by Amelia Wilde
“Having me in your shower?” Her smile is half wicked, but it’s got a weird vulnerability that I almost have no fucking idea how to interpret.
“And in my bed.”
She bites her lips, then pulls my head down so she can run her hands through my hair, and then she adds shampoo. I can’t get enough of her touch, but I don’t want to say anything to make her think I’ve been fucking obsessed with her for ten years.
Even if it’s true.
She rinses my hair, then rubs body wash between her hands, lathering it up.
The silence between us gets heavy as she works her way down every inch of me, soaping my cock as thoroughly as anyone ever has. When she steps aside to let the water rinse the suds away, I keep my hands firmly on her shoulders, closing my eyes as the heat washes the tension out of me.
The next thing I know, she’s moving, and holy hell, going to her knees in front of me, taking me in her mouth, and swirling her tongue around like nobody has before and nobody ever will again.
She works me expertly while the water hisses around us. The bathroom has to be clouded over with steam by this point, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve given myself over to her, and there’s no coming back.
India is so damn efficient with that sweet mouth of hers that it’s not long before I lose control, coming hard into her mouth. I have to rest my hands on her shoulders to keep my balance for several moments afterward.
She stands up with a smile and plants a kiss on my chest.
“I could get used to this, too.”
I don’t have anything to add. It all seems so right, yet there’s something in her face when she pulls away from me and steps out of the shower that sends a cold prickle of fear down to the center of my gut.
She’s been back in my life for twelve hours, and I’m already afraid of losing her again.
I turn off the shower and follow her out, kissing the side of her neck while I go past to get a towel.
Fuck, let this not be a disaster.
11
India
I slip out of the bathroom while Dawson is still toweling off, threading my way through the house. Off the kitchen I find it—the laundry room—and my clothes folded in a tidy stack on top of the dryer.
I dress slowly, and with each item of clothing I pull on, I feel farther and farther away from last night with Dawson.
I mean—I can’t stay here indefinitely, as much as I want to. And if he’s just interested in sex—
That’s not what he said, I remind myself as sternly as I can. It was a flirty, sexy moment in the shower, for God’s sake, not a serious discussion about where we’re going to go from here.
If we’re going to go anywhere at all.
“You found your stuff.”
His voice startles me, and I turn to see him leaning against the doorway of the laundry room, dressed in a t-shirt and a navy hoodie that hugs every line of him.
I try to smile at him, but my spine trembles. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, every moment so precarious, so charged.
“What’s wrong?”
His face is serious, the glow from the shower gone completely.
“Nothing.”
Dawson shakes his head. “I know you better than that.”
“Do you? It’s been ten years.” There’s an edge to my voice that I didn’t intend, and Dawson’s eyes narrow.
“Yeah, I do, India. Just remember—” He cuts himself off with another shake of his head. “Never mind.”
“No. Tell me.”
He turns his back to me, moving back into the kitchen, and I follow on his heels.
“Remember what?”
Dawson whirls around, and his eyes are glittering with pain. “Just remember that the reason we haven’t spoken in ten years is because of what you did.”
It’s a knife straight into my heart.
“Dawson, I didn’t mean—”
He raises both hands in front of him. “Don’t start with that. You meant to do what you did. We both know that.”
“I didn’t mean for it to be devastating, okay? I thought—I thought we would both get over it.”
“You did get over it.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No!” His voice is thundering, and the moment the word is out of his mouth, he claps his hand over his lips, looking away. When he looks back at me, his eyes are narrowed. “No, India,” he says, his tone chillingly level. “I didn’t get over it. I’ve thought of you every day for the past ten years, wondering how you could set aside what we had like that. How you could fucking…” It’s like he can’t find a strong enough word. “How you could humiliate me like that. On your fucking front porch.”
No. He can’t possibly believe—
“That wasn’t me.”
“Oh? It wasn’t you who agreed to go to whatever that goddamn dance was with him?”
“My dad was friends with his dad at the country club. They arranged it somehow. I didn’t know he was going to come until—”
“Until he showed up?”
“Until he showed up.”
His jaw works, considering it. “You didn’t seem to give a shit for a decade. Not until I was the one who showed up to get you out of the ditch.”
“That’s not true.” My voice quivers, and I hate it. “I told you. I thought about you every day.”
“You never said anything. You never called. You never stopped in.”
“Stopped in where?”
“At the bar I’ve owned for the last five years. Jesus, India. Did you forget me that completely?”
“I already told you, I thought about you every damn day. I didn’t come back often, okay? I was—I was ashamed.”
The heat flies to my cheeks again, and damn it, there are tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
“I was embarrassed because of what happened. You avoided me for the rest of senior year, or did you conveniently forget that? It wasn’t just me.”
