by Sally Henson
Lane sings softly. “This music of Tobi's isn't half bad. She has a good mix of all three of us in there.”
“Yeah, I like it. A little country and bluegrass—a little pop—a little bluesy jazz.”
We're finished packing everything but dessert and glasses. “You want dessert?” he asks.
“No, I'm stuffed. You?”
“Later.” He takes his glass and begins to walk toward the sofa and I start to walk off toward the stairs. “Where're you going?”
I nod toward the stairs. “Bathroom.”
“Oh.” He smiles, a bit embarrassed for some reason, and sort of nods his head. I dash downstairs to the bathroom.
In the corner of the gray-green room is a round, four-tiered shelf. It has supplies like floss picks, breath mints, hair brush, hair spray, antacid, things like that. I find an unopened peach berry lip gloss and apply it. I'll pay Tobi for it. There's a tin of breath mints too. I put a few in my mouth. Is it too forward to take a couple mints for Lane? I'll just take the tin and put them on the coffee table. Mrs. Bridlow sure knows how to take care of her guests.
Lane found a spot on the sofa with his arms stretched out along the back. He hears me come up the stairs and swivels to see me. I start toward him and he follows me with his gaze. As I sit beside him, I try to nonchalantly place the breath mint tin on the table in front of us.
“What's that?” Lane asks.
A nervous giggle tickles my throat. “I found it downstairs.”
He reaches for the tin and reads it. “Thanks.” He flips open the lid and takes a couple.
He offers it to me. I point to my mouth. “I have some, thanks.” My eyes dart out the door. I'm thinking kiss me, and I'm embarrassed for bringing the tin up here at the same time. The sun is beginning to set, and I willingly let its appeal pull me out of my head.
Lane scoots to the corner of the sofa and nestles in with his feet resting on the coffee table. “Hi.” His voice low and soft.
I turn toward him, rubbing my lips together nervously. I shouldn't be nervous. He gestures with his head to scoot over, holding his arm out for me to snuggle in beside him. I look back to the sun, trying not to over-analyze anything while I move over. My heartbeat is accelerating against my will. I try to calm my pulse, but it won’t obey. His arm wraps around my shoulder, and he squeezes me close. We sit quietly, gazing out across the land as the sun descends and Tobi's playlist hums in the background.
A gust of wind blows through the opening, ruffling my hair. He moves the strands out of my face. I look his way, absorbing the evidence of summer on his skin and hair. Another rush of emotion hits me, playing back clips of the two of us from the past few years. How can anyone prepare for separation?
I look down and sigh. “Tomorrow's the day.”
He sighs. “I know.”
“No walking the hallways together or eating lunch together.” My shoulders slump. “You'll be so busy, though, you won't have time to think about me. Plus, you'll be meeting new people all the time, joining clubs, and stuff. Oh, and studying. Don't forget studying.” I playfully jab him in the ribs with my elbow. He chuckles, but we both go silent and nestle together like two turtle doves.
The sun sinks lower on the horizon. I feel a warmth inside, a connection to him that’s closer than what we were before. It's still a little scary, but it's pleasant. I notice his easygoing smile. He's happy, too.
The few clouds in the sky are beginning to glow a dark violet-blue hue on the bottom as the distance between sun and horizon lessens. “Did you know, in the color prism, blue is refracted at a shorter wavelength? It scatters, making the longer orange and red colorings in the sun rise and set more prominent.”
I do know this. “Go on.” I want to hear the science behind the beauty roll off his tongue. It’s so, mmm, romantic.
“Sunlight has a shorter distance through the atmosphere when it’s at noon than any other time—there's less refracting. In the evening, when the sun is setting …” He removes his arm from around me to motion, showing the direction the sunlight takes. His voice pulls me into a trance as he continues to explain why sunset has certain colors. I watch his mouth move as he speaks. The soft light bounces off the golden streaks of his hair and washes over his skin. He turns toward me.
His sunset science is electrifying. An invisible current circulates between us, igniting fireworks that are going off inside me.
“See, how it seems to be sinking so quickly?”
“Mm-hm.” I hum the words dreamily. I feel myself inching closer to him.
“The sun seems red as it kisses the horizon, lingering for a few moments before it disappears.” His definition, his intelligence, the butterflies when I think about him, the missed opportunities, his looming departure, the electricity between us, the angle of the sunlight on his face, the words on his lips of science and kissing and lingering ... I turn toward him, and my lips lead the way.
“Lane.” He turns, his crystalline eyes reflecting light. Go to the light. I lean in so close. “Kiss me already.”
