Kiss in the Dark

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “So,” she ventured, “what is it you’re always running from?”

  He paused a moment. Unexpectedly, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.

  He tossed it in her lap and said, “Remember how I told you that you missed something before?” he asked.

  “Yeah?” Boston said, opening his wallet.

  “I…I had promised myself that if you were thorough enough to find what’s really in there…that I’d tell you then,” he said. “I’d promised myself I’d tell you the truth…if you found what I was afraid you would. So…give it another try. It’ll be easier for me if you can find a clue first.”

  “Okay,” Boston said. He was afraid to tell her—but why? Danielle had said Vance had baggage. Again Boston wondered what kind of baggage would keep him running—keep him swimming in such obvious fear and pain.

  Slowly she opened his wallet. Nothing had changed that she could see—other than the fact he now had seventy dollars in the cash section. She looked at his credit cards, his driver’s license—found a little compartment in the middle of the wallet, but it was empty. All that was left were the photos. Quickly she flipped through them. They hadn’t changed—no additional photos, none missing. There was the one of Samantha, Vance and Danielle’s little niece. Boston flipped to the next photo, Danielle and Vance at a football game, the football player and his sister the cheerleader. As before, the next photo was of Danielle at perhaps fourteen or fifteen, a school photo Boston remembered having seen in Danielle’s boxes of unorganized photos many times. She flipped to the next photo—the second photo of Danielle—again in her mid-teens. Boston frowned, thinking again that she’d never seen this school photo of Danielle. She turned to the last photo, a wallet-sized portrait of Vance’s mother and father. It was in that moment that something struck her as strange. Why would Vance carry two photos of Danielle at approximately the same age? Why not a more current photo?

  She felt Vance’s muscles tighten as she turned back to the two school portraits of Danielle. She studied them, side by side. It was then she noticed the difference, as if one of the portraits had been printed backward. Danielle had a small mole on her right cheek—and in one photograph the mole was there—on her right cheek. But in the other photograph, the mole was on Danielle’s left cheek. A horrifying understanding began to wash over Boston then. She thought of the summer she’d first met Danielle—the glorious summer at the North Pole, the summer that hadn’t started out as glorious for Danielle Nathaniel. She thought about the hidden pain Danielle had endured that summer—of Danielle’s recent confession of having contemplated suicide.

  With trembling hands, Boston removed the second photo of Danielle from the little plastic wallet photo holder. She held her breath and turned the photograph over.

  “Annabelle Nathaniel,” she read in a whisper. “My junior year and I still love you more than anybody, Vance. Thanks for being my big brother. Love, Annabelle.”

  Boston couldn’t breathe as she replaced the photo. Something else struck her then, and she turned back to the photo of Vance and Danielle in their high school uniforms for cheerleading and football. The photo of Samantha covered the back of the photo of Danielle and Vance, of course, so she would have to remove it to see if there was any writing on the back of it—to find out if it was of Vance and Danielle as she had thought or of Vance and Annabelle, Danielle’s mirror twin sister.

  She removed the photo of Vance as a high school football player to find part of the photo had been folded back. There, as she unfolded the small photograph, stood Vance—hugged tightly between two identical twin girls.

  “Identical twins,” she breathed. “Mirror twins. What happened to her?” Boston asked, though as her mind quickly fit pieces of the puzzle together, she could almost guess. What she didn’t guess at was what Vance would answer.

  “I killed her,” he stated.

  Inwardly, Boston was astonished at his response. Yet for his sake, she would not let him know how troubled she was. For one thing, she was certain there was more to the story of Annabelle than that—and second, she wouldn’t give Vance any reason to feel she might think badly of him.

  “I’m sure there’s more to it than that, Vance,” she said. “Tell me…tell me about Annabelle.”

  She saw a tear trickle down his face. She reached up and tenderly brushed it from his face.

  “She and Danielle were seniors in high school,” he began. “It was spring. They were making all their plans for graduation. You know, the stupid caps and gowns, the announcements…everything guys hate and girls love, right?”

