by Brooke Moss
Paul doesn't even bother trying to hide whatever he's feeling, because he beams down at me. Dear Lord, I hope he's not laughing at me.
"What brought you here, anyway?" he asks.
"Well, there was this guy I met in a grocery store who wasn't old at all..."
"There you go again," he says rolling his eyes.
"Sorry," I say with a grin. I take a step closer into him, maybe his smile means he likes me as much as I like him. I slip my arm across my middle and hold his arm. We're alone on a huge patch of beach, but I can't get close enough to him. I've never felt so intimate with someone—romantic or otherwise. "I guess I'm sort of running."
"There's a big difference between running away and running toward something, you know," he points out. "You can do them both at the same time, too. So what are you doing?"
I blink half a dozen times. Paul's about thirty miles passed my speed limit; he knows a thing or two about life. I know exactly zip.
"Both, I think. Everyone I knew was hitting some huge milestone, while I...wasn't. I guess I just wanted to experience something."
He raises his free hand and snaps. "And a retirement home seemed like the best place to do that in."
"Hey, Aunt Isla and her friends lead a more exciting life than most people I know."
"Yeah, I shouldn't joke because it's true. Make fun of it all I want, but there's more experiences there than anyone can count. Years’ and years’ worth."
"It's almost like a time machine."
"That's exactly how it is. When I first came home, it was easier having some of the veterans to talk to. Even though they served in different wars, it's all guns and ammo and foreign soil." He huffs out a laugh, giving me a look. "I'm done talking about that—it's not a first date conversation."
"What exactly classifies first date conversations?"
"Colors, favorite foods, childhood pets, favorite movies."
"Yellow. I like cobbler, steak, fruit salads, any food—basically. We didn't have any pets, because my dad has allergies. And my favorite movie is Psycho, not that it's indicative of my personality."
"Well, if it is, we're alone on the beach and now's your chance, Norman Bates."
“No shower.” I purposefully bump into him. "We're done with first date talk now, so we're free to talk about anything."
"Yeah, but you don't know mine," he says.
I've never done drugs, but I doubt the feeling would measure up to the euphoric, intoxicating rush he puts my body through.
As we walk for hours in a time span which feels only seconds long, we ask each other ridiculous questions. I laugh harder than I ever have. Somehow, I learn as much about myself as I learn about him.
I realize I've spent too much time waiting for this. Like with Aunt Isla, maybe you don't rush love, but let it happen when it wants.
The only problem is, waiting for it isn't going to be the problem anymore. It'll be leaving it.
#
"So...this is me, which I guess you know," I say as we approach the door to Aunt Isla's apartment.
He sighs as he leans against the wall. "You're definitely one for saying just about everything, including the obvious."
"It's a gift. I'm sorry I'm so awkward, I'm just—"
"Nervous?"
"Every day of my life," I say with a weird laugh.
"Tell me what you're nervous about?"
"Why would I do that?" I ask.
"Because you're honest, remember?"
"Oh, yeah. I need to invest more time into becoming a liar." I lean against the door, too. This is the part where I wish I could be one of those confident girls who take control of the situation. I want him to kiss me for real, instead of the fake out from before. But this little voice inside my head (and by little, I really mean gigantic) reminds me how embarrassing it would be for me to go in for the kill and get shot down. The imagery would be exactly how I would feel, too. "I guess I was just thinking about you...me...kissing..."
"'Sittin' in a tree,'" he sings off key. He leans into me. "Say no more." He cups my cheek as his lips brush against mine dangerously, yet sweet and slow. He still tastes like the banana ice cream he ate, mixed with something which reminds me of the ocean. I brace my hand against his chest, because I feel as if I'm going to sink right into him and just disappear completely into this kiss. This would be the good way to wind up on 48 Hours.
But then my lips part and the kiss deepens. One of us—or maybe it's a mutual—sighs and my heart speeds up into cardiac arrest territory. His kiss is a rush of adrenaline and emotions, but I'm also completely aware of everything between the two of us, from the way his lips feel against mine to how he's gently stroking my cheeks with his fingertips.
