Watching the Sky Cry

by J. B. Hartnett

  “I could’ve been a friend. Sounds like you were short on those. A real friend would’ve pushed.”

  “No,” I shook my head. “That’s the thing. I had good people in my life. One woman, Melissa…her husband, Jase, was Nick’s best friend. She was the one who convinced me to take boot scoot lessons. She never gave up on me. She’d knock on the front door with a bag of whatever goodies she baked or bought. I’d sit on the other side and hide and wait until I heard her walk off the porch and drive away. But sometimes, she’d sit on the other side of that door for hours. And I know I hurt her. I left like a coward. I never said goodbye. I wasn’t the only one who lost him. But I couldn’t hold anyone else up.”

  Quentin stood and held my hand. He gave a nod toward Roddy, who’d appeared again behind the bar, then took us out the front door in a silent walk to his truck.

  On the way home—to his house—he hadn’t let me go, driving one handed until he pulled in the driveway and parked.

  His other hand was firmly on the steering wheel when I gently informed him, “There’s more.”

  He gave me an exhausted smile. “I guessed there was.”

  “Not just about me, Quentin. About you.”

  TWELVE

  I had a great view from his living room of the clear, star-dotted sky, still chilly as we approached the first warm days heralding summer. Quentin’s first order of business was giving me a sweatshirt and making a fire. This was followed by a cup of hot tea I didn’t even know I wanted until he handed it to me.

  I carefully sipped, cozy in his garment that fit me more like a poncho. He’d gone upstairs, changed into his own version of sweats and hoodie, and found his way to sit by my side. Though, on him, sweats were like man-lingerie. Every chiseled inch and fine line was barely concealed in cotton blend. Cuddled up with him, it was all so idyllic—a roaring fire, my feet tucked up under me, and what could best be described as my childhood sweetheart by my side.

  “What’s going through your head right now?” he asked.

  “Nothing, really. I was just enjoying the moment.”

  “You tired?”

  I should’ve been tired since it was after three in the morning. “I think I’ve hit my second or third wind.”

  He took my mug and set it on the coffee table. Then he laid his body over mine and touched his nose to my forehead, my cheek, trailing down my neck as he inhaled against my skin and finally stopped with his lips above mine.

  “This what it’s like being married?” he asked.

  I’d been enjoying the intimacy of just being with him like this, my lips anticipating what I hoped was going to be us at last coming together. Any conscious thoughts could only be identified as blissful if I had to isolate them.

  But his question gave me pause long enough to answer.

  “Well…” I began as he pulled his head back to meet my eyes. “Marriage isn’t like this all the time, but I think you already know that.” I grinned.

  “You got me there,” he said, smiling back at me.

  He was about to kiss me, I swear he was, but I had just one more thing to add. “You know what I learned from being married for ten years?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Men make the same face shaving that women do when they put on mascara.”

  Quentin’s forehead met mine with a light thunk as his shoulders shook with laughter.

  “It’s true,” I declared.

  “I know it is. You’re right. Just an interesting observation is all.”

  And then he stopped laughing. His chest relaxed with the rise and fall of his breathing, and that’s when he moved his hand down the side on my ribs, fingers drifting across my hips, and then up, below the sweatshirt, beneath my shirt, to meet the warmth of my skin with his fingertips.

  “We’re starting something, Rylie May.” My name was barely audible through the thundering rush of blood in my ears.

  “I’m ready, Quentin.”

  “I want to feel you, nothing between us.”

  I wasn’t about to tell him I’d gone on the pill to kick start my periods again. All that weight loss had screwed with my cycle. And there is nothing I wanted more than for us to be connected.

  I lifted my hands to the sides of his face and moved my lips to meet his. “We’re starting something,” I whispered.