Our lips touch, linger together. All the sensations I felt during our first kiss rise and make themselves undeniably known to me. My arm slides around him. His kiss is slow and warm and sweet and better than the last one. When he pulls away, our eyes are awake, alive, sparkling in delight. His mouth is on mine again, exploring, and tasting the freshness the mints left behind. We pull apart long enough to catch our breath, lips flushed from their business and he presses one more kiss. His touch soft and meaningful.
It's not the hurried, rushed, sloppy, slobbery, rough kiss I've heard girls talk about. Their description turned me off on the whole idea, truthfully. Kissing Lane is gentle, kind, caring, and totally enjoyable.
The horizon glows as the sun dips and disappears. We sit, fingers entwined, leaning our heads against each other, watching one of God's amazing shows.
“Lane?” I glance quickly to the horizon for a breath and some confidence before I turn back. “I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't know how to be a girlfriend or whatever.” Slowly, I move my head side to side. “So, I'm just going to try and be like I always am with you. Except for the extra stuff, like kissing and holding your hand. I like that part.” He kisses my temple. “And, I want to be as honest about what I'm thinking and feeling as you are.” I look down for a shy moment, “It's not easy for me. But, I like that about you.”
His smile is soft and comforting. “Tell me.” He softly coaxes me. His breath tickles my ear.
“I like it when you sing to the radio wherever we are, and you never seem uncomfortable looking at me for what seems like a long time. Maybe the last one’s a little creepy.”
His eyes widen. “Hey!” He tickles me. I try to squirm away. “You’re gonna end with creepy?” He tickles me some more.
“No, no. I’ve got more.” I sit up and catch my breath. He waits quietly. A small smile lifts the corners of his lips, as he plays with my hair. I swallow and avoid a connection with his eyes. “You’re so uninhibited, the way you told me how you felt that Sunday, the walk back to my house, the shed, tonight.” I glance at him, and he has me locked in. I can’t look away.
He leans his forehead against mine. “I feel like me when I'm with you, and I want you to be you.”
We steal more kisses … until we hear Tobi's truck pull up.
The time alone was more than I expected, in every way. We don't try to hide our affection from Tobi anymore. Not long after they return, we load up the coolers and lock up. By eleven-fifteen Lane decides we should head home. I change into the clothes I brought to wear after our ride, and we say our good-byes to Tobi, Rex, and Mr. and Mrs. Bridlow.
I sit curled up next to Lane as he drives, one hand wrapped around his arm, the other clasped with his. We talk and laugh about the evening filled with Tobi's surprises, the frolicking between her and Rex on the ride, the dinner party, Tobi's playlist, the décor of the barn, the amazing views—and how we’re going to break the news to our parents t
omorrow.
We'll tell them after church tomorrow at lunch. It's the best time. Lane's leaving around three, so that gives my dad about two hours to rant and rave, and then Lane can walk away. I'll, of course, be left behind.
There's a partial moon out tonight and the stars are bright, beautiful, and in our favor. We pull into the drive and park in front of the shed. All the lights are off but the dim light over the kitchen sink they keep on for me. Lane gets out and reaches for me. I slide out, holding on to his hand. We walk slowly to the door.
“Regan, I know you think I'm good at telling you what I'm thinking and how I feel about you, but ….” I reach my free hand to his arm and squeeze, holding on tight, leaning my head against him as we continue to stroll. “I'm scared of what tomorrow brings. Worried I might fail, that I won't be able to handle the classes and all the people … afraid of being away from home, from you, from what I know ….” We stop and he turns toward me. “I don't want tonight to end.” He chokes out trying to hide some of his emotion.
I close the space between us. “Tonight's been the best night of my life.” My voice is a little rough, too, and I'm tearing up. I slide my arms up and around his shoulders. “I don't want you to leave.”
His hands brush my cheeks, sliding into my hair, as he rests his forehead against mine. We hold each other tight as if one of us may slip away in the rushing river of emotions that's flowing between us. Touching his nose to mine, he says in his low, broken voice, “Kiss me already.”
For once in my life, instead of holding back and reserving myself in silence, instead of building my invisible wall of protection … I lose myself. I dive in with an urgency I've never felt before; realizing every endearment, every gaze, every touch, every kiss could evaporate into the night air. Completely caught up in the moment, his hands in my hair, mine run through his and back across his shoulders, tracing his muscles with my fingers over his shirt.
Above the symphony of the nocturnal orchestra of summer’s end and the breath of young love comes a piercing, and disturbing sound. A noise that catches breaths and stops hearts—a resounding gong of a peeved paternal presence clearing his throat.
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