Because of You (28 page)

I stand, but Gina grabs my arm, pulls me back down. “Wait. Don’t go. Tell me about Kyle. How was he? From everything I’ve heard, you can’t still be the big V.” She makes her hands into the shape of a V in the air.

“Yeah. It almost happened, but I…” I can’t tell her. “Soon. I wasn’t ready.” And after I passed out and stole his letters, he may never speak to me again. It might never happen. Maybe I’ll join a convent, or a monastery. I can be known as the tattooed nun.

“Alright. I’m just going to lay here. Rest. I’m so tired.” She closes her eyes.

I grab the letters and my iPod.

Maddie

push through the doors of the Irvine dormitory and I run. And run. And run.

But I don’t end up at the library. My heart leads my feet to the Fine Arts building. The place I go to exercise my religion. The place where I’m happiest.

I edge down the steps and enter the long hallway. Immediately I’m more relaxed, more me. Our piano room, Kyle’s and mine, is at the end, and I make my way toward it. But someone’s already there. Playing. It’s a song that breaks my heart. It’s melodious, chorded. I peer in and see Kyle. Pain lines his beautiful face and I wonder what he’s thinking. Why is he hurting? Is the pain there because of his father? I want to go in and console him, but I’m afraid.

Of rejection. Of his answers.

Both.

And what if it is about his father? I can’t comfort him over loss of that man. I’m glad he’s dead. I only wish it was me who took his life. At such a violent thought, I shudder. I wonder why my aunt and uncle never told me. I wonder when it happened, how it happened.

Kyle seems to sense my presence and looks my direction. He sees me and quickly stops, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. I’m torn. My heart telling me one thing: go in, talk to him, and my mind: his father is bad, therefore he is bad.

No, he isn’t,
my mind shouts.

Kyle makes up my mind for me. Pulls open the door.

“Hey, Freckles. What are you doing here?” His features are tight, his voice not unfriendly, but not exactly welcoming either.

I cross my arms, hiding the bag of letters beneath them. “Just wanted to get in some practice. I’ll find another room,” I say even though I need to apologize. Tell him I’m sorry for passing out, but I don’t know where to begin. If it was the other way around, and he fell asleep on me, I’d be upset.

He gives me a wry grin and touches my arm. “What are you holding?”

I tighten my arms around the bag full of letters. I can’t let him see them. “Nothing. It’s private.”

“Come on. Show me,” he says reaching around, grabbing for the bag.

My heart is raging like a river. I don’t know what I’m more afraid of. Him seeing the letters, or him taking them away.

He. Can’t. Have. Them. Taking them would be like stealing years of my life. That’s how it feels. I won’t let him.

“Let go, Kyle. It’s none of your business.” I twist, trying to get out of his grasp, but his hands tighten.

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind and maybe I have, but he still can’t have them. I shove a fist in his chest. “No, Kyle. Leave me alone.”

He reaches around and rips the bag. Letters spill to the floor. His words to me, in a scattered pile at our feet. My heart is among those letters, as is my pride.

He bends and picks up the envelopes. Flips one over. He realizes what they are instantly. I see the change in his expression. Tension rolls off him. His shoulders tense under his shirt. I think about running away, hiding the embarrassment flaming my cheeks. But I hold my ground. I want those letters. It means everything to me to read his words.

When he stands, his expression changes again. To surprise. “Where did you get these?” .

“I’m sorry, Kyle. I-I found them in your closet, and wanted to read what you had to say. I wanted to know you, know what you wrote me.”

He crumples the envelopes into a fist. Pain travels over his features. “Then why didn’t you read them when I wrote them? Why send them back?”

“I didn’t know. I-I never knew.” Tears sting my lashes, but I force them away. “I would’ve read each and every one had I known. I swear.”

He kicks the bag. “So you snoop through my things? You steal them?” He’s raised his voice slightly and is shaking his head in disbelief. “Have you read any of them?”

My first thought is to lie, but he’ll know the truth soon enough. So I nod. “Yes, I’ve read two.”

He grinds his teeth, his jaws hardening into a line.

A girl with frizzy red hair, a flower dress, and cowboy boots comes out of a practice room. She’s holding her clarinet. “Can you two keep it down? Some of us are trying to practice.”

“Yeah, sorry.” I bend down and start stacking the letters.

“You aren’t the person I knew. I don’t know what I was thinking, getting involved. You’ve changed. You’re different.” As he’s talking, he’s pulling the letters I’m stacking from my hands and placing them closer to him.

My body start to shake. He thinks I’m different, that I’ve changed. Well no f-ing duh. I wonder how much he would’ve remained the same if he’d seen what I saw—bodies on the floor, lying in their own blood. Asleep forever.

