad. It’s Dad. His scared eyes bore into mine.
“You okay, peanut?” he asks in a low tone. A conversation meant just for us.
“Yeah,” I say, and then do something I swore to Mom I’d never do. I lie. Directly. About my health. I promised. I know I did, but she also promised she’d be okay and she wasn’t and now if I don’t lie, I will lose what I’ve found tonight, and I can’t let that happen. Not yet. “Ice-pick headache.”
Dad eases down onto the coffee table, and I’m impressed it doesn’t collapse under his weight. He rubs a hand over his face as if he’s tired and then stares straight into my eyes. I work on trying to look normal. A breath in, a breath out, blink.
“You know how these headaches are,” I say. “They hit hard and fast. I should have probably stayed in bed for longer than what I did.”
“You can say that again.” A war wages within him, and I pray he believes me. I need him to believe me. With a sigh, he gives his verdict. “But it is what it is. Thank you for being man enough to face me with her, Sawyer.” Dad holds out his hand to him. Sawyer hesitates before extending his arm and accepting Dad’s shake. “A boy would have sent her up the stairs and run.
“Next time though”—Dad’s grip visibly tightens—“I’d appreciate it if you brought her back with fewer marks on her body like the one currently on her neck.”
Sawyer turns bright red. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Yeah, well, it’s time for you to head home.” Dad doesn’t sound angry, just tired, and he returns his concerned gaze to me.
I don’t want Sawyer to leave. Not like this, not yet. Not with him having seen me like this. Not with me going out of town tomorrow. “Can Sawyer and I say good-bye?” And I become very brave. “Alone.”
Dad’s eyebrows shoot up. “Alone, eh? I think you two had plenty of alone time to say good-bye, but because I’m a good sport, I’m going to make some coffee, in the kitchen, and you two have a few more minutes for good-bye. Words, mind you.”
It’s the best I’ll get, and I’m aware how awesome my father is. I know of no other parent who would be even close to as cool as Dad’s being. True to his word, Dad heads into the kitchen and offers us his back to allow us privacy. Sawyer moves in front of me and crouches so that we’re eye to eye. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say in return, and it’s strange how fascinatingly shy I feel.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just a headache. A weird headache, but a headache. When you hang with me strange things will happen.”
Sawyer flashes me his adorable, cocky grin. “That I know.”
I’m flying.
“You didn’t answer me earlier,” Sawyer whispers, but there’s no doubt Dad probably hears. “Is this something we can continue?”
I nibble on my bottom lip then whisper back, “There will be rules.”
“Rules. I can do that. Tell me what they are.”
I glance over at Dad, and he immediately returns to pouring cream into his mug.
“We’re fun,” I whisper as silently as I can, in a way that Sawyer can hear and not Dad. “We can be us, together, but there’s no pressure. We just enjoy each day, okay?”
Sawyer tilts his head as if he’s not convinced, and I quietly continue. “We’re seniors and a lot can happen next year and I want to have fun, not be in an awkward relationship where we become jealous and fight all the time. We hang out, we laugh, we…” I sneak a peek at Dad, he looks away again and I mouth the word, “kiss.”
Sawyer’s eyes laugh and then he takes my hand. “I’m game for fun, and I like having fun with you. But if we kiss, I’m not into sharing.”
“Okay.” I’m happily flustered as he slides his fingers along my arm.
Sawyer is fine with keeping us chill, but wants a kissing-only-each-other commitment, and he’s basically agreeing that this is a senior-year-only thing. That’s good. It’s beyond good. It’s great. We enjoy our senior year, graduate, and then he’ll go off to college, I’ll have my MRI and then that’s when I’ll battle Dad over being sick.
Sawyer leans forward, briefly kisses my lips then stands. Dad tells Sawyer good-bye and he walks out the door. My father grabs his coffee mug and settles on the other end of the couch. He looks over at me and I at him. “A normal parent would ground you for what you pulled tonight.”
I nod because they would. “Are you going to?”
“That would require us to be normal. Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing wrong by you, but your mom told me to trust you and I am. But if you lie to me, that trust goes away and so does my patience with waking to find notes telling me you left.”
“I hear you,” I say. “And I won’t break your trust.”