  His kisses were a soft, gentle stroking meant to lull me into this sublime submission. I was drunk from them, incredible touch followed by something more, as if he were savoring each and every tender bite. His mouth found purchase on my shoulder, his teeth moving down and over the thick cotton fabric until he discovered my hardened nipple pushing from beneath. He latched onto the surface, pulling it hard, me writhing under his body as his erection pushed into the top of my thigh.

  One by one, he divested me of each garment from the top half of my body. And before anything else happened, he undid the button of my jeans and loosened the zipper enough to pull them to my hips. His hands went to cup my buttocks. One moved toward the middle and gave a hard squeeze, sending a rush of heat and wetness between my legs in an instant.

  “Quentin,” I said, his name coming out in a hushed stammer.

  “Shh,” he cooed at my ear and slid my jeans and undies down my thighs as he sat up and pulled them completely off.

  Despite the warmth from the fire and his body, my skin became gooseflesh when his body left my own. He returned with his hand extended to me as he said, “Let’s go to bed, Rylie.”

  I stood to be wrapped in the throw from the back of the couch as I held the sides tight around my body and followed Quentin toward the stairs. At the bottom step, he stopped our ascent and turned to me.

  “I like to play pool. I’m not very good at it, yet. Miles kicks my ass almost every game, but one day, I’ll beat him. I had a period of time, a few years ago, when I wasn’t interested in much of anything. Miles kept making me play.”

  And that’s when we started up the steps, each one an offer of something I didn’t know about him.

  “And I’d never admit this to anyone else, but I have a secret addiction to the cooking channels. I watch with my stomach, and if something sounds good, I try to make it when I have time. I’d say my success rate is about one in five.”

  “Wait,” I asked, stopping him from the next step. “You mean, you’ve cooked five things and only one was edible?”

  He nodded before saying, “Yeah.”

  I looked at the next step, trying to hide my embarrassment. “I’m about three out of five. We’ll get my mom to cook big batches of things and freeze them for us, if and when they move into my place.”

  He squeezed my hand before he stepped up. But this time, his tone changed. “I lied when I said I built this house for me. I always pictured you here. Rylie. I knew I’d never get the chance, but could never quite let you go.”

  And this time, it was me who squeezed his hand. He tried to step up, but I stopped him with a quilt covered-hand on his belly.

  “Every year, on my birthday, I used to wait until Nick was asleep, when everything was quiet, and sneak into the bathroom with my purse. In the back of my wallet, I have the senior photo you sent me. I just wanted to be with you, in spirit.”

  Another step, and only one more to the top. This time, his confession had implications I couldn’t even begin to process, but still…

  “The night before you left,” he said, “I told your uncle I was in love with you, Rylie. I said I’d wait, do whatever he wanted me to, just to let me talk to you. I was crying my fucking eyes out, and he slammed the door in my face. I’d see your aunt around town. She’d talk to me, never telling me anything about you until years later, until your wedding. Maybe she thought I’d declare my love or something. Maybe she could see I hadn’t let go and thought that was what I needed to hear to move on. But I’ll never forget the look on your uncle’s face when I cried in front of him. Like he was disgusted with me.”

  My legs felt suddenly weak, and I thought, not for the fir
st time, all that pain could’ve been avoided. Would I have changed a thing if I’d known there was a chance for Quentin and me all those years before? What would I have done if faced with that choice?

  I couldn’t change the past.

  I couldn’t blame my uncle for trying to act in my best interest.

  But I could walk up that final step, with Quentin at my side, and give us the future we’d waited for.

  He lifted his foot, but paused to say, “There is nothing about me I don’t want you to know. Some things will take me longer to share. But, no matter how benign or trivial, just ask me.” And then, in one fluid movement of strength and ease, he scooped me up into his arms and took me into his bedroom.

