Valentine Kisses: A Kiss to Last a Lifetime

by Abigail Drake

  “Guess.”

  The first room is all pink and purple and fluffy. Makeup’s tossed across the bed and the floors littered with very tall shoes.

  He turns off the light. The next room is a rainbow of color, as if someone bought a bunch of discounted paints and used the walls as her canvas. The only pink in the room belongs to a Sex Pistols poster.

  He pulls down the blue shaggy comforter and sets me down.

  “Howdya know this was my room?”

  He stares at the mural of a dark outline of a man standing behind a bright light. A mop of hair sticks out of the bottom of a hat, and next to him sits a shaggy wolf. “Just a guess.”

  “Will you stay with me?”

  “Arizona, that’s not a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  He turns to me. “Why what?”

  “Why isn’t it a good idea? We were epic together.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Epic?”

  “We were and you know it. Admit you have feelings for me.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Arizona, number one, you’re drunk. Number two, you’ve been cozying up to the Prince all week, including tonight.”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t want to do anything with him tonight.”

  “I meant at Skier’s Edge. You two looked awfully intimate in that window.”

  My heart pumps. “You did see me.”

  “Arizona, I always see you, but I’m not good for you and neither is H4. You need to stay away from him.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do. I…,” I smack my hand across my mouth.

  “You’re not going to get sick, are you?”

  I nod, as I thrash out of bed. My feet keep getting caught in the blankets.

  “Here,” he says and shoves a trash can in front of my face.

  “Oh,” I moan, falling back against the pillow. “I don’t feel so good.”

  His brow furrows. It’s so cute. I just want to reach up and pinch it. Then kiss it. “Is Kendall coming home tonight?”

  I shake my head. “She always stays with Devon on Saturdays.”

  “Move over,” he sighs. I scoot over so there’s plenty of room for him. Unfortunately, my stomach is not quite up to foreplay or any play for that manner.

  I close my eyes to keep the room from spinning. “Keep your head elevated.”

  I take his order as an invitation and snuggle up against his chest. My fingers find his chest hair again.

  “Arizona.”

  But his warning is lost on me. His slow, steady heartbeat lulls me to sleep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A light pierces my skull. Shading my eyes, I search for the exactor of this torture and find that someone with a twisted sense of humor pulled back my curtains.

  I yank them closed and fall back against the pillow. My head feels like it smacked off a bulletproof bump. Most of the events from last night fall into the category, “Um, not sure what the hell transpired for most of the evening.” I remember taking Double D and Nutt to Ripstop, and there were shots. A lot of shots. Impossible to forget all those shots with a jackhammer decimating Interstate 40 against my temple.

  I pat the pillow beside me as if he might still be here and I failed to notice him, but the pillow’s cold, his side of the bed’s cold, and now, I feel cold because I made an ass out of myself last night to H4 and Gabe.

  Hours later, once I’ve showered, dressed and the makings of my hangover have disappeared, I drive over to Gabe’s to apologize. Kendall filled me in on the missing details from last night, and while I’ll have to deal with H4 tomorrow, Gabe deserves my gratitude and an apology today.

  Ignoring the ‘No Trespassing’ and ‘Warning: Private Property’ signs, I weave Dot around puddles, ditches and rocks. Well, what I call rocks. Most people probably call them boulders. Gnarled pines scrap Dot’s roof, trying to drag her backward. She almost gets stuck in a collapsed culvert pipe, but I gun it just as she hesitates. In the distance, I can see Gabe’s beat-up pickup parked in front of the cabin. I swear Dot perks right up when she sees the truck and speeds down the last two hundred feet of the driveway like she’s a pace car for the Indy 500.

  I meander down the path to his front door. I’m still trying to figure out how to apologize for last night’s asshole moves. In my recent past, I had a habit and a well-known reputation for making an idiot out of myself plenty of times at Arizona State, but I never had to apologize to someone for standing up for me, because no one ever did.

