“No. It’s not.” I paused. “When did life become this complicated?”
Alistair’s grip on me grew slightly tighter, his fingers digging into the small of my back. His smell overwhelmed me, and for a moment, I existed in a haze of painful memories and sad longing.
My heart clenched and I lowered my eyes, savoring every sensation, every second.
Soon we’d leave, and all this would dry up with the rain by morning. For now, I could disconnect from what I knew I shouldn’t want.
The pianist transitioned into playing Paul McCartney’s “My Valentine” and the words seeped into my flesh and a pronounced warmth radiated. A song of rain. I was aware of every stroke of Alistair’s fingers, his every soft inhale and exhale near my ear. The areas where our exposed flesh rubbed against each other began humming, almost in anticipation.
“I thought of you on that beach,” I murmured.
Was it my imagination, or did Alistair’s breath hitch? Did his heart pulsate a bit faster?
“I thought of us,” the alcohol in me said. The wine and cocktails burned through my veins and emboldened me.
I leaned my face into his hard chest, cherishing his woodsy musk. I brought my hands up and splayed them against his body, right on top of his heart. My pale hand was small, contrasting with his dark shirt. I pressed down slightly. I wanted to feel that deep beat, that reminder he was here with me, sharing this moment with me.
Once upon a time, that heart had been mine.
This was all a dream.
“I never stopped thinking of us,” I whispered.
Alistair pressed his lips against my hair and his touch heated me from the inside out. He gave a soft, weary sigh that tore down to the recesses of my soul.
In his voice rang a note of sorrow. “Me neither.”
* * *
Alistair kept his promise. We stayed for one drink. We didn’t say much the rest of the time we were there. We remained in that position by the bar, entwined with each other, listening to the ever-changing soundtrack and feeling each other’s pulsating rhythm. His arms around me, his hands stroking up and down my arms, his lips resting against my hair, these were all that I allowed myself.
Finally, Alistair murmured in my ear that we had to go. He sounded almost regretful, as though he didn’t want to leave. But I didn’t argue with him, and we left.
Alistair wrapped an arm around my shoulders as he guided me down the hallway towards the front doors. We were different people from the ones who had entered, or at least I was. The dining room seemed different. The velvet was plusher and the marble shimmered with the sparkle of a million lights.
The hallway to the exit looked different. The sidewalk felt heavier. The rain was softer. Life shined with something mysterious and distinct that it had lacked even an hour ago.
As if allowing Alistair to hold me so intimately, even in a golden rabbit hole of wonder, hadn’t changed everything.
It was the promise of breath. Of salvation.
The drive back to my apartment was a haze. The alcohol burned through my veins and clouded my vision, disrupting my thoughts.
We arrived to Nicolas’s building in no time, but I was in no hurry to leave. I didn’t clamor out of the car to put distance between us, like I had imagined myself doing at the beginning of this night.
What had changed in this storm? How had I entered this night as one person, determined and cold, and exited as another, confused and pining?
Alistair turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat, his eyes forward. He gazed out the windshield, to the yellow burn of the streetlights broken up with the now-misting rain. A silence hung in between us, comfortable yet laden with the gravity of the evening. I was in no hurry to break it. I took in Alistair, really considered him for perhaps the first time since we’d reconnected.
Alistair’s face still had those intense biting eyes that lent him almost an angry appearance, but I could tell now there were lines feathering out from the edges. Stress? Age? His lips were relaxed but there was a hard line to them, as if smiles rarely graced them.
His bottom lip was a bit thicker than the top. I used to nip at it, reveling in the reaction I got from him.
Now, I resisted the urge to smooth that harsh expression, to run my thumb over it, soothing his angry angles.
He’d always had a stoic personality, a person who barely cracked a grin, but my memories of him were nothing but warm afternoons shared laughing in the fields, his relentless teasing driving me mad.
We can’t possibly start over again, so we need to stop whatever is going on between us before it all goes wrong.
I’ve never been so happy as I was with you.
The wine whispered to me, Tell him.
Instead, I said, “Thank you for taking me to that bar. I really enjoyed it.”
Alistair sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “You’re welcome, Florence.” His voice was weary.
“Next time, you don’t have to shut down the entire place.”
Next time? There won’t be a next time. I tried to remind myself of that.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Seriously. It was ridiculous,” I insisted.
“I’m just happy you enjoyed it.”
The wine and whiskey caught up with me. “Are you happy, Alistair?” My question sat between us, heavy with implicit yearning.
Alistair gazed at me, the shadows of the outside world throwing darkness over his features. He stretched one arm out. He touched me gently, but that first contact struck me as hard as a train. Alistair’s rough palms ran over the curve of my neck and shoulder. His eyes dropped and I knew he was reading my neck, my collarbone. He used to rest his lips over them and kiss that shallow dip in between my clavicles. He’d told me his lips fit perfectly in them, almost like a keyhole. I fought the urge to hold my fingers up to them, to touch them myself as my skin burned from want of him. His thumb gently edged that space, that intimate secret of the past that we both were thinking about.