  The room was comfortable, warm, and I realized, when Quentin disappeared to change his clothes, he must have lit the river rock fireplace in the bedroom. He righted me to my feet, and standing in the glow of firelight, I watched as he pulled the sweatshirt and tee over his head and tossed them aside. Such smooth skin, a strong, lean body…and though he had a deep scar on his forearm, I saw it as a badge. A medal of bravery for battles fought behind closed doors. I don’t know why I’d forgotten one of the worst incidents with his mother he’d ever survived, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

  He pushed his sweats to the floor without any fanfare at all. Just Quentin, laid bare for me to see once again.

  I let go of the blanket and stood before him. It was, by far, the most intimate moment of my life. There were no thoughts of lovers past. There was only this man and me, enraptured by the other. The bond we’d formed as children had stretched the expanse of years we’d been apart. He waited, not moving, like a test to see if I would make the first move. And closing the distance between us, I stepped forward, pressing my naked body against his, and wrapping my arms around his waist.

  My cheek to his naked chest, I whispered, “I missed you.”

  He enveloped me in his hold. Strong, thick arms possessing me, cradling me, then moving to lower me to the thick rug below us. A crackle from the wood startled me, my jolt pushing his erection against my leg. And something carnal took over, a desperate, fevered need to have him inside me as I opened my legs and pulled on his lower torso. My nails dug into his skin, clutching as I watched him fight for control, a hiss drawn in through his teeth as he hovered at my entrance.

  “Please,” I begged. “I need you.”

  Whatever internal thoughts he was struggling with were ignored as he pushed into me, a hard thrust that lifted my shoulders from the floor and threw my head back in complete ecstasy, caught and held in his hand. He kept our faces close while he penetrated me, body and soul. It could have been the last night of the world and both of us would be happy, knowing we were right where we should be. To be connected like this, the feel of him gliding in and out of me, the clench of muscles in his back with each thrust…it felt like a betrayal to my past to admit it, but I’d never experienced anything like it. An awakening, perhaps, of something that laid dormant and denied. But I knew those denials all too well, powerful emotions that sprang forth and found an exit through my eyes.

  This was bigger.

  And as we both built toward climax, I dug into his skin once more. My fingers clutched his bare flesh in a grip so hard, I knew I had to be inflicting pain. “Don’t…don’t leave me,” I begged. “Please, don’t leave me.”

  With a slow, torturous grind, he was still cradling my head in his hand, the other lifting my leg behind the knee so he could gain that final depth to my core. “I won’t leave you, my Rylie May.”

  Curled into him, the glide of his pelvis over my clit brought the first surge, the wave coming strong when it hit, and that’s when I felt him pour into me, the pulse of his cock, the tightening of my sex, milking his climax from him. He kissed me gently, pulling my bottom lip into his mouth.

  “You took me,” he said.

  “Yes…”

  “All of me.”

  “Yes,” I whispered. But I saw now, his eyes were wet, the same as mine, and I understood the exchange of words had nothing to do with sex.

  “All of me, Rylie.”

  “Yes,” I said again, so he would have no doubt I was completely aware of what we’d just shared.

  He was still buried deep as he laid small, languorous kisses down my chest. Removing his hand from the back of my head, his fingertips trailed across my lips, down the front of my neck, between my breasts, and that’s when he slid out of me. As soon as he was gone, I wanted him back, but his fingers soon filled that hollow space with a slow thrust. I could only remember once, maybe twice, when lovemaking continued after that first climax. And usually the special ingredient was alcohol. But I was sober, behaving like an addict shaking in anticipation of my next fix at the hands of Quentin.

  When his kisses continued lower onto my belly, I was shocked to find him closer and closer to my sex. I’d never had a man venture low after he’d come inside of me, and in a panic, I grabbed a tuft of his thick hair and attempted to raise his head. But all I could see were his eyes, glowing like a sunlit sea as he extended the tip of his tongue and flicked the top of my sex, right to my clit.

  Then a turn of his fingers…another hard flick…another turn…a deep inhale…and then his lids lowered and closed as his lips parted to take my clit between them. He gently suckled, my body overwhelmed as it teetered between pleasure and an urge to stop him. As he eased me closer to climax again, my body quickly succumbed to the next great wave as he sucked harder, pulling at the small, hardened nub when it hit me. My hands went to his head, trying to move him away. He slowed, lifting his mouth away, his breath still warm between my legs, but his fingers continued in a slow thrust.

