Tell Me Something Real

  “It was the first time I ever admitted to myself that I wanted more—you know?”

  “More what?”

  More of this. I clear my throat. “More than what I’ve grown up with—drug addict mom, revolving door of ‘dads.’ It just—it showed me that there really was something more, and not every person lived paycheck to paycheck, with final notices popping up on the door every other day. And not every person was angry at the world, or crushed by it, or hurt by it. Some people…they just live.” I sigh. “I want to do that. I want to just live, normally, knowing that even if it’s hard, I can pay my bills all at the same time, that at the end of the day, I can go back to the same apartment—my apartment—and there won’t be a red slip or eviction notice on the door; there will be power and water and no one down the hall will be screaming at someone else about anything more pressing than whether or not they took the garbage out or forgot to share the coffee.”

  “Arguing about coffee and garbage—that’s normal?” There’s a smile in his voice, and I find myself laughing.

  “I have no idea, but it sounds normal, right? Like, how dare you take the last of the coffee? or, I told you to take the garbage out. No fists, no random fights because someone’s high, or someone lost their job and gambled the rest of their paycheck away. Just…mundane and normal.”

  He’s silent a minute. “I don’t have a lot of experience with normal, either, I guess.”

  I can’t help my laughter. “Since your car was a Porsche, and your school actually had the words College Preparatory Academy in its title, I’m guessing no, normal is not your everyday experience.”

  He laughs, but it’s not the same as it was a minute ago when we were laughing together. I wait, because I feel it, the truth that he never shares, and I want him to know I trust him regardless—that I don’t expect him to share his story if he’s not ready.

  “I almost killed her,” he finally says. “Alyssa, the girl who was in the car with me.” It’s my turn to look at him while he stares up at the sky. “I was driving too fast—way too fast, and it was dark and visibility was low. Still, it was nothing I hadn’t done before.”

  “What was different this time?”

  He swallows, eyes glued to the sky. “Alyssa? She’d been with me before, but we’d usually been drinking, maybe gotten high, so everything would be a little softer. This time, I was sober and so was she. We were supposed to be on a date—and something had irked me. Something I don’t even remember.” Ford turns his head and stares at me, begging me to understand. I squeeze his hand tighter.

  “It was something my dad said, or didn’t say. Doesn’t really matter. I would have driven fast no matter what because that’s who I was last year, and all the years before; I was the guy who had more than enough, and was still never satisfied. I was the guy who hated his parents because it felt like the right thing to do.” He exhales and closes his eyes. “I was the guy who didn’t love a girl, but led her on because it was easier than letting her go. The same guy who put that girl’s life in danger because he needed to prove he was in control of everything. And that nothing mattered to him.”

  When his eyes open, they aren’t devastated, but wary. Like he expects me to walk out or call him on being a spoiled rich boy who almost killed someone.

  “What happened?”

  “We smashed into the guard rail and the car flipped several times in the air before landing.” Ford’s voice has gone monotone—like he’s told this story so many times it’s routine, and he isn’t back there on that road, in a totaled car, with a girl he cares about next to him.

  But I’m holding his hand, and I can feel how tightly he’s squeezing mine. And I know no matter what his face and his voice tell me, he’s not okay with what he did.

  “We landed on the bank—not in the water. I still don’t know why I got so fucking lucky.” He looks down at my hand, holding his, and then brings it closer, holding it to his chest. His heart is slamming a million miles an hour. “Alyssa was unconscious. Because of the airbag deployment, or because of smashing her head into the side window; maybe both. The rest is kind of a blur. I remember saying her name over and over while I unclicked and got her out of her seatbelt before I dragged us both out of the car. She never responded.

  “I had to leave her there to get help.” Now, his voice cracks. He clears is, closing those eyes, only to open them and blink them again several times. “The reception where we were was spotty and it was late, so there were no cars driving by. I had to leave her with her bleeding head and fluttery pulse and run until my phone had enough bars to call for help. And then I had to run back and sit with her, do CPR, and hope she woke up eventually.”