He pulls back from me and rests his forehead against mine. We're both breathing like we ran a marathon.
"Woah, huh?" I say, continuing with the can't-keep-my-mouth-shut thing.
He doesn't say anything, just lets out a long breath and nods. Then leans in to kiss me again. This time, there's more behind it. Not so gentle and more like he's kissed me a thousand times already and plans to do it a thousand times more. He kisses me as if he already has a trademark on my heart and knows it. I've always thought too much while I kissed someone—how I should move my lips, where my hands should go, if I should close my eyes. But right now, I can't think. The instinct to be with him in this moment has taken over and my body isn't doing anything except reacting. So this is how I'm supposed to feel.
SMACK.
"Arthur, they probably heard you!"
"Well now that you yelled at me, I'm sure they did!"
I break away and pull back, but Paul only drops his hands to grip my waist.
"They must have been watching us through the peep hole," I point out.
Paul shifts, so I'm closer to his other ear. I must be hard to hear. My voice seems quieter to my own ears. And breathy. "Probably just Isla. I'll bet Arthur was trying to stop her."
"This means I'm going to be mortified for the rest of this trip."
He laughs. "She was probably cheering us on. No need to be mortified."
"Embarrassed?"
"No."
"Scarred?"
He shakes his head, looking exasperated, but somehow happy about it. "Try something a little more positive, huh?"
I roll my eyes. "Fine. She'll probably be excited and it'll rub off on me."
#
Somehow, our ice-cream date turns into another date. Only it's not really a date. He tricks me into thinking it was a date by using the phrase, "come spend some time with me." Really, he was dragging me off from apartment to apartment and around the grounds to help out with manual labor.
"It's not a date you're looking for," I say for the millionth time. "It's an apprentice."
Sure, he hasn't made me work that much—he's really just had me sit there and talk to him—but when I have helped him, I've realized the only reason why he's strong enough for this job is because he was used to it. Me, in my black tank top and khaki cut offs, with my hair pulled up in a high ponytail— not so much. I'm dying of over-exhaustion.
Okay, a little dramatic, I know. But I seriously helped him carry a resident's new couch up to their apartment. It’s no easy task for a girl who can't reach the barely tall shelves at a store.
Paul gives me a sly smile as he takes the hammer from my hand to hammer a nail in the wall. We're hanging pictures for Marilyn, because Shirley wants her to have more mementos to remind her of her life. Watching them has taught me about another form of love—the friendship kind of love. The kind where you dedicate a piece of your heart to protect someone, care for them, and expect them to always be there for you. It makes me want to call Chloe and apologize for being a horrible best friend, because I want to be the Marilyn to her Shirley or vice-versa.
"So what if I want to see you more and make my job a little easier?" he asks.
"You're good at the talking part." I sit on the arm of the couch he's using as a pseudo-ladder. "
But your action leaves little to be desired."
"You really think that?" he asks, sounding as confident as ever, lips curling up into a knowing grin.
"That kiss doesn't count."
"Somehow me asking you to help me carry a couch into a room makes me the bad guy."
"Exactly." I fluff the tendrils escaping my ponytail indignantly "Besides, you knew I'd agree because I want to show you I don't just babble endlessly and can actually be useful."
"You ain't gotta prove anything," he says, hanging one of the pictures on the nails. He steps back off the couch, like he's part-ninja, and moves toward me.
He effortlessly positions himself between my legs and places his hands on my thighs. It's almost scary how easily he does it—as though we've known each other longer than we have. More amazing is I let him. Like I'm experienced at hanging out with him or we're a couple or something.
Oh my god, we're dating. I'm "together" with a guy.
He leans in and kisses me, our bodies curving into each other. The kissing feels frenzied now we're far away from prying eyes and peepholes. Not too alone, though, because we're in Marilyn's apartment. Still, I can't stop my arms from rising up his body and winding around his neck. My fingers instantly find the scars on his neck, leading up to his ear.
