Licks

by Kelly Siskind

  The center console kept me from pulling her into my arms. I wasn’t sure she’d want that anyway. I settled on weaving our fingers together. “I’ve never put much stock in the idea of ghosts or the unexplainable, but I do believe in fate, and there’s no denying the events the past couple months have felt…preordained?”

  “So it’s not just me?”

  “It’s not just you. It still doesn’t excuse what I did. I’m sick about not telling you your dad’s name sooner.”

  “I know you are.” She fiddled with my fingers, ran her thumb over my sparse knuckle hair. “It happened, though. Your fault, my fault, my mother’s fault—the reason doesn’t matter. This is the fallout, which brings us back to reality.”

  I studied the red door that had her gnawing her lip. “The woman I met was nice, if that helps. She seemed sweet.”

  Gwen released a half-groan, half-sigh. “I want to knock on that door eventually, but maybe not now. I want to follow the journal today, learn what I’m dealing with first. Try and discover what happened between my parents. I think I’m supposed to follow those clues.”

  I inched closer to her. “Can I come on this journey?”

  I didn’t ask where we stood. The no-sex rule could mean she was pulling away, compartmentalizing our relationship into friendship. Best friends. Just friends. Friends who eventually drifted. There was a chance we’d say goodbye tomorrow and never see each other again. If that happened, I’d write a lifetime of sad songs. It wasn’t an option.

  She focused on me, and love glimmered in her eyes, giving me hope. “I think you’re supposed to come,” she whispered.

  I traced her cheekbone, the smooth slope of her jaw. History and hurt and hope rippled between us. Then I said, “And you’re sure there won’t be any sex?”

  A guy had to try. Plus the best way to keep Gwen from anxiously repeating movie titles was to flirt with her, or annoy her. Both had worked as teens.

  That (sort of) joke earned me a smile. “Keep your smolder on lockdown, Cruz.”

  “Anything for you, Frances.”

  Her expression morphed from amused to livid. “No, you did not.”

  “Oh, yes, I did.” This was the annoy tactic. Her hated middle name had never let me down before.

  Her breathing slowed. Her focus dropped to my chest. “Say it again.”

  “Frances.”

  She pinched my nipple and twisted. “Jesus fuck, Gwen.” Wincing, I batted her hand away. “What the hell?”

  “You know I hate that name.”

  “It’s a fine name.”

  “It’s the worst name.”

  It was also the main character’s given name in her favorite movie. “But then I’m allowed to say, ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner.’”

  Her lips twitched. “You are such a child.”

  And she was distracted. Too bad my nipple had taken a hit for the team. I’d do it again, though. Anything for this woman, except walk away from her. There was no way I was leaving tomorrow without knowing we were good. Together. A couple. More lyrics looped through my mind, lines filled with words like passion and addiction and forever, those “Fever Junkie” verses building into a ballad.

  Yet there was still a chance I’d lose her.

  For now, I’d play by her rules. Shielding my chest, I pulled the diary from her lap. “Where’d you leave off?”

  12:30 p.m., 11 ½ hours…

  Gwen

  I dove back into my mother’s diary, still sluggish, but the underwater fog had lifted. Thanks to my Badass PI partner.

  I wasn’t sure I could continue at our frantic pace: twenty-four hours of passionate sex, talks, jokes, and promises, pretending our uncertain future and messy past didn’t affect our seconds. Too many conflicting emotions had been set loose. But having him here was a start.

  Forgiving myself was a milestone.

  The loss of my father still lingered like a nasty sliver, the kind you struggled to remove. Having never known Ted Mercer meant it couldn’t burrow deeper.

  I had, however, known my mother. I was getting to know her.

  Learning what had happened between them was top priority. My new birthday wish. To understand her, prove I hadn’t been the root of her despair. Which meant this search would provide me closure, like August had said.

