by Autumn Grey
“Me either.” She hikes up on her toes. “But we’re about to change that.”
Her mouth presses against mine, her warm breath on my lips. The tip of her tongue tentatively licks my bottom lip, and I come undone. My hands land on her hips and yank her to my body. Then I’m kissing her, inhaling the scent of rain and vanilla waffles as fire licks my veins, scorching my skin from the inside out. And I can’t get enough.
We break apart for air moments later, panting, foreheads pressed against each other. She makes a soft, satisfied sound that has my body firing up. It sends shivers down my spine, their thrill sinking into my very bones.
“My mom’s going to kill me. She warned me about you, you know.”
I stiffen. “She did?”
“Yes. She’s just worried that we’re getting into something that will break us once you go off to seminary.”
“She’s right, you know.”
Grace shrugs. “Not everyone is lucky enough to experience something magical in their lifetime.”
I lower her to the ground and hug her close to me. “Good night, Grace,” I whisper into her hair.
“Good night.”
She extricates herself from my arms and skips to the door, that damn dress sticking to her body like a second skin. I groan under my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. I need a cold shower pronto.
I hop inside the truck. As I slide onto my seat and jam the key into the ignition, I think about the evening. One day, I’ll look back on this day and remember Grace made it more bearable, distracting me from thinking about my parents.
Then tonight’s events hit me hard. My chest tightens, and a lump forms in my throat. Shame and guilt sit heavy in my stomach; the promises I’ve made to God, to Seth, my uncle, and to my mom and dad whenever I visit them at the cemetery, they all flash in my head. I press my clenched fist onto my thigh until a throbbing pain echoes all over my body. It doesn’t loosen the thickness blocking air from getting past my throat.
I lost control. Most people don’t understand why I’m rigid about having sex, given that I haven’t even started the seminary yet, but it all comes down to principle, I guess.
I’ve been very keen about a vocation to the priesthood for years. As much as I was fascinated with Grace since I met her when I was ten, sex was never something I really thought about. Sure, I got aroused often, like every hormonal teen everywhere. But I knew what I wanted. I knew the endgame.
And now, in just a few weeks, I’ll be heading to the seminary.
I need to sort myself out. Soon.
My hands fly to my chest, a shriek bursting from my lips as I catch movement near the window in our living room. A second later, light spills across the space. I blink several times to focus on the shadow—my mom, sitting in the rocking chair, holding her phone in one hand.
“Oh gosh. You scared me, Mom.”
She stops rocking and observes me. Her forehead is lined with worry, and her eyes look tired. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks, which makes me feel even more guilty about our argument earlier today. Or maybe—maybe she’s sick. Panic seizes my heart, propelling my feet forward.
“What’s wrong?” I rush forward and drop to my knees in front of her. “Are you feeling okay?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine, sweetheart. I wanted to talk to you before I went to bed.”
I sigh, relieved. “Me too. Let me get out of these wet clothes first. I’ll be right back.” I shuffle out of the room.
I return minutes later with a towel wrapped around my wet hair and sit down on the couch, then turn to face her. I’m caught between dread and relief, wondering how this conversation will go. I clear my throat of the lump of nervousness blocking my airway. “You go first.”
She examines me for a long time and sighs. “I realized I’m turning into my parents when I try to force you to do what I want and not what you want. I’m sorry, Gracie.”
I clasp my hands on my lap to keep them from fiddling with the edge of my T-shirt. “I’m so sorry for saying those things about you. You didn’t deserve that, and I wish I could take them back.” I pause, carefully considering my next words. “I just want you to understand that we both want different things. Remember that time when you told me I could be anyone I want to be? This is me choosing my own path. I’m not afraid to make mistakes. That’s what life is all about, right?”
She nods again, her mouth twisting into a grin. “Your grandparents are going to be pissed. They hoped you’d choose to go to Brown, like they did. They actually met in college. Your grandfather’s side of the family attended Brown. So, you can imagine their disappointment when I couldn’t attend.” She chuckles softly, but there’s no resentment or bitterness in her expression.
“Honestly, I care about what you think. Not them.” I take a deep breath and continue. “I know I could apply for spring intake, but I’m not ready. I need to be ready first, Mom.”
“Grace.” Her voice is stern, her expression stubborn. “You can’t be serious—”
“Mom, please. My choice, remember?”
Her expression clears, and she nods. “Next fall. What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“Open a lemonade stand and advertise the hell out of it,” I joke.
My mom laughs. “Remember that time when you were six and you insisted on making your own lemonade the way Regina taught you, then sold it to everyone on the block?”
“I was good, wasn’t I?” I laugh, remembering how young and optimistic I was.
“You had a good marketing strategy, and it helped a lot. Plus, your cute little face and adorable eyes won everyone over.”
Silence falls around us as we think about the past. I remember how much I enjoyed coming up with the plan to sell the lemonade. Maybe there’s something to this memory after all.
I tuck my legs under me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Just tired.” Her forehead creases, and she seems troubled. But I know my mom. She won’t discuss whatever is bothering her until she’s ready. We are very similar in that way. “Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t cure.”