His fingers moved upwards and tucked the strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lightly grazing the edge.
“Yes, Florence. I’m happy,” he said quietly.
I nodded, not knowing what to say.
“Okay,” I offered blandly. “Okay.” I couldn’t stick around. I couldn’t remain here any longer; nothing good would occur.
I pulled away and Alistair dropped his arm.
I opened the car door and stepped out onto the curb, away from him, away from possibilities and hopes, away from the night.
Alistair leaned towards me and placed his left forearm against the back of the passenger-side seat.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” I said.
Alistair’s gaze roved over my face, taking it in, processing it. His eyes met mine and he said, “I’ll come pick you up.”
My rational mind pushed past my inebriation. “No, don’t. I can take the subway.”
I couldn’t risk my job, my career, my reputation for these fleeting moments. I could barely process myself what he was to me. All I knew was that leaving him now felt as if a piece of soul was being ripped away from me.
Yet again.
“Then I’ll send a car.” I opened my mouth in protest, but he interrupted. “Florence, allow me this.”
I sighed. He wasn’t going to concede. “Okay.”
I hesitated for a moment, then added, “Thank you. That’s way too nice of you.”
Alistair’s expression turned guarded. “I’m not doing it because I’m nice. I’m doing it because I’m still selfish.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t question. I pushed the thoughts away and backed up a step, signaling my retreat.
“Good night, Florence,” Alistair said. His voice was intimate, his gaze soft, communicating something to me that I didn’t want to accept.
I took another step back. “Good night, Alistair.”
I pushed the questions aside and slammed the car door shut. I didn’t wait for him
to drive away. Instead I walked up the steps to the lobby without a backwards glance.
* * *
I cradled my cell phone in one hand, contemplating the black screen. Alistair had been back in my life for exactly one week and he’d managed, in six days, to claw his way back into my heart, my soul. I couldn’t breathe without his breath in every inhale, the essence of him permeating me even more potently. Even more completely.
Had it really been this intense back then? Even more?
I’d been starved for more than ten years and this sudden gorging would be the end of me.
I shook my head, then put down my phone and proceeded to get ready for bed. I took a shower. I brushed my teeth. I put on my pajamas. I slipped into bed and turned off the lights.
I went through the motions. I concentrated on the tasks at hand.
And the entire time, I felt his presence on me.
I rolled over and stared again at the blank screen. Then, before I lost my nerve, I turned it on and sent Alistair a text message.
Thank you again …
It was several minutes before my phone pinged. The vibration of the phone was like the shudder of my soul.
Always, came his response.
I stared dumbly at his message while trying to process the significance.
Always.
I fell asleep with an uneasy sensation in my chest, as if my blackened heart was slowly beating back to life once more. As if hope dared to defrost, wondering …
Chapter 13
Alistair Blair, sixteen years old
The crowd roared and cheered as I charged straight into Kevin. He planted his feet on the ground to take my impact, but it didn’t work. I lowered my right shoulder and crashed into him, and we both fell against the side of the school with our fists flying. I connected first with a satisfying crunch right at his cheek, and his head snapped back to bear the full brunt of our impact against the wall.
I couldn’t help but pull my lips into an expression of satisfaction. I reared back for another strike, but Kevin rammed his forehead forward and a crack rang out in my skull.
I stumbled, a moment of weakness. That was enough for him. He slugged me in the jaw and tackled me into the bicycle rack. The sound of metal pieces scraping crashed beneath me and something sharp gouged me right below my right ear. Blinding pain erupted and radiated across the side of my face, just as Kevin dragged me across the pavement, cutting my forehead open over the blacktop.
I kicked, striking Kevin’s gut, and he doubled over, eyes bulging. I flipped us over until he was under me and seized his collar, slamming his head back into the ground.
He cursed. He groaned. I sank my fists into his face in rapid succession, relishing bone-on-bone contact, feeling his struggles weaken below me.
That’ll show him to talk to me like that. I pounded him again.
“Blair! Man, stop!” Hands sprang around me and yanked me backwards. I fought and kicked, lunging for Kevin’s slumped form. His face was covered in blood. Red blood. Rage filled me, pain spread from every possible imperfect part of me. I roared, needing to hit him again, wanting the kill.
“Let me go!” I yelled, fighting the many hands that snatched at me. I couldn’t place the voices, couldn’t place to whom the hands belonged.
All I saw was red.
A red sports car sat in the driveway next to a large station wagon. I cracked my knuckles, my heart thumping violently in my chest.
I approached the door. A summer wreath of berries hung above the door knocker.
The door was red.
The berries on the wreath were red.
I knocked twice.
The door open.
A woman with hazel eyes stepped into view. Eyes that flared with fear when mine connected with them.
She held a dishtowel in her hands.
We stared at each other and she spoke first.
“Alistair?”
I forced myself to smile.
“Hey, Mom.”
Her eyes flooded with more fear, now panic.
“Why are you here?”
She quickly glanced behind her and then back to me.