  With him beside me, I read more pages, each one teeming with teenage angst. Nothing hinted at an unplanned pregnancy or painful breakup, but she had written an entry about babysitting and shitty diapers and not understanding why people had kids. It was a glimpse of the mother I’d known, the one who’d never wanted children. Not new information, but reading it still stung.

  Then the writing changed.

  The entries weren’t dated, but a page had been skipped and a different pen was used. These lines had been jotted down one at a time, across the page on a diagonal, as though written frantically. My anxiety mounted with each word.

  I never really knew him.

  He’ll never know about the baby.

  In one night, they stole it all from me.

  I didn’t know who “they” was, but dread clawed up my neck. He’d truly never known about me, the choice stolen from him because he’d hurt my mother. He’d done something bad with someone, my affair theory gaining steam. I flipped the page but found it blank. I flipped back and forth faster, the stuck ones almost ripping until I discovered one more written entry.

  Secrets kill the soul. Both are now buried with my heart, on a hill, at the red rock where our baby was conceived.

  That was it. Nothing else was written, but the words secrets and kill escalated my worry. The pages fluttered under my rapid breaths.

  I’d known a major event had split my parents apart. Growing up, discovering the source had never been my priority. I’d been focused on finding my father, then the possibility of meeting a sibling. Whatever dramatic event had altered the course of my life had only been a background whisper.

  It was screaming now.

  August eased the book from my grasp and read the two passages. “It sounds like she’s talking about the lookout point, Tank Hill—I’m guessing that’s where you were conceived.”

  Where August and I had slept last night. Where sex had happened. “Do you think she actually buried something there?”

  “It’s cryptic, but possible.” He studied the diary, leaned so close his nose was practically in the book. “Pages are missing, a few cut out after her last note.”

  I ran my fingers along the seams. The cuts were so clean they were barely noticeable. “If she removed these, believed she had to hide something, she could have buried them.”

  She’d obviously enjoyed keeping a diary, had found the process cathartic. She would likely have detailed the events that had destroyed her heart. She might have buried them as a symbolic way to move on.

  Secrets.

  Kill.

  My chill worsened.

  “A time capsule,” August murmured, probably recalling the two of us digging up his back yard to bury ours. “You think Barbie-Man is in hers, too?”

  I elbowed him, thankful for his humor. “Barbie-Man isn’t there, but I have a feeling my answers are.”

  He moved to close the journal, but he stopped and squinted. “I think there’s…” Using both hands, he pried apart two corners I hadn’t realized had been stuck. “Something’s written here.”

  I pulled his hands and the diary toward me. A small block of text was on the page:

  I hope eleven years isn’t too late.

  Below that vague line was contact information: one of those random email addresses that could belong to anyone (fancyfeathers123@hotmail.com), a phone number, and a Denver address.

  “It’s like she wrote that to a specific person,” August said. “The other entries are more personal.”

  I didn’t reply. Eleven years—something about the number rang a bell. I closed my eyes, ran through all I’d learned the past two days, fragments spinning, blurring. They rolled and rolled, u
ntil…

  “The Greyhound employee.” I clutched August’s thigh. “He said the suitcase went missing in 2001. The diary and contents were from 1990. That’s eleven years.”

  Like two synchronized swimmers, we turned our heads in time, slowly lowered our eyes to reread the new page. August tapped the journal’s edge. “Not sure what it means, but I think you’re right. The two timelines have to be connected.”

  “More questions,” I mumbled, but the answers felt closer.

  “We could call the number and see who picks up.”

  I shook my head. “If that number was my mother’s, a secret cell or something, she won’t be picking up. If it belongs to someone else, I’d rather be prepared for whoever might answer. We should follow the other clue first, the one that mentions the hill.” Continue on the journal’s path.

  We closed the book, the weight of its final clues thickening the air between us. Air already heavy with our personal tension. August was allowing me to set our pace, determine our course. Problem was, I vacillated between wanting to slow things down and fast-forward to jumping his bones, his impending departure hovering above it all.

  Freaks and Geeks. Freak Show. Freaky Friday.

  Dammit, I was doing it again.

