This Sky

by Autumn Doughton

  I guess in the grand scheme of things, it’s not really important, but I want to tell you about the cat we gave away after the pediatrician confirmed my long-suspected allergy. She’d been my father’s cat from before my parents met. Her name was Alice and she was black and white with a pink speckled nose. Her collar was a strap of red worn leather with tiny round silver balls fastened near the buckle. Alice liked to sleep on her back in patches of sunlight. We’d see her there, with her spine curved like a question mark, and her whiskers so long that they puddled around her upturned face.

  I find myself wanting to talk about Andrew and that feels like something huge. I want to remember his blond hair and his lively olive green eyes and that tiny mole on the left side of his neck. I want you to know that he liked to build with Legos and was prone to hay fever in early spring and that he had a very slight lisp. He loved classic comics. He was afraid of big dogs. He smelled of tree sap and soil and fresh, earthy boy things. He sucked on his thumb until he was four. Skittles were his favorite candy.

  And I want you to understand the truth of how I felt the first time I was on a real stage. I was eight and Mom talked me into a community youth theater. You’ve always loved old movies and you can be such a drama queen, she surmised.

  I was hesitant at first. And maybe a little intimidated. I was the youngest person by at least five years. We read for Pygmalion in a circle of chairs set up on a barren stage. I ended up getting the part of a young girl in the market.

  I don’t remember my cues or the outfit I wore or whether or not I was good. What I do remember is the smell of polished wood and the rush of standing underneath those hot lights, so fierce and bright that I almost couldn’t look at them head-on. I remember the heady excitement and the sound of my heart getting lost in the music of applause. I remember that it felt like coming home.

  ***

  As strange as it is, I fall into an easy routine in San Diego. The days start to slide by too quickly to catch, passing through my fingers slick and easy as water.

  Julie says it’s because I’m relaxing now that the tabloid frenzy around Ren has died down. I no longer have to worry about catching a glimpse of my face on a magazine cover when I’m walking up to the checkout line at the grocery store. And the emails and phone calls from reporters have all but stopped. I can almost see my way over the top of this mountain.

  I work. I play. I spend time with Landon. And these are the hours I pace myself, taking deep breaths and intentionally slowing things down.

  I pay attention.

  I focus.

  I memorize.

  I hold each expression, each touch like an animal saving up food for an impending freeze.

  At night, we lay in his bed, nose-to-nose, our toes brushing and our hands tucked between our bodies, and we trade stories until our throats are raw and scratchy and our eyelids are drooping shut.

  This is how I learn Landon Young. Inch by inch. Moment by moment.

  Once, remembering what Claudia told me about their childhood, I asked him about his parents. It was so dark he couldn’t see my face, which was probably why I asked the question in the first place. I knew it went against the rules. No dredging up the past.

  “No dad,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders against me like it didn’t matter to him “And you don’t want to know about my mother.”

  Of course, I had to press the issue. “Why not?”

  He was quiet. I felt the rise and fall of his chest against me. I felt his heart ticking softly under his skin. When he finally whispered into my hair, I had to close my eyes and reassemble the words to make sure I’d heard them right. “She was a drug dealer.”

  “Oh,” I said, freezing up and feeling stupid for my reaction. A drug dealer? And here I’d been thinking my parents were bad because they’d abandoned me and gone thousands of miles away.

  “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” he said. “You’re too good to understand. My childhood—shit— it wasn’t all roses.”

  “Neither was mine,” I replied, thinking of Andrew.

  “My mother had boyfriends and a few of them liked throwing me around almost as much as they liked binge drinking and shooting up.”

  I stiffened even more. Breathing in deep through my nose, I whispered, “And your mother didn’t stop them?”

  “That’s what parents do in your world. In mine, they get high and forget you and your sister’s birthday. They disappear for days at a time. They spend the grocery money on drugs.”

  My stomach dropped ten stories. “Landon, I—”

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” he said softly, pressing his mouth to my temple. “Can we just forget it?”

  “I-I…” I stuttered. How could I forget something like that?

  Landon’s arms tightened around me. “Please.”

  “But—”

  Before I could get another word out, he cut me off with a searing kiss signaling the end of the conversation.

  I don’t forget what he told me. I can’t. But after that, I don’t break the rules again. We gracefully avoid all the touchy subjects—Ren and our families, and the future. Instead, we roll out snippets of our lives in flickering bursts like a movie montage set to upbeat pop music.

  I tell him about the acting coach who, for a class exercise, made us get on the floor, roll our knees to our chests and imagine that we had returned to the womb. Landon talks about the water. He draws waves on my bare skin with the tips of his fingers. I make him laugh with my SpongeBob SquarePants impersonation and the story about my awful first kiss. It was behind a bowling alley if that tells you anything.

  And with nothing but words and golden skin between us, melting into him is such a simple thing to do. It’s so natural and true, I don’t realize it’s happening until my feverish heart is flush against his and our hungry breaths are synchronized. And when his eyes catch the light like spider silk and his hard body presses me deep into the earth, it’s so easy to forget that what we have is only temporary.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Gemma

  Claudia lifts an eyebrow when she sees us walking up to the bar. “Look at you three!”