  “Look at me, Rylie.”

  I raised my head and watched in awe as he removed his fingers and began to lap at my sex, shuddering when his tongue touched the sensitive bud. Then he rose, moving up over my body until he reached my mouth and kissed me slow and deep, taking his time to explore with his gifting, delectable kisses.

  When he pulled back, he whispered at my lips, “That’s us.”

  I turned my head and let the tears fall from my eyes. It was beautiful, all of it. And it wasn’t sex. I’d had plenty of sex, a lot of it with my husband. Even if it had been raw and feral, it would still have been exactly what it was: making love. As silly as it sounded in my thoughts, I knew it to be absolutely true.

  “Rylie,” he said, brushing my hair away from my face. “Rylie, baby, please look at me.” And when I did, when I saw he was overcome with the same emotion, I knew he needed more. “Please tell me you felt it, too.”

  “Twenty years…” I sobbed.

  “Twenty years without my sky,” he returned. “Rylie…,” he began, but stopped.

  “What is it?”

  He stared into the flickering light and said, “Nothing. It can wait.”

  And as he moved to his side and pulled me into the warm hold of his body, I knew I wasn’t just home, I was right where I was meant to be. My journey had a purpose, the years apart, the loss, the pain, bringing us to this exact moment.

  Exactly where I needed to be.

  My heart had healed with the balm of another, love blossoming, love renewed, reunited in the arms of the first man who’d treasured it, and treasured it still.

  THIRTEEN

  My day began tangled in the warmth of Quentin in the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept in. He made us coffee and toast, dry because he’d forgotten the essential ingredient of butter. But did I care? Not one bit. We both smiled like drunken idiots, and we both knew it, too.

  He’d take a bite of toast, then hold it to my mouth for me to take a bite. It was ridiculous, but fun, new, all those things you never do once you’ve been together a while.

  And I hoped it lasted.

  “Your mom mentioned something about a kitchen for one of the buses. I have to be at the bar tonight, but if you need my help today, I’m happy to give you a hand. Or, be in your space until you get sick o
f me.” He grinned.

  I leaned across the vast kitchen counter to kiss his crumb-covered lips. “I can’t see that happening. Sounds like a plan,” I agreed, but then I stopped.

  I hadn’t told him about the fight.

  “What’s wrong? Your face just changed from elation to horror.”

  “Well…I asked Lucy if I should tell you about this, and she said yes, I should. I wasn’t sure because there really isn’t much to tell…”

  “Why don’t you spit it out.” He smiled and sipped his coffee in wait.

  So I relayed what I’d heard, and, in doing so, I was just as confused as ever.

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, I’d like to think it’s nothing, but it sounds like a big ole something.”

  “Like I told you, I think Mom’s sick. Not like she’s been in the past, something new, different,” he said and sat his cup down on the island. His mother was mentally ill. The last diagnosis I’d heard was bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, but that was a long time ago.

  “What kind of sick?”

  “I’m not sure. I was surprised Dad made arrangements to take her out to Bodega Bay. I remember she had good memories there. They never formally divorced, but they haven’t lived together since I was a teenager. Since then, he might mention if he’s gone to see her. Maybe she’s having a good week or something, he visits. Lately though, last couple of years, he’s been spending more time with her. Maybe she has some slow form of cancer or something.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?” I asked.

  He leaned back and held the counter with curled fists.

  “It’s been years, Rylie.” He picked up his cup again. “Since I was fourteen.”

  I moved around the island and went to him. “I had no idea it’d been that long.”

  “Me and Miles both. I was fourteen, he was seventeen.”

  “Did something happen, Quentin? I don’t remember you telling me anything, but I remember a letter around that time and—”