When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  Eating at Tate’s. “Ah.”

  “I looked for you after school. You were already gone,” she slurs.

  “You looked for me?” I realize her obvious physical ailments should be my main concern, but that slip of information does lots to mollify my previously bruised ego.

  “To talk,” she expounds, burying her fingers in her billowy locks, massaging her scalp at the crown. The action causes the threadbare cotton shirt to pull taut as second skin around her noticeably unrestrained tits.

  I lose my grip on the bags. Thankfully, the floor is carpeted.

  She wobbles again, much like my knees, reaching over to gather rogue boxes and bottles. A soft groan accompanies another grumble from her tummy, just the distraction I need to stymie the inappropriate thoughts shutting down the near diminished functioning of my brain.

  I swat her hand away, lower to my knees. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I force my eyelids shut since I can’t seem to unfreeze my gaze from the fit of that magnificent shirt.

  “I got it,” I murmur. “Rest.”

  “So dang bossy,” she mutters.

  “Been called worse.”

  “We’re watching a movie.”

  “See that.” I open my eyes, struggling to focus exclusively on her face.

  “Taye Diggs makes me feel better,” she informs me, directing my gaze with a tilt of her head towards the shirtless, pearly-white toothed, guy frozen on the screen.

  He looks nothing like me.

  One more reason to back off.

  “Not from what I just heard. Let’s hope this stuff will work,” I say, passing her a bottle of the pink stuff.

  “Whit, may I offer you a drink? Hot chocolate? Sprite? Water?”

  Shit. Forgot we aren’t alone. Simone’s aunt may very well be southern-bred, extending hospitality as though I came calling at tea time.

  “No, ma’am. Thank you.”

  “Good manners.” Obviously, she missed my pervy ogling of her sick niece. “Nice to know there’re still some kids being raised right. Need to work on your time-telling, though,” she adds, tapping her bare wrist. “Ten minutes. I’ll take advantage of your presence, head upstairs to reload. Put that garbage can to use if she starts spewing again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Reload? Am I in danger? Surely that sweet looking woman isn’t the sort to pull a gun on a guy for making a welfare check in the wee hours of the morning?

  I mentally calculate the distance from here to the safety of my Jeep as Simone’s aunt strolls down the hall, her sock-covered feet moving ninja-stealth on the wood floors.

  “Relax. My Aunt Katie fancies herself a comedienne.”

  “Huh?”

  “She’s talking about her carry-on luggage for work.”

  I swing my gaze back to Simone. “Sure ‘bout that?”

  “Positive. Am I allowed to see what else you have in those bags?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” I murmur, not sure if trusting a drug-addled Simone is wise. I’ll stay on alert, just in case. “Let’s see, these two say they help with nausea. Think all of these are for pains and headaches and stuff. Gatorade for hydration, O.J., couple bottles of water. Bag of chips, and uh, Twix. Know you like them.”

  “How’d—?”

  “You’re aunt’s a pilot,” The tidbit surfaces in my memory as a few more drops of blood circulates northward. “Her job’s why you spend so much time alone.”

  “She told you that?”

  There’s a prickly edge in her tone and instinct tells me she means Ashley, not her aunt.

  How do I answer? Is her aunt’s occupation supposed to be a secret? Did I ever tell Ryan? Don’t think I have, but Simone’s reaction has me scouring my brain like antivirus for malware.

  You’d think she’d figure Ashley would tell me something that major considering all the night she used to spend at the Goodwin’s, but that isn’t the case. Hell, it took about four months into our relationship before she shared vague details of Simone’s adoption, only because I commented about her sharing the same last name as the one on donor plaques hanging around the school. Other than that, she hasn’t told me much. Worked for me since I’ve always thought Simone felt my presence was nothing more than an unwelcomed intrusion in their friendship.

  “My knowing a problem?”

  “I’m not eighteen yet. We’d rather the school doesn’t know she leaves me home alone so often.”

  That’s it? “Quit worrying, beautiful. I won’t tell.”