  I glance down at the mid-calf black combat boots I borrowed from Julie and smile. I wrinkle my nose. “We wanted to get into the spirit of things.”

  “Admit it. You can’t stay away, can you?”

  “I—” I try to swallow.

  “She can’t,” confirms Julie, her smile all teeth, and her hand tickling my forearm. “She tried on at least four outfits and worked on her makeup for forty-five minutes. It was freaking adorable.”

  “Stop!” I swat her hand away as I settle myself on a barstool. “My makeup took forever because I’m not used to wearing burgundy lipstick and an inch of face powder. And, really, can’t a girl go out with her friends and have a drink on her night off?”

  Smith snorts. “I wanted to hit up Don Pedro’s because it’s Taco Tuesday, but this one,” he points to me with his thumb, “insisted we check out the happenings at Aunt Zola’s first. ‘No particular reason,’ she said.” He laughs glibly.

  “There was a reason,” I defend, all the while, my eyes scanning the bar for a glimpse of Landon. “Tonight is 90’s night. I was curious to see what it was like. And, really, aren’t you glad we came to check it out? There’s a live band,” I persist, pointing toward the stage, “glow sticks and ridiculously festive clothing and…”

  “My brother?” Claudia finishes, smiling knowingly at me.

  Dear God in heaven.

  Smith says, “Yep. Girl’s got the love bug bad.”

  “She’s completely smitten,” Julie informs them both as she adjusts the strap of the red overalls she pulled out of the back of her closet. When I asked about where she got them, she gave me a pointed look and told me I really didn’t want to know. She’s probably right.

  I roll my eyes. “I am not.”

  “Are too!” She turns to Smith and Claudia and says, “She was singing in the
shower this morning and I fully expect a flock of butterflies to flutter out of her chest at any minute.”

  “Thank you so much for sharing that tidbit, Jules,” I say, the sarcasm in my tone evident.

  “Gemma and Landon sittin’ in a tree,” Claudia lilts.

  “No, no!” I bury my face in the crook of my elbow, the heavy silver earrings I’m wearing coming to a rest on my arms. “Hello, people? Broken heart? Rebound? Bridge loan? Is this ringing any bells with you?” When the three of them stay silent, I lift my head and continue, “Landon and I have an agreement.”

  “Agreement, my ass,” my best friend says under her breath.

  “I’m playing this exactly how you suggested,” I remind her with a halfhearted smile. “No drama. No trust. No expectations. Landon makes—” a crazy kind of sense. “—me happy, but it’s just a distraction while I figure things out. Please don’t make things weird for us when we’ve both decided already that we’re just having fun.”

  “Define fun,” Claudia says, laying out four shot glasses.

  I tap my hands against the bar top and lick my lips. “Let’s see, it’s something that’s enjoyable or entertaining.”

  She rolls her eyes as she pours a combination of vodka and Blue Curacao into each glass. “You know what I mean. I want to understand what you’ve got worked out with Landon.”

  I blow out an exaggerated breath. “Not that it isn’t a little weird to be talking to his sister,” I put a lot of emphasis on the word. “But if you really must know, we are exploring the whole friends with benefits thing. It’s casual. That is all.”

  Julie shares a knowing look with Claudia. “Yesterday afternoon, I caught her watching the tail-end of The Notebook and less than a week ago she was quoting A Room with a View.”

  “That’s not true,” I argue vehemently. “It was actually ten days ago.”

  Julie laughs sardonically. “Oh, my bad.”

  As much as I want to believe that everything I’m saying is true, deep down I know that I’m completely full of shit. Nothing about what’s happening to my heart feels casual. My attraction toward him is so much more than physical and that terrifies me.

  I have to remind myself daily that there are limits. No strings. No regrets. It’s frustrating, but I’m the one who came up with the rules in the first place. It was my call. Then again, Landon didn’t argue with me, did he?

  “Earth to Gemma!” Julie’s fingers snap in front of my face and I realize that I’ve been spaced out for a couple of minutes.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, embarrassed.

  “No worries. We know you were in La-La-Love Land.”

  With a sigh, I slump against the bar and squeeze my eyes shut. “Guys, this thing with Landon is not serious and I have not been bitten by the love bug. I am a scorned woman who is out there exploring sizzle and sex.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Smith fires off.

  “I am,” I maintain. “Isn’t that what all the cool kids are doing these days?”

  “So really no warm fuzzies?” Claudia digs.

  Honestly, I am so warm and fuzzy that I’m like a stuffed teddy bear wrapped in a Gore-Tex parka, but I’m not about to admit it and face more of the Landon Young Inquisition. So I shake my head and I say, “Nope.”

  “But you’re sleeping at his place?” Smith asks, picking up the shot glass clearly meant for him.

  “Well, yeah. I’ve slept there for a couple of nights.”

  “For a week,” Julie corrects.

  “And he takes you with him when he goes surfing?” Claudia asks and it’s almost an accusation.

  “They go every morning,” Julie answers her.

  “Because he’s been teaching me,” I tell them, aiming for nonchalant.