  “Because you were scared for her, or because you were scared for you?” The words come out of nowhere, but I don’t take them back, and I don’t apologize. The look on Ford’s face tells me he saw them coming, even if I didn’t.

  “Both,” he responds. This answer… it’s the truth, and it makes me think more of him, even though I know it’s done the opposite for him.

  I want to tell him it’s not his fault; no matter who he was or what he had done, I can’t believe Ford would have wanted to hurt someone innocent. But it’s not that simple. He did hurt someone—whether he wanted to or not.

  “What happened? In the end,” I clarify.

  “We settled,” he says after a minute. “In court. Alyssa was in the hospital for three weeks, the first of which she spent in a doctor-induced coma until they could get the swelling in her brain to go down. And I was at home, suspended for a week from school, only slapped with community service and a fine from the state. They took my license for a year, and my dad paid Alyssa’s medical bills on top of the settlement fee. Her dad’s firm now runs all of the accounts for my dad, both personal and business.”

  I glance up from where I was focused on my hand against his chest, and meet his eyes. He’s staring at me instead of the sky now, showing me all of those dark places that he’s kept on lockdown until now. There is a look of disgust and embarrassment heavy on his face because he knows what this means: if it had been someone like me or Colt, we would be in jail, or juvie, or somewhere that delinquents who drive too fast and hurt other people go. But Ford isn’t like me and Colt.

  He’s from another world, one where parents can make reckless decisions go away with greased palms and business deals. A world where a man would cash in on his daughter’s injury, and further his own career.

  No, Ford has no more idea what normal is than Colt or I do.

  “Have you seen her since? Alyssa?”

  He sits up, and I go with him, propping my feet on the front bumper while his rest flat on the ground. He’s released my hand, and I clasp them both together and tuck them into my lap to keep from reaching for him.

  “No. Part of the agreement was no more contact. When she got out of the hospital, her parents sent her away to a school back east. Mine sent me here.”

  “The real punishment: farm living.”

  This gets a small smile, but it’s aimed at the ground where he’s staring. “I thought so at first. I mean, my dad has nothing but bad stories to share about his upbringing—and that’s when he shares at all.” Now Ford looks up, turning his head so we’re looking at each other. “But, now, I think maybe he sent me here to save me—to give me that normal that he couldn’t.”

  We stare for a heartbeat, and then another, and finally, I say, “I’m glad he did, whatever the reason.”

  “Me, too.”

  We are magnets now, both moving toward each other. He slides the hand closest to me around the back of my neck, thumb brushing my jaw as he slides off the hood and to the ground, turning so he’s standing in between my legs, his other hand wrapping around my hip.

  I plaster my hands to his stomach, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt that I twist into my fists. And I stare at him, waiting.

  When he lowers his head, his eyes stay on mine until the last s
econd, assessing, pleading, showing me a feeling I never thought I would understand—until now. The moment our lips touch, everything in me goes electric. My skin feels tingly, my heart begins racing, and my lips… they move against his in a way that tells me this is what they were made to do.

  I’m kissing Ford William Joseph Slaughter in the moonlit dark, and I never want to stop.

  I’m kissing Lincoln.

  I’m holding Lincoln.

  I’m pressing against Lincoln, with my hands in her hair and my tongue stroking hers, and all I can think is: this is the girl who’s been missing from my life.

  Everything about this kiss is different than any other I’ve had, and it’s because of her.

  When Lincoln’s hands release my shirt so her arms can wrap around my waist, I nudge her knees farther apart and step closer, dropping one of my hands from her hair and pressing it into her lower back so she’s snug up against me.

  I don’t take my lips from hers to do any of this. Like the moment our palms touched and I never wanted to let hers go, now that we’re kissing, I don’t ever want to stop. My entire existence boils down to this moment, wrapped in Lincoln’s arms, our mouths moving together, our tongues stroking and soothing, retreating before they tangle again.