  “They might cause trouble. She can’t miss work, Whit.”

  I don’t know what it is about the way she says my name, but it thrills me every single time.

  “Shhh. Relax, I get it.” I lean in, plant a quick kiss on her nose. Get back to clearing the floor of spilled merchandise.

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” We both know what she means.

  “You know why.”

  No point in playing dumb. She’s right. I do. But it don’t stop me from kissing her again, this time on the chin. “Don’t care. Not tonight.”

  That’s the God’s honest truth. Somewhere between the street and this very spot on the floor where I’m kneeling, I realized I’m no more able to shove my relief under the rug—no pun intended—than I’m able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. I’ve tried keeping my thoughts light, prove that once the newness wears off and we become better acquainted, we’ll both conclude we made a few highly charged minutes more monumental than they actually were.

  So far, that shit’s not working. I know, I should try harder. Forget this attraction between us. Ashley means too much to entertain the idea of pursuing this thing any further. Not just to me. Simone, too.

  But for tonight, I need clemency.

  I box her in, using my forearms to bracket her blanket-covered thighs. The fire crackles, mimicking the ever-present tension that swirls in the air whenever I’m near her. A feeling I can’t name, though I’ve felt it before—all the other times we were this close. Surprise!—fills my chest.

  I step my invasion up another notch, reposition so I can lay my cheek on her knee. Nearly lose it when the soft pads of her warm fingertips tunnel deep then slide softly over my scalp. Coherent sentence structure eludes me.

  “Why?”

  “Well, first I thought you were dodging me, same way I’ve been dodging you.”

  “I noticed that.”

  I give her hip a quick, apologetic squeeze. “With all the text messages, I don’t know . . . this became this.” I don’t bother elaborating. Think she knows. “You know that text was the first time you’ve ever voluntarily told me something about yourself?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Yeah. It was. You like your privacy. I get that. But I like getting to know you, too. You’re an enigma.”

  “Somebody studied the SAT words.”

  I smile.

  “Why this sudden need to know me better, Cowboy? Because of a kiss? Because you saved me?”

  “Wish you’d stop reducing it.”

  Amazingly, she don’t argue. She does stop the massage, though. Pity.

  “Why else were you worried?” she whispers as if showing reverence for the silence that’s surrounding us. “You said ‘first’ which implies you were worried for another reason.”

  “Ah. You were paying attention. Other’s way simpler. Saw the evidence of how sick you’re really are, got worried you might’ve tangled with those pinecones again. Scared I’d find you lying in a ditch.”

  She chuckles, moans.

  I lift my head. “All right?”

  “Mmm,” she hums rather unconvincingly. I ease back, give her room to rearrange the blankets over her legs. Her slowed movements allow me a nice glimpse of her toned thighs encased in a pair of Tweety Bird boxers.

  Cute.

  Settled, she speaks. “Aunt Katie’s sort of on-call this week. We planned to enjoy whatever time we have with bottomless bowls of popcorn and hot chocolate. Instead
she’s shoving that trashcan under my chin every two seconds. Some way to start break, huh?”

  I give her abdomen a light tap. “Any clue what’s going on in there?”

  “Who knows? Maybe flu. Occupational hazard of working in a restaurant, handling dirty money.”

  “Makes sense.”

  She swallows twice. I reach for the can, but she shakes her head. “I’m good.” Silence has never felt as electric as it does now, the current robbing me of any ability to do more than wait for her next words.

  “Whit?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You scare me. This scares me.”

  A rush of endorphins jolt my pulse into hyperactivity. Her honesty rocks me to the core. I was beginning to believe I’d imagined Simone’s responses to me, that I’m the only one feeling the urge to run for cover out of fear of what I might do because of this.

  Now?

  I roll back on my haunches, permit myself a gentle tug of one tiny curl hanging near her earlobe simply because I can’t contain the urge any longer. Marvel at its slow creep back into formation when I let go. Looking straight into her uncharacteristically vulnerable brown eyes, I drop what little guard I have left, fully aware the turmoil I see brewing in hers is a direct reflection of what she sees in mine.