  “Gemma,” Claudia says, resting her chin on her hands and fixing her dark brown eyes on me. “My brother does not take girls he’s just having fun with surfing. Ever. To Landon Young, the ocean is sacred. The water is what he’s lived and breathed since he was a little kid. It’s like his version of church and if he’s taking you with him, that means something.” She pauses long enough to move her head back and forth slowly. “Just think about it.”

  Right on cue, Landon walks through the swinging door between the staff area and the restaurant floor. He’s wearing the same dark green shirt I saw him in this morning. He stops to take a breath like he’s steeling himself and I get this visceral image of him above me last night, his hands gripping the backs of my knees, his weight pushing down on me. I remember the sound of our bodies connecting, our collective gasps, the thud of my heart against the back of my throat. And I think of his face, caught in a splinter of diluted moonlight, almost forbidding in its intensity.

  Julie pats me on the back and picks up her shot glass, lifting it all the way to her lips. “Like we said. Smitten.”

  Landon

  She’s coming out of the kitchen as I’m going in.

  Right before we collide, I catch her by her arms and swing her to the side of the hall. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she breathes in surprise and we both laugh. Her cheeks are flushed with drinking and dancing. The tiny brown hairs around her face are sticking to the skin of her neck.

  Normally, I hate the moronic theme nights that Tish and Jamie come up with to keep the restaurant full, but I’m beginning to have a change of heart. Gemma’s got on tight jeans and a white shirt that barely covers her midriff. I’ve been so distracted by that little strip of belly winking at me that I’ve already screwed up two cocktails.

  She looks back over her shoulder. “I was just checking the schedule for the rest of the week.”

  “You’re on a shift tomorrow night and Friday during the day,” I tell her.

  “You checked my schedule?” she asks, eyes widening.

  I nod, letting my fingertips brush her navel. “I checked.”

  “Huh,” is all she says but her look is searing.

  We’re alone and I can’t help myself. I allow my fingers to roam up her side until I’m grazing the soft cotton of her bra. I wonder if it’s the one with the little blue bow in the middle.

  “Does that bother you?” I ask her. I keep my tone light but I really do want to know. “That I’m stalking you? That I’ve been watching you dance all night?”

  “No,” she grinds out, her chest rising. She bends toward my hands and makes a soft sound of encouragement from the back of her throat.

  I tear my gaze from her breasts and lean in close so that my lips are brushing her ear. She smells amazing. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m jealous of every single guy out there who looks at you?”

  “No,” she says. “I like it.”

  “You do?”

  She nods. “And you should know that I checked your schedule too.”

  Eyebrows up. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She wraps her left hand around my right wrist and pushes her hips up to meet my groin.

  I’ve never been so grateful for a deserted hallway in my life. “Stalker…” But I’m joking and she knows it.

  Her smile lifts as she edges closer, running her hand up the side of my face. She stands up on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to my chin, to that small indentation beneath my lower lip.

  I squeeze her waist with one hand. “Gemma.”

  “Landon,” she mimics my pleading tone. Her breath is hot and moist on my skin. Her palms drop to the outside of my thighs. “I can’t stop looking at you either. And when I was out there,” she says, making a discordant motion with her head, I guess to indicate the dance floor. “I was imagining you were dancing with me. It’s all I could think about.”

  “You’re buzzed,” I tell her.

  “And you’re hot.” Her shoulders roll. “So hot. I’ve never…” Now her voice fades out and she bites her lip, embarrassed. I don’t want her to be embarrassed with me. Ever. “I swear I’m not that drunk.”

  There’s a short silence and before I know what I’m doing, I’m asking her to dance with me.r />
  Her eyes flicker with uncertainty. “Aren’t you working right now?”

  “I’m on a break.”

  She hesitates. “Doesn’t dancing seem like a date thing?”

  I don’t want her to throw that in my face. Not when I’m feeling like this.

  I simply say, “You’re the one that brought it up.”

  “I know but what about all the people we work with? If we go out there and dance they’ll—”

  “They’ll think we’re together?”

  She shrugs, looks down.

  I bend to kiss her shoulder. She shivers, curling further into me, letting me feel all the lines of her slender body. After a few seconds, I repeat the request, this time more adamantly. “Dance with me, please?”

  She doesn’t answer, but very deliberately, she takes hold of my arm and leads me out the staff door and through the crowd.

  “Oh my God, it’s Meat Loaf,” she laughs as the music changes.

  I’ve heard the band do this cover before. It’s not half-bad and I tell her so.

  “Good,” she murmurs, tugging me along in her wake.

  And then we’re in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by a sea of moving bodies, the bright lights beating down on us, slicing our skin into an abstract patchwork of spinning colors. I’m pulling her to me and she’s throwing her arms around my neck. She’s tucking her head under my chin and everything else is receding. Everything except this. This feeling.

  We find a beat, and keeping my legs wide, I slip my hands down to her lower back, anchor my thumbs at her waist and press myself deeper into the shape of her. Fuck. My head is fogged.

  Gemma moves her head in a circle and sings. I angle back so that I can watch her loose within my arms. I love seeing her like this—filled with the whir of music, her skin clammy and flushed, her hair sliding over her shoulders in snaky brown rivulets and her lips moving along with the lyrics.