  “Right,” Boston said. Guys did hate the pomp and circumstance of events like high school graduation. She had brothers—she knew.

  “Anyway, Annabelle didn’t want to wait until the next day to pick up her stuff,” he explained. “Someone had called about the announcements and stuff…that they had arrived. They were at some kid’s house, and the kid had said everyone could drop by and pick them up if they wanted to. Otherwise they’d have to wait until Monday when the kid brought them to the school.” He smiled and shook his head as he continued, “I swear I thought she was going to nag my head right off my shoulders! She wanted her stuff… and she wanted it that night. But I was really tired. I’d been working road construction to save for a couple more semesters of college, and I was tired. But Annabelle kept begging me and begging me to drive her over to this kid’s house. She didn’t like to drive at night. She was seventeen and only had her license for a few months, and driving at night freaked her out for some reason.” He paused and exhaled a heavy sigh. “Well, as always, she talked me into it. So we got in the car and started for the kid’s house.”

  Tears were already streaming over Boston’s tender cheeks. The empathy she owned was in full flourish, and her heart was already beginning to ache in sharing Vance’s pain. She didn’t say anything—just let him continue—snuggled closer and wrapped her arms around his strong one.

  “I know I didn’t nod off or anything,” he said. “How could I? Annabelle was talking a wild streak all the way…going on and on about this guy Phil that she liked.” He smiled a little, no doubt at the memory of a sweet, effervescent sister. “I didn’t nod off…was driving just as alert as I normally do. But even so, I didn’t see the guy run the stop sign. He T-boned us on the passenger’s side. They figure he was going over fifty miles an hour. And it pushed us off the road…slammed the driver’s side into a tree.” He paused to brush a tear from his other cheek. “I was trapped—my left arm and shoulder were broken…my collar bone and my left leg too—and the tree had smashed the front of the car so my door wouldn’t open. I looked over to see Annabelle…”

  Through her own tears, Boston could see the tears streaming down Vance’s handsome, tortured face. He paused—put a hand over his mouth to still his trembling lips.

  His deep voice broke with emotion as he said, “She was…I won’t describe it to you…but things were severed. She was already gone, and we’ll leave it at that.” He closed his eyes a moment, and Boston knew the image was as fresh there as it had been when his brain had first registered it.

  “She was already…already gone…and I’ve always been glad that if she had to die…it was quick,” he said. “Even though…even though I saw her…I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it…and I was struggling to break free so I could maybe help her…somehow. Plus the guy who had hit us…the drunk driver who had hit us…” He paused a moment. “It’s why I freak out whenever I think someone’s been driving drunk…like the guy at your apartment tonight. I just…I just relive it all…get so angry. And the drunk driver that night, he was screaming for help…screaming and screaming for help. And it sounds strange…but I wanted to help him. So I actually tried to get to him. I tried to move but my right leg was pinned.” He chuckled a bit, “And if there’s one thing you’ll learn about me, it’s that I don’t like being restrained. So somehow I managed to pull my right leg away from whatever had it pinned.” H
e glanced at her, his tears slowing but excess moisture still welling in his beautiful eyes. “Ever notice that nasty scar and chunk of flesh missing from my right leg? Well, whatever had me pinned, when I pulled my leg out, it just took a hunk of skin and muscle with it.” He forced a grin and whispered, “It nearly killed Danielle too…to lose Annabelle, you know.”

  “I know,” Boston said—and she did. After so many years of being Danielle’s friend, she finally knew what had tortured her heart and soul so thoroughly that summer they’d first met. It was like someone had turned on a light—a light of pure understanding—and Boston’s empathy for Danielle and her brother only grew.

  “But Danielle made it through…and it wasn’t your fault. Still, knowing you as I do, you’re always the hero…and you pinned it all on your own shoulders…so that nobody else could possibly ever blame themselves for any of it—not Danielle, not your parents…not anybody.”

  “I was driving,” he reminded her.

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “Safely and sober.”

  “I don’t think anybody ever gets over something like this,” he said. “I’m pretty damaged goods, Boston Rhodes.”