“You have to leave. Go back to Michigan,” she hissed.
“But …,” I started, but stopped once her face shifted.
Her face was cold. Her expression was stony.
My heart plummeted to my toes.
“Mom.” My voice was like a child’s. I was pleading.
She didn’t care.
“You need to leave. You can’t be here. You’re with your dad now.”
I didn’t say anything. My eyes narrowed to a glare. Anger snaked into my vein, ugly rage that sprung from that secret, terrible side of me.
It reacted to this secret, terrible moment occurring between the two of us.
“Fuck you,” I spat out.
Her eyes hardened at my words.
She snapped the dish towel between her fingers.
“It was for the best. You can’t be here. I did it for your own good.”
“Fuck you. You’re such a fucking liar.”
She took a step back, her hand already on the side of the door.
“Go away.”
Her lips were tight.
She looked away.
She closed the door.
All I saw was red.
“Cops! Run!”
Everyone screamed and the crowd broke apart like fireworks. The students scattered in record time and I fled, blood running into my eyes and pain shooting down my arm. I flew past a row of cars, ignoring the cries of people once they registered my blood-caked face. I raked a forearm across my brow and flinched at the stones embedded in my skin scratching against my face.
Sirens whirled in the distance.
I cursed and ran faster.
A fence came into view. I picked up my speed and jumped the wall, but a long nail jutting from the wood caught my jeans and tore a long gash down the side of my right calf.
“Ahhh!” I yelled through clenched teeth, flipping over and landing on my cut leg. It buckled underneath me and my hands immediately went to the wound as I rolled over a patch of grass.
Jesus, it hurt. My fingers were covered in blood. My blood. Kevin’s blood. I staggered up on my hands and tried to walk, but an intense agony shot straight to my nerves and my legs buckled underneath me.
“Alistair!” a girl’s voice rang out behind me.
Not just any girl’s voice. A voice I could pick out in a crowd of a thousand. A crowd of a million.
I didn’t answer; I didn’t acknowledge her. I forced myself up and tried to run across the field, but my traitorous leg refused to work. I stumbled, dragging the useless limb behind me before crashing to the ground again against my palms.
I gritted my teeth as my hand curled into a fist, crunching dirt against my knuckles.
I needed to run.
“Alistair! Stop!” Her voice got closer. Despite myself, I looked over my shoulder. Florence Reynolds was speeding across the leaf-strewn grass, pedaling desperately at her bicycle. Her chestnut hair flew in the wind and her face was pink with exertion.
Her eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, were wide with fear.
“Alistair!” she yelled again and I snapped my attentions away from her. I tried to walk again, but pitched backwards, collapsing against the fence.
A bicycle hit the ground with a loud clatter and Florence vaulted herself over the same spot that I had damned myself on. She crouched down next to me, her face panicked, her breaths coming out fast and hard.
“Oh God, Alistair!” she cried. I was a mess. What Kevin hadn’t done to my face, I had done myself to my own body.
“Get away from me,” I growled, and I shook her hands off my elbow. I didn’t bother to gauge her reaction. I could anticipate her expression of hurt. She’d been giving me nothing but that look since I got back. I’d gone this far with avoiding her. I wasn’t about to stop the record now just because I was bleeding.
I pushe
d that thought away and forced myself up by balancing on the wooden fence.
“Alistair! Don’t! You’re hurt! You’re losing blood!”
I stumble on my bad leg, and right before I hit the dirt, Florence’s thin arms crashed around my chest to take the blow.
“Alistair! Stop!”
Now she was everywhere. Her hair was in my face, clinging to my rapidly thickening blood. Her arms were around my body, her fingers gripping my shirt.
Her voice was in my head, her pleas drilling into my ears, into my brain, into my wretched useless stone of a heart.
I tried to shrug her off, but her grip was strong.
“We’re closer to my house. Let’s go there, please.” Florence pulled me tighter towards her.
“Get away from me,” I seethed between my teeth.
Her smell assailed me. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t know what she did to me. She fought dirty.
I pushed at her, but she wouldn’t budge.
“Get off!”
I shoved her away from me, as hard as I could. Florence fell away and collided against the fence, crying out when a piece of uneven wood jabbed into her back.
I stilled. Time stilled. Breath stilled. Every emotion, all the anger, all the frustration and embarrassment, stilled, replaced with anxiety.
Florence was slumped over, one hand against the small of her back as she cringed in pain. Her face was tight, her expression twisted with a grimace.
Oh no. Shit. I’m sorry.
“Florence,” I said. I hobbled closer to her. Had I hurt her? Was she bleeding?
I screwed it all up.
“Florence,” I said again.
Look at me, Florence, look at me.
Please, please. Look at me.
I reached over and touched her shoulder gently.
She was breathing hard, heavy exhales puffing from between her lips.
Look at me. Please, look at me.
Florence slowly opened her eyes and raised them towards me.
Behind a glassy veil of tears rang a singular emotion—relief.
* * *
The Beginning of Always Page 18