Dawson takes in a huge breath and lets it out, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell is the point of all this?”
“I guess there isn’t one,” I spit back at him. “I guess all of this is just pointless.”
He clenches his jaw and crosses his arms over his chest. “If that’s the way you feel about it.”
I feel like I’m being stabbed in the chest. I feel hollow, like I’ve lost a chance I never knew I’d have again. I feel like raging at him, screaming, crying. I feel like leaving. Right now.
“How about—” The tremble in my voice disgusts me. I wanted to be stronger than this. “Could I just have a ride home? I think the storm is over, but my car—”
“Fine. Great. Get your stuff.”
I move woodenly toward the kitchen counter, then go past it and to the guest room where my coat and hat lie pathetically on the floor, and gather them up in my arms. My phone is heavy in one of the jacket pockets. It’s all I brought with me. I don’t care about the groceries anymore.
When I get back out to the kitchen, Dawson is standing by the door, his jacket on, keys in hand, eyes empty.
“Let’s go.”
12
Dawson
India’s car is still in the ditch, just like I thought it would be. Trey, the only guy I know who does towing around here, is an asshole who doesn’t show up half the time. She might have better luck today, when the plows have been out for several hours and it’s not such a bitch to get things back on the road.
She stares out the window on the drive back to her parents’ house. I assume that’s where we’re going, and she doesn’t correct me when I start heading in that direction. She just locks her eyes on the snowbanks outside.
India swallows hard, over and over again, and my jaw is clenched so tight it hurts.
All of this is just pointless.
It’s just too close to that shake of her head ten years ago. The way she dismissed me without a second thought. The way it was all just pointless, so pointless,
otherwise she would have been with me, would have admitted that what we had together was too precious to just jettison because her parents didn’t like my tattoos.
Words boil up in my chest, but I can’t force myself to speak. I can’t do anything but drive.
It takes three times as long as it usually would. The plows have been running, yeah, but they’ve also compacted the snow so it’s nothing now but a slippery surface, and the absolute last fucking thing in the world that we need right now is for the fucking Jeep to go off the road. I don’t know if we’d survive being trapped together.
My stomach churns. Last night was so fucking perfect. I’ve been with a few women over the years, and none have ever come close to what I had with India. That’s the bitch of this. She comes around one more time, just to let me taste what I want, and then yanks it away. Because it’s pointless.
Pointless, pointless, pointless. The word echoes in my mind.
I can’t fucking wait to get to her parents’ house so that she can get out of my car.
At the same time, my stomach is coiled up in knots thinking about the moment when she gets out of my car and I never fucking see her again.
I don’t know which is worse, but the closer we get, the more my muscles tense until I’m holding the wheel so hard that one wrong move and I could rip it right off.
India’s shoulders are shaking when I pull up to the curb outside her parents’ house. They’ve redone the siding, but it’s almost the same color. Practically nothing has changed.
The only thing that’s different is that India doesn’t live here anymore, and she never will again.
This is our last shot.
I see her steel herself, and when she turns back to me her eyes are red but dry.
“Thanks for the ride home, Dawson.” Her voice is raw, aching, and I want to take her face in my hands and kiss her until there’s none of that pain left. But I can’t. I can’t touch her. If I do, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
“You’re welcome.”
There’s so much more I want to say. Her eyes bore into mine, but every second that the silence lasts, the more the words die in my throat.
I’m sorry for that bullshit before. Last night was incredible. Please, I just want to hold your hand and talk to you about every single damn thing that’s happened in your life since the day we stopped talking.
India gives a little nod, like she’s waited long enough, and then she opens the passenger door.
My heart hammers painfully against my rib cage as she steps out into the snow.
She stands for one more lingering moment with her hand on the door, looking in at me.
She opens her mouth, then closes those pretty lips.
And then she closes the door.
My body wrenches to the left. I want to go after her, but something keeps me pinned in the car, my eyes glued on her back as she moves up the walk to the front porch, walking faster the closer she gets to the house.
She climbs the steps two at a time, almost losing her footing on the slick surface but catching herself on the railing at the last second. I reach toward her instinctively, but she’s far as fuck away and I have nothing to do with her anymore.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
She slips inside without a backward glance.
The silence inside the car is so loud that it pulses in my ears.
I reach forward and turn on the radio, cranking the volume of whatever shitty pop station this is, and then, though my chest is so tight I’m probably having a fucking heart attack, I put the Jeep into gear and pull back into the road.
The house recedes in the rearview mirror, and I’m choking on my own sadness. Once again, the fact of my existence has fucked things up for me. Why would I have ever thought this was some kind of a gift? Last night seems like a million goddamn miles away already.
The radio abruptly switches gears.
I’ll be home for Christmas…
I’ll never be fucking home again, now that India has walked away from me again.