  I can’t recall anything outside of this; now, her. Us.

  And I don’t want to.

  A life that has been fragmented, always missing something, has now been made right with the touch of her lips against mine, and the feel of her hands tugging me closer.

  My lungs beg for oxygen, and I pull away to suck in a breath, staying close so I can pepper her jaw and throat with small kisses. She’s breathing heavily, her body shuddering against mine, and reality settles in enough that I push back and take a good look at her.

  “Are you okay?” My voice is steady, but my mind is racing with scenarios I’ve read about in the past few weeks, blogs where diabetics admit they’ve passed out after an intense session of kissing or foreplay because the natural high that their body gets from sexually charged moments acts like a workout, and then their levels drop rapidly.

  “Are you going hypo? Do you need to eat something? I have smarties.” I rapid-fire the list of all of these things at her, my body now transitioning from want Lincoln to save Lincoln. “And coke. The soda,” I add when she raises a brow. “I read that drinking soda in the middle of… strenuous activities can keep you from going too low.”

  Strenuous activities? Jesus, I am now a blathering ball of idiocy and awkwardness.

  Lincoln doesn’t cringe back though. Instead, she smiles, so big and so beautiful that it fills me in a way different than her kiss, but no less rewarding. “You read about this?”

  I clear my throat, a little embarrassed, but ready to embrace it and admit all of my creepy-stalker ways if it means she’ll let me keep holding her. “I may have perused a few websites a while back, gathering information so I could be certain what you would need and not need in your daily life.” Her smile only gets wider. “And one of them may have included a helpful blog of personal experiences when it came to Type 1 and…sex.”

  I think I’m blushing. Jesus, am I blushing? Because of the word sex? No, because you just laid your cards on the table, and now you realize just how badly you want this girl. And so does she.

  “You’re a closet nerd.”

  My eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

  Lincoln just grins. “You—you’re like this stoic and broody guy, all dark and smoldering with your intense looks and gladiator body.” I grin, because—gladiator body. Hell, yes, I am a gladiator. “But you also take AP classes—and not because they look good to other people, but because you’re a learner. I bet you did your summer homework, huh?”

  My throat is dry, and my skin feels suspiciously warm. I resist the urge to clear my throat or glance away. “I plead the fifth.”

  She laughs, dropping her chin and resting her forehead against my chest. I like the feeling so much I run my hands down the curve of her spine and back up, over the back of her neck, before sinking them into her hair. Her already loosened ponytail moves some more, making room for me to grip the silky strands until she lifts her eyes to mine again.

  “I’ll take your silence as a yes. And now you admit to researching an autoimmune disease, and instead of just reading the basics, you’re the guy who clicks external links and follows them, gathering all the research, both medical and antidotal.” She shrugs her shoulders in a move meant to punctuate her words. “Most people would have gone to Wikipedia, read the gist and called it good.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  It was meant to be amusing—maybe a little arrogant after the decidedly pussy-whipped declaration I just made, but Lincoln nods her head slowly in agreement, and makes it more. “No, you’re not. You’re so much more.”

  Those words light something new inside of me, and I have to resist the desire to bend down and take her mouth again. Not until she understands what this is, and not until I know she’ll be honest with me.

  “Did it ever occur to you that the reason I researched so much was because I wanted to know you better?” She shakes her head no. I remove one of my hands from her hair and grip her chin, bringing her face close to mine. “Well, I do. I want to know everything, Lincoln. How to care for you,” I say, stroking my thumb over her cheek. “How to hold you. How to kiss you. How to touch you.” The last words spark an already simmering fire inside of me, and I see the same fire reflected in her eyes.

  “But that means I need to know you’re going to be honest with me—that you’ll tell me when you’re crashing, or when you need to stop and drink something, or when you’re so high you’re not thinking about me, but a glass of water or whether or not you have acetone breath.”