  I raise my hand but instead of knocking I study the intricate carvings on the door. Gabe or someone else dropped some major bills to buy the intricately carved door. The carving design reminds me of some at the Turkish Art Museum in Istanbul. I step back. No, the patterns aren’t as geometric as they appear to be up close. This carver found his inspiration in the natural elements, similar to techniques used in Sri Lanka. I wonder who he studied under.

  Loud chipping redirects my attention away from the front door and around the side of the cabin. Four life-size totem poles stand guard over Gabe while he works in the backyard.

  Satan sees me first. He yips like a puppy and races over. I bend down to say hello, and he covers me with kisses. “I missed you, too.” When I stand back up, he settles against my leg and lets me continue to scratch him behind the ears—just where he likes it. Gabe’s hunched over a giant slab of wood. Wood chips fall as he jabs and chisels, jabs and chisels, completely absorbed in his project, completely oblivious he has company.

  I watch him study the wood. Make a few cuts, step back, pick up the ax and swing at the slab. Chunks fly around him. His arm and chest muscles bulge with every swing and lengthen upon contact. The jagged edges of the scar stretch and contract against his thick, roped, stomach muscles. The full length and depth of his scar visible in the light of day.

  Mid-swing, he sees me. The ax hits the wood slab, but instead of heaving the ax back out, he leaves it there and yanks on his flannel. “What are you doing here, Arizona?”

  I step toward him. He eyes me cautiously, buttoning his shirt all the way to the second-to-top button. A flash of me fingering his chest hair. A warning on his part. Me, ignoring his warning. I really crossed the line again.

  I take a deep breath. I’m not ready for this. I thought I was, but now, with Gabe watching me, acting almost repulsed by my presence, I don’t think I am. Satan nudges into my leg, as if to say, “Don’t be scared. Go ahead.”

  “I wanted to thank you for taking me home last night, and I’m sorry for everything.”

  He scratches his chin. “Sorry for waking me up in the middle of the night and dragging me out to Ripstop? Sorry for me hitting H4? Or sorry for me dealing with your drunken ass?”

  “All of it,” I whisper to the ground.

  “I can’t hear you Arizona.”

  I raise my eyes to meet his. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

  He yanks the ax out of the wood and drops it. He picks up his chisel and cradles it in his hand. “That’s what I thought.” He jabs the chisel into the wood slab and chips out a few chunks.

  “Thank you for saving me from H4,” I say.

  He grounds his jaw. “I don’t know why I bothered. You were all over each other at the Skier’s Edge.”

  I smile to myself and then I remember I slipped my hands into H4’s pants in front of the double window with Gabe driving the groomer. Stupid. “I didn’t…, I didn’t think you saw me.”

  He shrugs as he stares at the wood. “It doesn’t matter.”

  I take a few more tentative steps toward him, wary of intruding on the fragile space he set between us. “Thank you for taking me home. Kendall said you stayed until she came home.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  In the wood, a woman smirks from the middle of the large oval. The tilt of her head, the dimple in her right cheek captures the essence of my character. “Did you carve your front door?”

  “I did,” he says, lifts up the ax and hacks at the cheek until any resemblance to me is sca
ttered amongst the wood chips. After defacing his work, he plops down on a tree stump. Satan rushes over and licks him.

  I sit down on another stump a few feet from him. “Did you study?”

  Satan skips back to me, gives me a kiss, and flops down at my feet. Gabe furrows his brow at Satan. “I might have.”

  “Did you study Southeast Asian Masters?”

  He pushes his hands down his duck pants and drags them back up. “I might have.”

  I nod, sensing somehow his gesture answers on a more intimate level than words ever could.

  “Did you?” he says.

  I tug down on my beanie to hide my surprise and pleasure that he asked me a question, but I don’t plan on making it easy for him. “Did I what?”

  “Did you study?” He says, the hint of a grin barely visible beneath the beard, but there, nonetheless.

  Three semesters of Arizona State, forty-five credits taken, only three of which I enjoyed and I got the grade to prove it, but how to describe the fire in my soul that runs as deep as my love for the mountains. “I took one class.”