No—now that I’ve chased her out of my damn life, like some kind of cowardly idiot.
Merry Christmas to me.
13
India
My parents are thrilled to see me.
“India!” my dad booms from the living room, throwing down his newspaper. “You’re still all right?”
I crack a smile for his benefit, though I know my eyes are a dead giveaway. My good ol’ Dad pretends not to notice, or maybe he really doesn’t. “If you were that worried, you could have texted me.”
He waves a hand in the air. “You’re almost thirty, daughter mine. You’d let us know if you were on your deathbed. Or the paramedics would.”
“Ha. I’m twenty-eight, by the way. That’s hardly close to thirty.”
“What happened with the car? Was it drivable?”
“No.” I cut my eyes to the floor, thinking of how close their car is to Dawson’s house. How am I ever going to bear going back for it? “Well, it’s probably drivable. It’s just still in the ditch.”
“Still in the ditch?” My dad lets out a hearty laugh. “Well, call up the towing company. Let’s go pick it up.”
“India, are you all right?” My mom bustles in from the kitchen, bringing the scent of warm sugar cookies with her. Her forehead is pinched with worry.
“Yes, Mom, obviously.”
“But where did you stay? What friend was this?”
Right. I told them that I was with a friend for the night.
I square my shoulders. “Actually, it was Dawson Flint.”
“Dawson Flint!” my dad says, slapping his hand down on his knee. “That’s the young man who opened up that bar on the other side of town. He was always very energetic, wasn’t he?”
I stare at my dad with narrowed eyes. “Energetic?”
“Oh, he was all over town when you two were in school together. We always heard about him from the other parents. He really made something of himself.” My dad cocks his head to the side. “You know, he’s not like a lot of the others from your year. You all moved away for careers. He put down roots here.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“What do you mean?”
I take in a big breath and lean toward my dad, scanning his face for any hint that this is a joke.
“Are you—are you screwing with me?”
“Why would you think that, India?”
“You always liked dad jokes. Is this one of those times where you’re screwing with me and I’m taking forever to catch on?” I whip around to where my mother stands, looking between the two of us with a bewildered expression. “Is he screwing with me?”
“Honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about either.”
“You sat me down.” My dad continues to stare at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. “You sat me down and told me that I’d never amount to anything if I stayed with him.”
My dad bursts out into laughter, big fat peals of it that fill up the entire living room. “I was definitely a prick.”
“Holy shit, Dad.” I put my hands to the sides of my head. “You’re only now realizing this?”
His face sobers. “No, India. Of course I’ve regretted some of the things I said to you.” The corners of his lips turn down. “I judged that young man by his cover because I was afraid for you. I wanted you to go to college and have all the experiences you’d worked so hard to get. How could I have known what he’d become?”
“I loved him.”
“I know. That’s why I was such an asshole. It was obvious, Indie. Clear as day.”
“He never talked to me again after—after all that with Eric Powell.”
“Another nice young man. He’s done quite—”
“Eric Powel was a dick, Dad. He treated everyone around him like shit. Dawson treated me like a princess.”
“Looks like he still does. Did he have a guest bedroom?”
>
My cheeks go painfully hot. “Yeah, Dad. He had a guest bedroom. I’m glad you’re worried about that, now that I’m almost thirty.”
“At least you two had a chance to talk things through. I’m sorry if I made things difficult for you back then, but you’ve both come out the other side better off for it.” He stands up and casts around for his cell phone. “Now. Let’s go take care of that car!”
He bustles off into the kitchen to get the number for the towing company, and I stand frozen in the living room, my mom watching me.
“God,” I whisper under my breath.
“So—how was he, India?” she says, her voice soft.
“He’s—” I swallow the lump in my throat. “He’s great, Mom. He’s…he’s really grown up over the years.” I can’t bring myself to tell her that I want him, right now, so badly that my entire body is one giant aching bruise.
It was a mistake to let him drive away without telling him that I still love him. That I want to give this a real shot.
That I don’t give a shit what my dad thought ten years ago.
That I’m finally over it.
That I’ve seen what there is to see outside of this town, and nothing came close to him. Not a single person.
“Get your coat, India!” calls my dad from the kitchen.
“I’m already wearing it.”
My heart starts to pound. We’re driving back to Dawson’s place. If he’s there, I’m going to go up to the door. I’m going to bang on it with my fists until he lets me in.
I’m not going to let him slip through my fingers again.
14
Dawson
It’s a mistake to stop at the little mom-and-pop gas station on the way back to my house and I know it, but I go anyway. I want a damn coffee, pitch black and strong, and that’s where they make it best. That’s where they make it easiest to get to, anyway, if you don’t want to go into one of those damn shops with the chatty baristas. I don’t want to talk about my day.