His skin immediately heats there and he deepens the kiss, as if he enjoys how I'm willing to touch him where he feels broken. Not that he should feel that way—I think he's beautiful for what he's been through.
#
The next week is a montage of kissing, laughing, talking, and helping Paul around the retirement home. The time I meant to spend with Aunt Isla or lazing around on the beach, is spent with him. I barely see Aunt Isla except for at night and in the morning, or when we're in her apartment doing something.
Paul receives so many calls for him to fix things, he keeps his phone on silent; there’s something other-worldly in how easily things go awry here. One of the tenants believes there's something wrong with her thermostat and we return to her apartment daily. There's nothing wrong, of course. Instead, Paul just messes with it like he's fixing it and somehow convinces her it's better, which she believes whole heartedly until the next day. His patience and kindness with everyone amazing, even though, I'm sure the neediness can be tiring. He really loves and enjoys his work and the people. Clearly they love him as well, because Paul comes away from every apartment with either a kiss, hug or a handshake and some kind of sweet treat, which we share out on the beach.
Today we're eating a piece of coconut creme pie, a piece of golden heaven. I take a fork-full bigger than my mouth and shove it inside, which isn't very ladylike. Luckily, Paul's doing the same. There’s something special between us if we can eat like barbarians together.
He looks at me, mid-chew, and we both start laughing. You'd think we're eating our last meal.
I swallow and take a sip of the peach tea we stole from Aunt Isla's refrigerator.
"Endless chatter time. If I could do one thing for the rest of my life shamelessly and guilt free, I would just eat and not care about my weight, my skin, or socialization." I look up at him, trying to muster my best straight face. "I'd go full on grizzly bear."
"You never cease to surprise me, Hope," he chuckles. He bumps his shoulder against mine. He's carefully balancing our pie on his kneecap, like he does with all the other sweets. The man could start break dancing and still manage to keep it from falling into the sand. His best quality is his devotion to keeping food safe. "I'd just lay on the beach all day, sun be damned."
"What about the water? You'd be a prune, so that ought to be damned too, you know."
"Hey, I didn't knock your bear plan."
"Which was very kind."
He raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything.
"Fine, I'm sorry."
"You sound a little put out."
"Sorry."
He sighs and sets the plate in my lap. "Have the rest of this."
"What? Why? I really am sorry—"
"No, it's not that. I guess, I just...uh," he says, trailing off. He brings his hand up to scratch his chin. I momentarily lose all thought and focus as the muscles in his arm dance. "We've only got a few days left, don't we?"
I suddenly lose my appetite, too. "What brought this up?"
"I don't know. Just thinking I'm going to miss this."
"Me being overly chatty?"
"That, yeah."
"And how I'm your unpaid helper?"
"Yeah."
"But you're really just going to miss me in general, right? The most?"
He turns his head to look at me. "The most."
I can't help but want to kiss him. Somehow, I manage to catch him off guard and tackle him to the ground. Another fail at being the initiator. He takes it with grace—not as if I just attacked him. He shifts my legs to his sides so they're aligned with his hips and I'm basically sitting on him, then tucks my hair behind my ears.
"The most," he repeats again and pulls me down for a long, tangled kiss that makes my heart race and parts of my body heat up in the most extraordinary way, until I'm writhing against him like I'm trying to win a race. Better yet, so is he. This is the farthest we've gone and I'm not sure if it's because he senses I'm not ready for more or if it's because he wants it to stay at a sweet, heart-stopping summer romance. The kind you imagine they were singing about in Grease.
#
"Shirley, please. Nobody wants to know about the wonders of modern medicine," Arthur groans, hands over his face.
"I'm telling you, it was wonderful," Shirley sing songs, nudging Marilyn, who only gives her a sweet smile in return.
I don't need to hear the entire conversation to know they're talking about something scandalous I definitely don't want to think about. I mean, good for them having sex at their age, but bad for me. The horrific images should remain a secret forever.