We stare at each other for a few moments: me, weighing the truth behind those words. Her . . . well, she’s just assessing me. I can’t crack that look on her face, and it makes me nervous.
Her next words stop me short, the disappointment in her features making me panic. “I saw you and Sol out the window. He’s leaving, Grace. How are you two going to walk away from this when he leaves?”
My mind is in chaos as I scramble to find a viable explanation, but all I can come up with is, “Are you spying on me now?”
She stares at me, chin raised, lips flat in an unyielding line of disapproval.
“I just . . . I really enjoy spending time with him.”
“Did you have sex with him?”
“What? No!” I groan under my breath, heat splashing across my cheeks. “We’re just hanging out. I promise.”
She nods and then tries to cover the lingering doubt with a frown. “Sex is, um, it’s just one of those things that is special, you know. You have the power to decide who you give yourself to. You need to be sure.”
“I know, Mom. Jeez. I’m not going to have sex with him, okay?”
She sighs wearily, rubbing her hands down her face. After a deep inhale, she stands up and heads for the TV console. “Hey, want to watch One Tree Hill? I really want to know what happened after Nathan and Lucas fought.”
I grin wide and nod, appreciating her peace offering. Of course, I know what happened after the fight between Lucas and Nathan. I’ve watched every episode of OTH more times than I can count, but for her sake, I let her believe I’m eager to see what happens too.
We settle on the couch to watch, but my mind, my body, my thoughts, every single part of me tingles at the memory of Sol’s hands and mouth on me.
But mostly Sol’s words.
I love you.
The week goes by quickly, and before I know it, it’s already Thursd
ay. Sol and I haven’t seen each other as much as I would have liked. In fact, it seems as though we’ve hardly seen each other at all. I text him, and he texts back, but he seems distracted. His responses are made up of a maximum of five words. I wonder if I’m being too needy, and old insecurities begin to resurface.
Maybe now that he’s had the time to think about what I said, I’ve scared him away? Or maybe he realized what he said and is giving me an out. If I were in his shoes, I’d probably be freaking out, too. Sol and I are just two hearts gravitating toward each other, regardless of the odds stacked against us.
Ugh.
I’m driving myself crazy. I hate feeling like this, which is the reason why I avoided getting involved with anyone after Gavin.
I sigh, shaking my head to disperse those thoughts, and concentrate on finishing serving breakfast at the diner.
At eleven o’clock, I hang up my apron and then drive to St. Peter’s Church for my weekly confession. This has always been my little ritual on Thursdays, a source of comfort.
MJ and I planned to hang out at her place later today. I figured since I was trying to put myself out there and make friends, spending more time together and getting to know one another would be a good place to start.
I’m sitting in the third row of the church, trying to untangle the chaos in my head. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. It’s not love. It’s more than that.
More lethal. Potent.
It flows through my veins, infecting my blood with its poison. I’m not even sure how I’m still breathing. I should be dead. Instead, I’m sitting here, looking over my shoulder at the main entrance every few seconds like a forlorn lover waiting for her love to return home from war. The worst thing is, the antidote for this poison is the one person I shouldn’t be fantasizing about. The person I shouldn’t pin my hopes on because he will never be mine, but my heart, my stupid, desperate heart is already invested in him. Building castles in the air and dreaming of happily ever afters.
I force my gaze back to the front and stare ahead at the altar, waiting for confession to start. Something bumps my thigh. The scent of motor oil and cologne slams into me. My head whips up, and I come face-to-face with Sol’s blue eyes.
“Hey,” I whisper. After a few minutes of simply staring at each other, butterflies take flight in my stomach.
“Hey you.” His mouth tips up at the side, my favorite smirk making an appearance, but it’s shadowed by apprehension. Is he nervous?
God, he looks so hot. I’ve missed that beautiful face of his.
“You lining up for confession too?” I ask, hoping my face hides what my heart is feeling. I don’t want to get my hopes up again, only to have him disappear like he did the past few days.
He shakes his head, his eyes darting around us before returning to me. His leg is bouncing, and his finger taps a frantic beat on the pew in front of us. “Can we talk?”
“Now?”
“Yes? Look, I know I’ve been an ass the past weeks—”
I laugh and shake my head as if it was nothing. “You don’t owe me anything, Sol.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “Come on. Please? Just five minutes.”
“Fine.” I stand, pressing my palms down my black and white plaid dress to stop them from shaking. I’m dying to touch him.
He nods. “This way.” He grasps my bicep and tugs me to the side, then all of a sudden, he changes direction and heads for the confessional booth.
“What are you doing?” I whisper in panic.
I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Grinsberg’s white head bowed—one of the church patrons—clutching a rosary in her knobby hands. Three other patrons are sitting nearby—one sitting in the front row, and the other two sitting several rows behind.
He tosses me a look I can only describe as roguish before reaching the confessional door, opening it, and shoving me inside. He looks around the church one more time before joining me, squeezing his large frame into the small space.
Oh my gosh! “What’s happening? I thought you wanted to talk.”
He shifts around until we’re standing front to front. I have to pull my head back, back, back to see his eyes. Damn freaking giant.