  “Everybody is damaged in one way or the other, Vance. And nobody ever does get over things like this,” Boston admitted. “In a way, they shouldn’t. Experience is what makes us who we are. Depending on how we choose to apply it in our lives, it can make us better people…more understanding, patient, and compassionate. But we still have to learn to live with bad, horrible, painful things. This is your baggage…I understand that. Everybody has baggage to some extent. Not like this, of course—yours is a lot heavier than what most people carry…not because it was your fault but because you lost someone you loved so suddenly, so violently, so needlessly…and you felt responsible. But you’re not.” She smiled at him, adding, “And you’re not damaged goods. You’re excellent goods.”

  Vance grinned—a sad grin perhaps—but an expression of hope and relief accompanied it. He reached up and brushed the tears from Boston’s cheeks.

  “You know you didn’t kill your sister, don’t you?” she ventured. The horrifying event haunted him—it always would—but he had to know it wasn’t his fault.

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “It took a long time and a little counseling from my family…especially Danielle. Her support meant the most to me…because she’d lost as much as I had…maybe more…yet she didn’t blame me at all. She understood not only my pain but my guilt.”

  “You mean your feelings of guilt,” Boston corrected.

  “Okay…my feelings of guilt,” he chuckled.

  He looked away from her then and asked, “So…what do you think of me now? Would you still let yourself be locked in Dempsey’s pantry with me?”

  Boston smiled. He was in pain, she could see it—feel it aching inside him. He would always feel pain when he talked about it—thought about it—but she wouldn’t let it linger long—not if she could help it.

  “Of course,” she said. “Knowing this—the fact you would tell me about it—it only makes me love—like you more.”

  He looked to her, frowning. “You almost used the L-word,” he said.

  “I…um…I…” Boston stammered, feeling the crimson of a raw blush rising to her cheeks.

  “Do I make you think of the L-word, Boston Rhodes?” he asked. He was smiling—teasing her. She was sure he was still in pain, but he was coming back to her now—she could sense it.

  “Maybe,” she admitted timidly. It was a frightening confession. Boston actually wondered how she’d managed to confess it at all.

  Vance’s smile broadened. “You know, I was coming over to ask you out tonight. Can you believe that? Before all the drama interfered, I had worked up enough guts to ask you out…but I guess that point kind of got thrown in the slammer.”

  “Do you mean, like, ask me out on a date? Like a date-date?” Boston asked. In her stomach, butterflies were busting out of their cocoons by the trillions. He’d meant to ask her out? She could hardly contain her excitement, even for the heavy heartache he’d just shared with her.

  He smiled at her. “Yes…on a date-date,” he chuckled. “But now, being that you almost used the L-word to me, maybe I’ll find the courage again to ask you if you’d let me take you out this weekend.” He paused and shrugged straightened shoulders. “I mean, the L-word thing…kind of encouraged me. I might not be able to promise a riveting adventure of eighteen holes of golf…” He smiled—the smile of impending mischief Boston loved so much. “But I can promise you a good time…and maybe a pantry or two to check out along the way.” He frowned. “Of course, you’ve never let me kiss you in the light. Maybe you won’t like me with the lights on.”

  “You never tried to kiss me with the lights on,” Boston teased. “And you call yourself Vance Romance.”

  “To be honest, I thought you wouldn’t let me kiss you with the lights on…so I just always made sure it was dark.” He seemed thoughtful for a moment and then added, “Except that last time, the other night after Dempsey’s party in my fancy hotel suite, you’re the one who turned out the lights and kissed me first.”

  “Maybe I did,” Boston giggled.

  Vance’s eyes narrowed, and the pain lingering in them a moment before seemed to vanish, replaced by something else—something that made Boston’s heart leap in her chest.

  “You know,” he began, “I’ve been thinking a lot about the L-word lately too.”

  “You have?” Boston asked, breathless as he took her chin in one hand. Could it be true? In a matter of less than three weeks, had Boston found the one man she would love forever? Surely not—surely she was only dreaming.