Luckily, Arthur notices me sitting down at their table and clears his throat. I give him a grateful smile.
"Oh, she's old enough to hear these things," Shirley says.
"You have to be over eighty to hear what you're talking about, Shirley," Aunt Isla points out. "If she hears it now, she'll have a permanent fear of sex and growing old."
Shirley pouts her red lips. "Viagra and other enhancement drugs are perfectly acceptable in today's society. I don't see why it's so bad for her to hear about their wonders."
"I'm sure you're right, but you go into detail. Too much detail," Aunt Isla says, with an enough-is-enough tone. Little does she know while I was waiting for the elevator yesterday Shirley already educated me about Viagra and her sex life. My brain feels like it went through the blender with lemons. "So, to what do we owe this honor of you joining us?"
"Hey, you wanted this," Arthur huffs at Isla.
I blush. "I just thought I should have breakfast with you all since I'll be leaving soon."
"Paul could've joined," Aunt Isla says. Her mockingly formal attitude gone.
"I know, but he's getting some work done so he can have the afternoon free."
"How sweet," she says dreamily. "I'm so glad the two of you like each other. I knew you two would be perfect. Do you have plans for after you leave?"
"No, we haven't talked about it."
"But you're going to right?"
"Yes," I promise. I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about our future. He must have been having the same issue because I got a text from him at four this morning. He said he wasn't ready for us to end and wanted to talk.
Shirley claps her hands across from us. "I'm so happy for you."
My face gets hotter. "Me too." The urge to say, I like him, I really like him, overwhelms me.
"You're a catch, dear," Aunt Isla says, while Arthur mimics reeling in a fish. It makes me snort and earns Arthur a slap on the hand from Isla, followed by a kiss on the cheek.
"Definitely," Shirley agrees. "There's a reason why no one else stuck. They weren't you."
My ears perk
. "No one else?"
Aunt Isla pales as she shakes her head. "She just means his other girlfriends."
I blink a few times. Why does she seem like she's lying? "I don't think that's what Shirley means."
"Oh, it is," Shirley says quickly.
I raise an eyebrow.
"You can't lie to the girl," Arthur grumbles. "It's unfair to her."
Aunt Isla looks down at her breakfast, moving her eggs around with her fork. She won’t meet my gaze. "Paul tends to date a lot of girls—we all set him up with one of our own. It's sort of a ritual."
"I set my niece up with him before he went overseas," Shirley adds, like it helps or something.
"So... so this has happened before?" I stutter.
"Not exactly—not like—" Aunt Isla starts, but I don't hear the rest.
Her words get lost on their journey to my ears. I'm just one of many? He's spent his other summers with other girls? Seeing them in the same way he’s been seeing me? I mean, I assumed he's dated, but not in the same way as he's been seeing me.
I feel wrong—like I'm just part of an endless revolving door of summer flings. I was having this rare moment with shooting stars and wishes come true, but really, I'm closer to a pattern piece. Of course, our relationship means more to me than it does to him. It’s my first special, real romance. To him, I'm just a date in a list longer than I'm willing to guess.
I thought my life back home was boring. Boring beats mortifying.
What am I doing here?
My body feels as though I'm falling head first into a volcano. Lava, galore. Tears brim my eyes and I'm half-surprised steam doesn't rise. I tuck my chin down because I know I won't be able to hide them. Instead, I mumble something about needing to go for a walk.
They're all nimble for their age, but none are fast enough to keep up with me. I bolt out of the door and run for the stairwell, which is used for emergencies only. All I want is a minute alone.
Okay, a minute to wallow.
I should've stuck to the original plan of spending time with Aunt Isla and going to the beach. The safe experience I wanted and planned for. Then handsome, dream-guy Paul had to show up with fudge. He kissed me like they do in the movies and cherished me like they talk about in books. He had to say sweet things and make me invested in him. He made me want things. I questioned why I couldn't stretch two weeks out further. Most of all, he had to go and make me want more, which I obviously can't have. Why did he make me believe the magic was real?