SAWYER
Monday June 17: Nothing at all doing today. Cured a lot.
M. is polishing over in the MacDonald Solarium now, so I spose I’ll see quite a lot of him. I won’t mind very much, I don’t think. Oh, Diary, I like him. I think that he is a gentleman.
Oh, Diary, I want to go home so badly. I wish I would hurry up and get well, if I’m ever going to.
I suppose I’ll see a lot of Veronica, too. And I like her, as well. I also wonder if I’m going to get well—if when Mom pisses me off I won’t want to jump. Like now.
In a reusable shopping bag by Mom’s feet on the floorboard of the passenger side of my car are three bottles of wine. On the phone with Hannah earlier today Mom laughed and said she’s bringing a bottle for every bad day she had this week. Don’t know why, but each word was the equivalent of sticking my hand into a working blender.
Those three bottles of wine would be the reason why I’m driving us to Sylvia’s for another Saturday night potluck dinner. Lucy’s strapped into the backseat, singing a song she’s made up on her own. Most of it is about unicorns and how she loves macaroni and cheese.
Veronica returns sometime tonight, and I’m equal parts dying to see her and going slightly insane. I lost myself in kissing her and in the dream kissing her provided. Veronica and I agreed to a committed, chill relationship, which is good because the idea of that intense bullcrap love I see everywhere else in the world rubs me wrong.
What’s really wrong is for me to have committed to her without telling her the truth about the night we jumped into the river. But how do I tell her? How do I keep her yet be honest?
Mom looks over her shoulder to Lucy. “Are you excited to move into a house in this neighborhood?”
Lucy stops singing and scans the huge, new houses with lawns that don’t have a single weed. I expect a swift answer from her, but instead she strokes the hair of the mermaid doll she refuses to get into the pool without. “Do these houses have ghosts?”
My eyes snap to the rearview mirror and catch sight of my sister’s white face. “Does our current house have ghosts?”
“You’re both silly,” Mom says. “Ghosts aren’t real.”
Lucy hugs the mermaid to her chest as if she disagrees and stares out the window. I guess she doesn’t feel like singing anymore.
I park in front of Sylvia’s house since the driveway is already filled. Leaning toward the backseat, I grab Lucy’s backpack and Mom touches my arm. “Can we talk?”
Uh … there’s no part of me that wants a conversation that starts with that mixture of sweetness and inferred guilt. “Sure.”
Her gaze bounces between me and Lucy. “I told Hannah about the insufficient funds with our first rental check.”
&nbs
p; I’m quiet as I gauge where this is going. Sometimes, conversations with Mom are like testing ice on a pond after the first warm day of spring. “Okay.”
“I also told her how your dad’s not paying child support.”
My heart sinks, but I stay silent. Mom’s free to talk to her friends about whatever she wants. But while Dad and I have problems, I’ve never liked how Mom and her friends dog my dad. I can be pissed at him—he’s my flesh and blood. Mom can even be mad at him. He married her, knocked her up twice, then ran. But when her friends get going, cackling around Hannah’s kitchen table, calling him names like they have the right, it irritates me in ways that make me want to rip my arms out of their sockets.
“I told Hannah that my check didn’t bounce because of insufficient funds but because of a bank error—a technological issue.” Mom picks nonexistent lint off her pressed khaki shorts. “So if the subject comes up, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself that our check bounced because we didn’t have enough money. I don’t want anyone to think I can’t handle my finances or that I don’t make enough to take care of the two of you. I make plenty of money. More than enough. It was just a weird week. What I’m saying is that if for any reason it comes up, I don’t need your dad’s child support and any issue we had was a bank error.”
I glance back at Lucy, wondering if she understands anything Mom’s saying. Lucy’s braiding her mermaid’s hair, not paying attention. That’s for the best. But then Mom reaches back and places a hand on Lucy’s knee. “Do you understand? Don’t talk about Mommy? Okay? What happens in our home, stays in our home.”
Like our apartment is a drunken, weekend bender in Vegas. Lucy nods and then Mom looks at me for confirmation that I, too, will keep my mouth shut.
“Will you keep quiet about Veronica’s tumor?” I ask.
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