  “I’m scared, too. At the risk of sounding like a twisted Disney movie, kissing you awoke something in me.” The weight of the emotion has sat heavily on my chest and admitting it out loud is cathartic. This is the lightest I’ve felt in days, proves what they say is true. Confession is good for the soul. “Nothing bad, just something I didn’t know was dormant, if you know what I mean.”

  She nods.

  “Getting pretty hard to ignore.”

  She sighs, nods.

  “Maybe we should stop doing that.”

  Her breathes become shallow. From my words? Maybe.

  My gaze dips from the pulse of her throat back to her hardened nipples.

  Jesus.

  Time to go. “It’s late. I should get going, let you rest.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be back later, spend time with you.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  Again, she’s probably right. Again, I simply don’t care.

  Reluctantly, roll back onto my feet, stand. And because I’m rapidly becoming an addict, I lean over, get my fix. Get high on the haunting scent of cake as I plant a kiss on the crown of her head.

  “I have to, Simone,” I whisper into her hair.

  She hears me. Nods.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Simone

  “Maybe next time you’ll listen when I tell you to get a flu shot, young lady.”

  “I hate needles.”

  “I hate laundry and carpet stains. Be faster next time.”

  Dang. “Thanks for the sympathy.” I stick my tongue out at her on my way to reclaim my seat on the couch, anxious to burrow back under my freshly washed blankets.

  Up until right around noon, I wasn’t too sure I’d survive. A long, warm shower soothed my achy muscles, helped revive me from the dead. Headache’s finally gone, too, so that’s good. A combination of Gatorade, saltines, and that pink stuff coaxed my traumatized stomach back to somewhere in the range of mildly queasy. Regardless, I’ll be suppressing phantom hunger pangs for the rest of the day.

  Aunt Katie promotes the Look Better, Feel Better campaign, so instead of pulling on another pair of ratty sweats, I’m rocking my favorite pair of jeans and an oversized sweater. She’s at least partially right. I do feel closer to human again.

  Now, I’m pretending like I’m not anxiously awaiting a certain boy’s possible arrival.

  Hilarious.

  Had someone told me last week—heck, just yesterday morning, really—that I’d be waiting for Whit Deveraux to knock on my door, I’d have Googled the schedule for the nearest AA meeting and passed them the info. Seems I need to consider looking for a little help for myself. My old therapist would suggest I start being honest about my feelings. With myself, at the very least.

  So, here goes.

  I like Whit.

  A lot.

  More than a lot. I was fully prepared to take that to the grave, but that game changed everything.

  “What’s next?”

  Good question.

  “Footloose?” she ask when I don’t answer.

  No. More. Kevin. Bacon. “Have you no mercy for the sick, woman?”

  “What? You like this one!”

  “I liked it yesterday when we watched it. Can we like something from this millennium?”

  “Four Brothers?” my aunt offers, scrolling through the F’s.

  Still an oldie, but I nod when she glances over her shoulder. Mark Wahlberg and Tyrese in the same movie? Yes, please!

  “How many flights Monday?”

  “Two. Layover in Atlanta, back late Tuesday night. Sure you don’t want me to call Mrs. Goodwin?”

  “Please don’t. I’m already on the mend. Besides, Ashley not there. It’ll feel weird.”

  “Think I’ll still ask her to swing by.”

  “Aunt Katie—”

  “Okay, okay,” she relents. “Promise you’ll call her if you relapse.”

  “Will do.”

  Any form of protest is pointless. She’s going to call anyway, per the norm. Staying home while Aunt Katie worked wasn’t an option until last year. While there’s no set minimum age for leaving kids home in the state of Ohio, her being gone so much could easily make a case for neglect if someone found out I pretty much live alone. Which totally isn’t what’s happening here—the neglect—but she’d have to stay home long enough to prove it.