  He snickered at me. “I’ll meet you there. Actually, I’ll beat you there because my way is faster.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “I’m right. I also plan to kiss you before I leave this car.”

  “August…”

  “Just a small one, Possum. There will be no sex.”

  He invaded my space, ran his nose up my cheek. My belly swooped in a shivery rush. He was doing his best to distract me, like he’d done as kids. It was him being the fixer, but I didn’t sense the pity I’d witnessed back then—him making me his project. There was sadness behind his playful banter, empathy in his soft gaze.

  As always with him, my mind quieted. All freaking out ceased.

  Closing my eyes, I turned my head toward him. It was the only direction it could go. His lips brushed my cheek, by the corner of my mouth. His nose fitted alongside mine. Our lips lined up, and so, so softly he kissed me, a slight opening of his lips to capture mine. Our eyelashes fluttered together. His breath tickled my tongue. Heaven was built on kisses like this.

  He pulled back, and I barely refrained from reaching for him and demanding more. I had firsthand experience with August’s kissing mastery, and the man was holding out, teasing me by rationing his skill. It wasn’t fair. He knew it would break my resolve. But we had a time capsule to unearth. A secret to discover. And we were losing time.

  Although we were still alone, the lookout was less romantic during the day. San Francisco sprawled in all its glory below, but no stars lit the sky. The sleepy quiet of night had been replaced with movement. Cars. Birds. City sounds.

  August and I stood side-by-side like we had not long ago, the backs of our hands touching. “I hit traffic,” he said, still moaning that I’d beaten him here.

  “Don’t be a sore loser.”

  “My way’s faster. In a scientific study, I’d win.”

  “But you didn’t. And you’re wrong.”

  “We’ll do it again tonight.”

  “We have birthday drinks tonight.”

  Our last night together. I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend it with my friends this year. A daunting decision. If I ditched them on our shared birthday, Ainsley would mix Tabasco sauce in my toothpaste, but I kept spinning things with August in my mind, fear overtaking my hurt. The idea of him leaving with us in limbo, our status unclear, was worse than getting a mouthful of hot sauce.

  If I asked him to spend the night with me alone, take the time to work things out, he’d say yes. He might tell me he loved me again.

  Would I find the courage to say it back?

  He stood beside me now, taking in the view. His arm wasn’t around my shoulder. He wasn’t bathing me in his sultry voice. The inches between us stretched into miles, because I’d imposed another rule: the no sex rule. Like my seconds rule. Weak attempts to control the uncontrollable while my life unraveled.

  The harder I tried to slow things down, the faster my imagination rolled forward. It tripped ahead, painting a picture of our imagined future, my future and the babies I wanted to have one day, how I ached for a kid with his unruly cowlicks and my determination. Our shared sense of humor. I was ready before, to try long distance with August. Then life threw me another curve ball.

  Here I was again, placing my hand on my belly, wishing for a second heartbeat inside me. A child created by us.

  “If you keep looking at me like that, Possum, sex will happen.” August’s husky voice broke my trance.

  I swallowed and stepped back, unaware I’d been staring. “Like what?”

  He stalked closer and dipped his head to my level. “Like you love me.”

  I sucked in a strangled breath. That was a sneak attack. A low blow.

  I couldn’t deny the claim.

  He shook his head, hands held in surrender. “Forget I said that. We’re here for your mother’s time capsule. Not us. Let’s get searching.”

  He smiled, as though unruffled by my brush-off, but he couldn’t fool me. Not with the tightness around his hazel eyes, the sharp angle of his jaw. Keeping him at a distance was supposed to help me cope with today’s troubling events. It had seemed the safer option. In truth, it was making everything harder.

  He was ahead of me, circling the large tree crowning the hill. Last night’s swing, the one we’d sat on while covered in ketchup and mustard, dangled from a branch. My mother’s diary had mentioned a red rock, a landmark for our treasure hunt. August searched the area, then dropped into a squat and brushed at the earth.