I rip the letter I’m holding in half. Throw it at him. The pieces smack him in the face, and he flinches. He stands, and I stand too. Shove him in the chest. He falls against the door to the piano room. I stand on my tiptoes, get up in his face.

“You think I’ve changed? Well, yeah. I have. And you want to know why?”

His lips are pressed together in a tight line. He’s staring at me, searching my face for what, I’m not sure. Our renewed time together flashes behind my eyes and I’m sad. That whatever we might have been building is crashing to the floor along with the letters.

Finally, he nods.

And I’m going to tell him. The truth. “It’s because I came home late on the night my parents died. I saw two men leave my house by the back door. One was holding a gun. He was talking to another guy. When they left I went into the house, and saw my parents dead.”

I’m so angry I’m seeing red. It’s dripping into my eyes, blinding me.

And I’m so furious I’m beating him with my fists, pushing him against the door. All I want is to hurt him the way I’ve been hurting. “You want to know who the guy with the gun was? The person who stole my family right out from under me?”

“Maddie,” I hear him whisper, but it doesn’t register.

“It. Was. Your. Father!” I’m shouting now. In a voice I don’t recognize. I think it’s the sound of anguish. “He killed my parents. Destroyed everything that meant anything.” I heave a deep breath. Lower my voice. “So, yeah. I’ve changed.”

I realize my hands are in fists in his shirt. I quickly release them, and turn away.

The letters fall from Kyle’s arms. I hear them as they hit the floor.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk-thunk. Thunk
.

Kyle spins me back toward him, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe. “I’m sorry, Maddie.”

I can’t take his kindness. I can’t deal with him being nice to me. So, I push away, the need to run the most powerful thing on Earth. But he won’t let go.

“Maddie, don’t. Stay. Talk to me.” He lifts my face up to meet his. The pain is back, etched into his features like cuts on a carving board. He leans down. I know he’s going to kiss me, and I let him.

A surge of intense desire rushes into my lower belly. Fury becomes yearning. For him. I wrap my hands around his neck, pressing him to me like he’s my air. He lifts me into his arms and I circle his hips with my legs. My hands move to his glorious hair, his hands cup my butt.

I need this, the feeling. His touch burns away all of my grief. My body hums with need, pushing away the pain. His lips on mine, his hands on my body, every inch of me pressed against him; it’s better than playing the piano, stronger than the forgetful pain of a tattoo or the numbing warmth of alcohol. It’s all-consuming, all-encompassing.

“Kyle.” I breathe out and he breathes in, like we are one. The perfect melody.

The girl in the cowboy boots, the one holding the clarinet, says, “Intense much? Damn.”

I don’t look at her. Neither does Kyle.

Kyle pushes open the practice room door and walks us in.

“The letters,” I say.

“Fuck the letters.” He closes it behind us, and presses me against it. His eyes say everything. The way he’s feeling. He’s hurting and in some way understands what I’m feeling. That increases my craving for him.

“I need you,” I say between kisses.

His lips crash into mine, pressing open my mouth and his tongue explores my mouth.

I meet him all the way. No holding back. No nervousness. Only heat.

His hands roam under my shirt. “Same one you wore yesterday?”

“Yeah,” I say breathlessly, too thrilled by what’s happening to be ashamed. I don’t even care that someone might see us through the small window. I run my fingers through his mussed hair. He kisses me lightly on the mouth and skims his hands down my body, to my jeans. I feel him tug, but I grab his hands.

I know what he wants, and I want it too. But not here. Not now. Though my body wants to punch me in the face, I can’t have sex with him. I can’t. His eyes search mine, questioning.

“I’m not… Can’t we keep this to making out?” I look down, embarrassed.

“Freckles, I would love to make out with you. In fact, I think you and I should make out every day for the rest of our lives.” He smiles and kisses my cheek. “I’m sorry.” He bends over, picks up my shirt, and helps me put it back on. “You’re so damn hot.” He caresses my cheek with the palm of his hand, and I lean into him. “Most girls—” He shakes his head. “No, more like
every girl
I’ve kissed before seemed to want to keep going.” He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry.”

I take his face in my hands and lean up to kiss his mouth. “Thank you,” I say, trying not to focus on his comment about every girl he’s been with. I worry I won’t be enough. But he did ask me to make out with him every day. “Every day, huh?” I ask, brushing his bottom lip with my thumb.

He growls and lifts me into his arms. “Damn right. Starting now.”

We kiss until we’re breathless. My tongue explores every part of his mouth. My hands explore every part of his body. I feel like I know him by heart, that I could pick him out of a dark, crowded room.