  Not too many job schedules are compatible with single parenting. Piloting for a commercial airline may be the absolute worst. They’re away more than they’re home. Throw gender bias in a male dominated industry into the mix, taking even one extra day can ruin Aunt Katie’s career. Fifteen years of service, they still haven’t made her a Captain.

  I literally broke out in hives when someone proposed me moving in with grandparents I’d only seen a handful of times face-to-face. This house is home. Without hesitation, Aunt Katie cleaned out her place in Florida and relocated to take custody of me.

  Not too long after, we both felt the walls closing in on us. Not because of the house, because of our grief. There was talk of quitting her job, living off money her sister, my adopted mother, had left. Even as a kid, I could see how the idea of forsaking her dream ravaged her inside. Piloting is Aunt Katie’s passion. One parent had already landed me in the system, two others dying too soon after. No way could I stomach becoming an unwanted burden on my last chance.

  I begged her not to quit. Offered her my trust fund to clear all her debts in exchange for not putting me back in the system. Promised I’d stay out of her way, fix my own cereal every morning, do my own hair—a chore that left us both in tears before we found Ms. Christie’s salon.

  Mrs. Goodwin’s offer to let me sleep over as much as we needed was a Godsend. Ashley and I had just begun forming a solid friendship. Sleeping somewhere ghosts didn’t live every night afforded me some grieving time without miring in a pit of guilt.

  “Mr. Tate won’t let me come back before Tuesday. Sure I’ll be good by then.”

  Sighing, she nods. Pops the Blu-ray from the case, checks the surface for prints before dropping it in the player.

  “So, I’ll assume you and Shawn aren’t too serious.”

  Another something—someone I need to deal with. “I don’t know. My gut says we’re better as friends.”

  “Does last night’s visitor have anything to do with your gut’s decision?”

  “Nope.”

  “Speaking of last night, let’s talk about that.”

  I knew this was coming. Why am I nervous? She doesn’t sound mad.

  I lift my shoulders, hope I look casual. “What’s there to talk about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she returns my nonchalant shru
g with one of her own. “Maybe the fact he came over to see my beautiful niece in the middle of the night when he probably didn’t think I was home?”

  I’d almost believe I’d dreamt Whit’s standing here last night, if not for the plethora of medications sprawled all over the table. Less than half of what he hauled in here had spilled out for my viewing. The rest sat in bags on the floor, waiting for the right moment to trip me on my way to the bathroom. From what I can tell, he bought one of every item on the shelf, regardless of its purpose.

  Including Midol.

  I mean, who does that? Drives into the city in the middle of the night to bring someone they barely know a crap-ton of junk to help them feel better? I know for a fact Ashley had dinner with him and his family. She called while she finished packing, told me how well it went.

  Yet, he showed up like he said he would, took care of my mess.

  Still can’t believe Ms. Ida made him do that.

  The whole thing would be mad funny if I hadn’t genuinely felt so yucky. No question, I hit the mother lode of Super Cooties. If I’ve ever been that sick before, I gratefully have no memory of such horrors. Me, unable to hold down a PB & J?

  Unheard of.

  So, I tried—and failed, twice this morning.

  I know. Stupid, but that chicken broth Aunt Katie passed off as breakfast wasn’t cutting it.

  “He’s never done that before, I promise.”

  “I believe you. I’m more interested in why he did it at all, seeing as he’s dating Ashley.”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Ashley sorta dumped him because he got accepted to Yale.”

  She lets loose a low whistle under her breath. “Yale. Impressive.”

  “Uh, huh, but you know how Ashley is. She had things all mapped out. They’d go to Columbia, same as her parents. Marry right after graduation.”

  “Shame on him for being so smart.”

  “I know. I can’t believe she’s not happy for him.”

  “I’m sure it’s hard on her. Long distance relationships aren’t easy.”

  For a woman who hasn’t gone out on a date since the turn of the century, I don’t know what she’s basing her conclusion on, but I’ll presume there’s truth to that. Still, I thought Ashley and Whit had a solid chance.