  She lets out a small laugh. “You really did read everything.”

  “Twice.” This time, there is no embarrassment or discomfort with my admission. Bringing her closer, I rest my forehead against hers and close my eyes. “This isn’t a movie, Lincoln. It’s real. So very real, and so very important.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but a few seconds pass and I feel her fingers slide down my back to the hem of my T-shirt and under. When her hands smooth over my skin, I jump, rearing back and looking at her. “Maybe we can share that Coke in a few minutes—I might need it.”

  And then she’s arching her neck back and offering her lips to me, pressing her hands into my lower back the same way I was doing to her earlier. Needy, desperate even, I release her hair and grip her hips, reversing our positions so I’m sitting on the hood of her car, feet planted on the ground, and she’s straddling my lap while I hold her in place.

  We drink from each other, our lips making those promises and tasting those truths that we haven’t gotten to saying, while our hands wander innocently.

  Mine travel from her hips, beneath the borrowed shirt and to the silky-smooth skin of her back. Her hands creep from my shoulders to my pecs, back up my neck to my jaw and into my hair where they twist fistfuls of it.

  We kiss like it’s all that matters; when her hands are in my hair, and her tongue is stroking against mine, it is. I think of everything I know about Lincoln, from her disease to her life, to the fact that everyone calls her a slut or a whore even though she’s never had that intense moment of physical connection with someone. And then I think of the ways I want to hold her, touch her, share with her everything she has yet to learn about her body and all it can feel.

  Despite the raging need my own body feels, I keep my hands gentle, because everywhere they touch I’m reminded of how small she is. How delicate. How used to being treated and abused like someone who doesn’t matter.

  She’s all that matters; now, tomorrow, and every day after tomorrow. Lincoln Brewer is real and mine, and I want nothing more than to show her how special she is.

  “We should probably stop,” I say, breaking our kiss. Her breath is coming in fast pants, like mine, but she leans
forward again anyway.

  “I promise, I’ll tell you when I feel lightheaded.”

  I let her kiss me once more before I—regretfully—bring my hands to her shoulders and ease back. “You better. But this isn’t just about that. I want you too much,” I say, answering her unspoken question. “If we don’t stop now, I’ll forget why we need to later. And we do need to stop.” Those words are as much for me as they are for her.

  I arch my hips the slightest, bringing her closer until her eyes widen. “Okay. Yeah. Um, I could probably drink some soda now, just to keep the crash from coming.”

  “Yeah, good idea.” But when I stand, I take her with me for a second, holding her suspended in the air, her legs around my waist, my arms around her. “You okay?” I ask.

  She smiles, nodding her head. “More than okay.”

  I search her eyes to make sure she’s telling the truth, and then I nod and peck her lips softly. “Let me get that Coke.”

  We share the warm can of soda, sitting on the hood of her car again, only this time she’s between my legs, her back resting against my chest so my body cocoons hers. “I feel like this might be too much for your car. Like it’s going to plummet into the ground and dig its own grave any minute.”

  She laughs, patting the rusted primer hood affectionately. “Nah, she’s tough. Ugly, but tough. All good girls are.”

  It’s said with a wink, but I halt, can halfway to my lips. “You’re beautiful, Lincoln.”

  “Uh, thanks. I wasn’t fishing for compliments, though.”

  She shifts, uncomfortable, but I set the Coke down and turn her, so she’s sideways in my lap. “I didn’t think you were. But, just in case you’re thinking that you’re not beautiful, or wondering what I think when I look at you, I think you’re beautiful. More so because you’re tough, and because I know somedays just getting out of bed must be really fucking hard.”

  Lincoln swallows, nodding, and I bring her against my chest, cradling her so she can hear the rapid beat of my heart. “I see you, when my eyes are open and when they’re closed, and every time, you take my breath away.”