  He laughs. “In one class, you studied Southeast Asian Masters?”

  I finger my paint speckled shoes. “One class and most of my free time in the studio or the Art Museum.”

  He’s quiet for a long time and I think he’s lost interest in our conversation. I peek up and realize he’s studying me as if I’m a painting. “Where did you go?”

  “Arizona State.”

  “Did you graduate?”

  “I dropped out. My parents and I had a conflict of interest.” I pick up some wood chips to play with.

  “Go on.”

  For all my wild, drunk nights stumbling around with Lisbeth and Adi from one party to the next, communal walks of shame, and skipped classes, I never once shared with them my love of Art. I only admitted it to Mom and Dad and look where that got me.

  “I wanted to major in Art. They wanted me to major in Business.” I crush the woodchips. Crumbs fall to the ground. “I didn’t fit in Arizona—it was always too hot and too dry. I missed the snow, and the mountains, and the smell of Ponderosa Pine on warm days…,” Tears spring to my eyes. I have never bared my soul like this. I stand up and brush off the wood dust on my legs. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work. Sorry to bother you.”

  I want to run to Dot and drive away from Gabe’s perfect cabin in the woods as fast as I possibly can, but I don’t want him to realize how much our conversation has affected me.

  “Hey Arizona,” he yells, his voice mirrors the emotions swirling around in my head and heart.

  I blink back tears before turning to face him. “Yeah?”

  “Want a cup of coffee? You never did get to sample it.” He tilts his head toward the back door. Satan wags his tail eagerly.

  I remember the coffee from our first morning together. Two steaming mugs sitting on the counter. Gabe reading. Satan greeting me. For the first time other than on a ski slope, I felt like I fit. I felt like we fit. “Can we add a little Baileys to it?”

  “Arizona,” he warns.

  “Coffee would be great.”

  He smiles at me. A full-on toothy smile.

  I step up to him. His breath catches but he doesn’t move. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck. This time he doesn’t fight me. This time he doesn’t pull away. I stand up on my tiptoes and pull his head down to mine.

  Love is sometimes like an avalanche. It comes when you least expect it and sometimes you just have to ride it.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kim once smashed into a tree while skiing. The accident led to a concussion, a cracked sternum, temporary notoriety as a sixth grader returned from the dead, and the realization that fictionalized accounts are way more interesting than just slipping on the ice.

  An unhealthy obsession with conspiracy theories combined with a love of travel and happily ever afters led Kim to write her YA novel, Starr Fall, where a secret organization decides Starr Bishop would make the ideal assassin. While in hiding, Starr meets dark, moody, and dead sexy Christian Evergood. Cue the swoon worthy music. But it’s not all happily ever afters for Kim, her NA novel, And Then He, explores the dark and scary corners of the human psyche. Following a night of innocent flirting with a handsome stranger, Tiffani finds herself in the midst of a nightmare she can’t escape. And Then He is available now through Amazon and other major book retailers. Starr Fall released November 2016 with Inkspell Publishing, followed by Starr Lost January 2017.

  When she’s not doing something writerly, Kim can be found jumping into snow drifts with her three kids, husband, and dog. She’s careful to avoid trees.

  Visit her website and sign up for updates: www.KimBriggsWrite.com

  Chat with her on Twitter: @KimBriggsWrite

  She shares writing love with her INK Sister Alison Green Myers at INK Sisters Write http://INKSistersWrite.Blogspot.com

  Lost & Found

  Shilpa Mudiganti

  Other Books by Shilpa Mudiganti

  Always You: A Second Chance Romance

  Forever Yours: A Contemporary Short Story (Free)

  Subway: A New York Diaries Short Story Series (Free)

  Lost & Found

  Copyright © 2017 Shilpa Mudiganti

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  To the romantics who never give up. We owe you one.

  CHAPTER ONE

  AISHA

  The death of your lover wasn’t a typical breakfast topic. And if, under any circumstance you entertained the thought, it was an elderly partner being relieved from the burdens of ill health. You couldn’t imagine it any other way.