“Confession starts in a few minutes, so I need to say what I came here to say before my uncle walks in.”
“Make it quick. Like really quick.” My heart is racing so fast inside my chest I’m wondering if it’s going to trip on itself.
“You didn’t say it back.”
“Say what?”
“That you love me. So I was kind of wondering if you feel the same about me, or—” The sound of heavy footfalls echoing on the other side of the door freezes his words on his tongue.
“Or what?” I ask when the sound fades.
“Or if I’m just your boy-toy.”
My mouth drops open. “My boy-toy?”
His eyes twinkle with mischief and mirth, and seconds later, I slap both hands against my mouth to keep the laughter inside.
“You’re insane,” I finally say, then chuckle under my breath. “Is that why you stayed away?”
He shifts his body, then pulls me flush against him.
“Partly.”
I stare, my heart in my mouth, waiting for him to continue.
“Having to leave you behind when I go to Boston . . . The thought of breaking your heart terrifies me, Gracie. I don’t want to hurt you, yet I can’t seem to stay away from you either.”
“You got cold feet.” There’s a loud thudding in my ears, and I shake my head slowly. “My heart’s safe. I’m not the one in love, remember?”
I’m lying through my teeth, hoping to save my pride and escape potential heartbreak.
His eyebrows crease, lips pursed as he carefully studies me. And then, like the sun parting through dark clouds, a huge grin replaces that stormy look on his face.
“What?”
“Oh, sweet Gracie. The way you deny your feelings for me, it’s cute.”
“Wait, what?”
“This.” His hand palms the back of my neck, yanking me to him. Before I know what’s happening, his mouth is on mine, destroying my defenses and igniting me.
My body grows tight. Everything fades, and all I see and smell and hear is Sol’s ragged breathing. A surprised but delighted moan escapes me as I sharply tug his hair, my heart pounding in my ears.
And just like the first time we kissed, my body is overloaded with all these feelings; shiver after shiver racing down my spine, heat, so much heat surrounding me, burning a trail through my veins. All he needs to do is light the fuse, and I’ll go off like a bomb. When it comes to Sol, my body has only one reaction—combustion. And from the way he’s hungrily kissing me as though he’s about to go to war and might never come back, it’s obvious how much I affect him in return.
One of his hands grips my thigh as the other travels up to my breasts, holding one deliciously tight. His tongue sweeps along the seam of my lips, and I open up for him, desperate for his taste. He groans low, exploring my mouth. I moan in response, tasting mint on his tongue. Sol is all hands and hard body as he pins me to the wooden wall behind me.
When did he become this brave? This naughty? Holy shit, he’s so sexy and hot.
“Oh my God, oh my God!” I pant against his lips when I pull back to catch my breath and common sense starts trickling in. “What are we doing?”
Pulling away, his head falls back as his eyes squeeze shut. He murmurs in a rough voice, “We’re talking.”
I huff out a laugh as he lowers that sinful mouth of his to mine once more. “No, no. Get out before your uncle comes.”
He blinks as if he’s trying to clear his vision. As he steps back, his hands fall from my body, and just when I think he’s leaving the confessional box, he drops to his knees in front of me. His palms move up my bare legs, pausing around my knees and squeezing gently.
His dark head moves, and he presses his lips on the skin above my right knee. �
�What am I going to do about this? Us? It took all my strength to stay away the past couple of days, and I just couldn’t hold off anymore. I had to see you.”
My fingers sink into his messy hair and tug, forcing him to look up at me. I don’t answer his question because the answer hurts too much.
Footsteps echo outside the booth, followed by the sound of a throat clearing. Whoever it is stops and greets someone in a low, calm voice.
Father Foster.
Sol’s eyes widen, reflecting the same fear wreaking havoc inside me.
This could end so badly for both Sol and me. He puts his finger to his lips and mouths, “Shh.” I nod, unable to hear anything above the thudding in my ears.
Luke is just wrapping up the conversation when Sol’s hands swiftly push my dress up. My gaze flies to meet his just as he leans forward to whisper, “I won’t let us get caught, okay?”
Swallowing hard, I nod again.
Without warning, he hooks two fingers around the waistband of my panties and tugs them down.
“What the heck are you doing?” I whisper in a shaking voice. When did he become this naughty? This brave?
Ohmygodohmygod.
His trembling hands hesitate, uncertainty filling his features. Then he rolls his shoulders as if he has made up his mind about something, excitement and fear fighting for power in his eyes. “A souvenir,” he murmurs.
Caught off guard, my hands grip his hair tighter as he lifts one of my legs and then the other so I step out of my panties.
He pulls back as he bunches the cotton material in one hand and mouths, “See you outside.”
The wooden door on the priest’s side of the booth creaks open, then shuts with an echoing sound, reverberating through the old church and snapping me out of my shock. Sol slips out of the booth at the same time, so the sound of the door closing behind him is masked by the echo. I drop to my shaking knees on the kneeler.
On the other side of the mesh window, I hear fabric rustling, followed by Father Foster clearing his throat. He says something, but my brain is full of white noise. My hands make the sign of the cross on autopilot, and I fall silent. My throat is tight, and my heart beats fast. Oh my God!