  He licked his thumb and rubbed a rock. “If she buried something, this could be the spot.”

  I approached slowly, dread clutching at my ankles. As sure as I was destiny had played a part in recent events, I was equally as positive she had buried something, and whatever it was would change my life. This wasn’t meeting my father, who may or may not have been an asshole. This was discovering a secret buried for twenty-eight years.

  I made it to August’s side and peered over his shoulders. “It looks like a red rock.”

  He picked up a hefty stick, examined its tip. “You helping me dig?”

  I nodded and found a flat rock. The effort distracted me from August and all I wanted to tell him, and from the entombed truths I wasn’t sure I was ready to learn.

  The earth was dry and flinty, hard packed. Digging was an effort. I dropped to my knees, put more muscle into it. August copied my pose, the two of us sweating in minutes. I dug harder, faster. The rock tore at my hands. I ignored the cuts, didn’t bother swatting the couple flies circling my head. Sweat dripped into my eyes. August was as disheveled.

  Then I hit something.

  We froze and traded nervous looks. Just as quickly, we dug a wider ring, like a couple of archeologists unearthing fossils. A black box had been buried, my history captured in time. By the time we’d loosened it, dirt was caked under my nails, and I was messy again. A pattern with August and me. He took over, gently raising the keepsake.

  We sat on the nearby grass, the box placed between us. I shoved my hands under my thighs. “I guess this is it.”

  He wiped his forehead, smearing dirt across his brow. He nudged the box toward me. “It’s yours to open.”

  I didn’t budge. All I could see was August, this man who was dirty and sweaty, all to help me. He’d forgiven my unforgivable WTF, had confessed his love. He made me feel more alive than surfing waves or scaling rocks. Whatever was in the box would change me, a twenty-eight-year-old secret that could rattle my world. But August steadied me. I’d wanted his support today. Not Rachel or Ainsley’s. His. He’d been a part of me forever.

  “August?” I couldn’t touch that box without knowing we were okay.

  He tilted his head, an ocean of affection swimming in his eyes
. “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.” I didn’t get into his choice to withhold my father’s name or my blame in that decision, or explain my statement. He was here, with me. Supporting me. Relationships were hard. There was good and bad, plummets and exhilaration—a roller coaster without a safety bar. We were proof of that, as was the love blazing inside me, still fierce after our screw-ups.

  His warm gaze swept over my face and his brow crumpled. “I love you, Gwen. I know you don’t want to hear this now, but I can’t keep it in. Not with all that box represents. Not for a million reasons. But you need to know and believe that I love you. I’m here for you, no matter what happens.”

  He’d said the words before, but they meant more now, after our turbulent reunion: we were strong enough to move past our painful mistakes. He was my best friend, the only man or boy I’d ever loved. He’d made my childhood bearable and had given me more joy the past two days than I’d experienced in years. Not because I hadn’t been happy. I loved my life and my friends. This was more than happy, though, bigger and brighter.

  He was the reason my sun would rise tomorrow.

  It was how my mother had mooned about my father, before he’d hurt her. And like her, I couldn’t form the words. The fire in my throat burned them up.

  Instead, I said the worst thing. The crazy Gwen thing.

  I looked at the love of my life, and said, “I hate that I’m on the pill.”

  August became a statue. “What did you say?”

  I tried to rewind and eat my words. I hate that I’m on the pill. Only an idiot would blurt that raw truth. An absolute moron. I closed my eyes, hoping I’d disappear.

  “I can still see you, Gwen. What did you say?”

  “I hate that I’m on this hill?” The lie came out like a question.

  He crawled toward me, forcing me to lie back. The intense lines of his face could cut glass. “No. No. That’s not what you said.”

  I tried to shove him off, but his hands and knees caged me. I shimmied, but he didn’t budge. “Finding the box got to my head, made me dizzy. Being up here feels too high.”

  “You jump out of airplanes and off bridges. You’re trying to tell me lying safely on the ground is suddenly giving you a fear of heights? Try again.”