  You dreamed of a whirlwind romance and a fairy tale wedding with your special man. You pictured a busy breakfast room with kids running around, while you and your lover are pressed for time, yet, stole a quick peck on the lips before heading out. You visualized leaning on each other as you lose your parents, being the rock for the other. You dream about wrinkles brought on by happy experiences all over your faces as you lie quietly with your lover at the age of sixty.

  You don’t dare imagine anything else, for fear the universe would listen and conspire to make it true.

  I have known how the universe conspired against me. The worst of my fears were what the universe always seemed to fulfill. Whether failing my STEM papers, or losing the job interview I craved, the universe turned my nightmares true.

  Therefore, when I paid keen attention to the laugh lines on John’s face and lamented my fate if I were to lose him, I feared the universe had paid attention. As soon as the thought occurred to me, I mentally pleaded and negotiated with the universe. And instead, exchange my life with John’s. I was positive the universe listened. I was doubly sure of it when in February of 2014, our car overturned on the icy road to Mount Poconos. It was me who hit my head on the glass. It was my blood covering my face. Not John’s. He looked peaceful, with eyes closed and resting on the headrest of his seat. I made sure the universe had kept its promise before I closed my eyes and let the pain take me.

  But the universe cheated. That night, it snatched my fiancé’s life away. It tricked me into thinking he was safe. While I lay on the car hood, soaked in blood, John had quietly passed from heart failure. The universe had merely been entertaining itself on my behalf, when all the while, I failed John by daring to think of a future without him.

  When I heard the news, I thrashed in the hospital bed, then ran through the corridors searching for him but I couldn’t go where he’d gone. I needed to see him one more time, to apologize for my errant thought, never spoken aloud.

  My family and friends held me tight, while I grieved for the only man I had ever loved. I had fallen for him eight years ago and now faced a lifetime without him. How does one move on? I asked everyone—my mother who moved on after my father, my neighbor who moved on after her mother. I even asked my nephew who moved on after his rabbit, Sniffles, died. Everyone gave me the platitude about time bein
g my friend. I didn’t get it at first. How can time heal—when what I felt was a crushing burden of memories? How can time heal—when everywhere I went, I could feel him watching me go on with my life while he had been robbed of those stolen moments?

  Why couldn’t I feel time ease my pain? It was impossible for me to be normal for more than a few minutes. One minute, I was at a club with my friends, then the next, I’m sobbing like a baby. My friends would assure me things would be okay, only I longed to scream demanding to know how and when. Of course, I never did. I knew they meant well.

  Everyone meant well because they hadn’t been through it. And the ones who had, they lied, because it didn’t get better. What got better was your heart’s ability to bury the pain deep inside and face the day, acting normal. But then each night when you crawled into your bed and hope sleep caught you, the nightmares came. You fight them with your tears, with the stubborn quiver of your chin and silent screams into your pillow. Then again, there were nights when you’re too numb to move, to think, to feel. Those are the nights when the pain digs deeper. You try to just exist.

  Those nights were the ones I was thankful for. They prepared me to face the anniversary of his death each year.

  The accident happened just shy of Valentine’s Day, on the10th of Feb. We were on our way to celebrate an early holiday at Mt. Poconos. The trip didn’t take much planning though we didn’t imagine either of us coming home in a casket. We lived as if there would be many tomorrows.

  ***

  I wiped the tear off my cheek before it froze on my face. The chill of February in New York City was brutal but I took solace in the fact that it was better than January. However, the memories around this time were the most painful. Every day the anniversary got closer, I felt my heart become heavier and choke me. I adjusted my coat and the woolen stole to cover the skin of my exposed neck. No cute Valentine sales could warm this chill. Only having John walk next to me. I rubbed my shoulders, the feel of his touch imprinted on my mind. I ignored the shredding of my heart. I’ll repair what is left tomorrow. This day, even after three years of mourning, belonged to John. The days in between had gotten better, but today, I needed to mourn the only love I had ever known.