  But Vance nodded.

  “But do you mean the L-word as in lamp or linoleum…or even lollipop?” she asked.

  “No,” he chuckled. “I mean the one…the queen of L-words. As in…I think I love you, Boston, L-word.”

  As tears of joy trickled down Boston’s cheeks, she said, “You don’t even know me.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “I’ve known you from the very first time you walked into Danielle’s apartment and that psycho ex-roommate of yours told you to stay away from me.”

  Boston gasped. “You heard her say that?”

  “I don’t miss much,” he told her. He traced her jawline with the back of his hand, and his caress sent goose bumps rippling over her arms and legs. “But do you think I have a chance with you? Now that you know my baggage?”

  Boston placed a soft palm to his whiskery jaw. “No one else could have a chance with me now…not since the moment I first saw you,” she confessed. “But…I do feel that I should be honest with you. I have a problem…an addiction. It’s been going on for some time now.”

  “Let me guess,” he said, smiling. “Could it be chocolate Tootsie Pops?”

  “Not exactly,” Boston said. “It’s you. I think I love you too…Vance Romance.”

  “Think?” he asked.

  “You said think,” she reminded him.

  “That’s because I’m a chicken,” he chuckled. “I was afraid you might jump up and run off screaming if I told you that I’m in love with you before we’ve even gone on one official date-date.”

  “Really?” Boston sighed. Her heart was full—radiant with joy! She’d taken a chance, taken a risk, hoped that Vance could be hers—and he was.

  “Really,” he said. “I love you, Boston.”

  Boston smiled. “I love you, Vance.”

  “Enough?” he asked.

  Boston frowned, puzzled. “Enough for what?”

  “Enough to kiss me when the lights are on,” he explained.

  “Why don’t you find out?” Boston asked.

  Vance smiled and glanced up to the streetlight above them. “Why don’t I?” he chuckled. He stood, taking Boston’s hands and pulling her to her feet.

  Boston was surprised by a sudden wave of bashfulness as Vance took her in his arms. He would be able to see her this time as he kissed her, an
d it somehow worried her.

  “What if I’m not good at it in the light?” she whispered.

  “You’re forgetting, baby,” he began, “this is me. You twist me up like a bread tie…light or dark.”

  “A bread tie?” Boston giggled, letting her hands slide up over his shoulders to the back of his neck. “You’re comparing me to a bread tie?”

  “Shh,” he breathed.

  Vance’s mouth was watering for Boston’s—watering so profusely he had to swallow twice. Surely he was imagining it all. Surely she didn’t really love him—surely she wasn’t standing there under the streetlight wanting him to kiss her. Yet the feel of her small, warm, curvaceous form in his arms and against his body as he tightened his embrace—her hands at the back of his neck as she wove her fingers through his hair—he couldn’t possibly have misunderstood. She loved him. Even for the painful, dark secrets he’d harbored, she loved him.

  He gazed into the soft jade of her eyes for long moments, reveling in what he saw reflected there—himself. Oh, he’d kiss her all right, like she’d never been kissed before—even like he’d never kissed her before. Somehow he’d managed to win the heart of Boston Rhodes, and he’d make sure that, if nothing else sealed it as forever his, the way he kissed her would.

  Boston was breathless—awash in delight as she watched Vance’s face slowly descend toward hers. She felt his hands fisting the fabric of her shirt at her back—felt his massive chest rising and falling with the labored breath of restrained passion. And then, finally, there under the bright radiance of the streetlight, Vance Nathaniel kissed her! Instantly lost in a heated, moist, affectionate exchange, Boston quivered, awash in bliss as his hands at the small of her back held her firmly against his body. There, under the bright street lamp light, Boston surrendered to passion—to love. In that moment, there was no fear in her—only bliss, joy, and insatiable desire. She pressed her mouth more firmly to his, orchestrating a ferocious kiss of her own. He did not pause but met her instigation full willing, the measure of their exchange finding a common measure as she was one moment submitting to him, the next moment offering her own demands.