Falling Into Us (11 page)

I scrunched up my face, trying to figure out what he meant. “Scrapbooking?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, whatever. Something like that. She’s got a ‘craft room.’” He made air quotes around the phrase. “She spends all her time in there. Sleeps there, except when Dad makes her sleep with him for…you know. Mainly, she avoids both of us. Me because I take Dad’s shit instead of her, and him because he’s an asshole.”

“What do you mean, you take his shit instead of her?”

He snapped a chip between his fingers and ate both halves. “He used to beat on her, back till I was, like, three or four. Once I got old enough, I started jumping in. I hated seeing Mom cry, you know? She stood up for herself for a while. I remember that. Then she just got tired. Gave up. Let him do whatever he wanted, to me, to her. He wants the conflict, you know? He wants the fight. I started giving him that so he’d leave her alone, and now she sorta resents me for it, I think. Don’t know why, since I’m the one getting my ass beat instead of her. Whatever. Stupid bitch.” The blasé tone in his voice was awful in its utter apathy.
 

“Jason! She’s still your mother!” I couldn’t keep it from coming out.

His eyes blazed green fire, but his voice never rose. “They may have biologically created me, Becca, but they’re
not
parents.” He calmed and looked away, his voice growing thoughtful. “Parents love and protect. They shelter, they nurture. All that loving shit that I never got. My old man? He wasn’t loved, and he never figured out how to break the cycle. My mom has just spent so long being the victim that she doesn’t care anymore, so I get the brunt of his bullshit.”

I wasn’t sure what to say for a long time. Eventually, I thought of something. “Do you think you can break the cycle, Jason?”

Jason stared down between his knees, crumbling chips into dust. “I
have
to, Becca. I
will
. My grandpa was an asshole, and I’m pretty sure his dad was, too.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m scared it’s, like, a hereditary thing. What if I can’t be different? What if I’m just…genetically hard-wired to be an asshole like my old man?”

I took his hands in mine. “I don’t believe that. You already
are
different, Jason. We can choose who we want to be.”

“I hope so.” He seemed so sad suddenly, and I wanted to find a way to cheer him up, change the subject, but I couldn’t think of anything.
 

We had finished the sandwiches and were munching on chips as we talked, each of us having had two cans of soda. I remembered the bottle in my backpack and reached through the back window to grab the backpack, opened it, and pulled out the bottle. I set it on the blanket between us. Jason stared at it as if it were a venomous snake.

“Where’d you get that?” he asked in the same too-calm voice he’d used before.

“My brother gave it to me. He thought we should party it up, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t really drink much, but I figured what the hell, right?” I tried to sound casual, but I don’t think I succeeded.

“I’m not sure I can drink that,” Jason said, in almost a whisper. “That’s…that’s what my dad drinks. It’s…the only way I’ve ever seen him after seven or eight at night, my whole life. Him, sitting in his leather armchair in front of
SVU
and
Castle
and
Game of Thrones
, and always with that mother
fucking
square bottle on the sidetable, a glass beside him. I watch, every night, as that bottle slowly empties, one glass at a time, until he’s meaner than a fucking viper, and twice as dangerous.”
 

His eyes were far away as he spoke, and I sat still and silent, listening intently.

“I don’t have anything against drinking. Not everyone is like him.
I’m
not like him, when I drink. I just…I cannot,
will
not ever touch that shit. Ever.” Jason stared at the bottle as if it were his father, raw hatred in his eyes. “Please put it away. I have some beer in the cooler, if you want to drink.”

I moved quickly, shoving the bottle into the backpack and zipping it closed. “I’m sorry, Jason. I-I didn’t n-n-nnn-know.” So much for changing the subject.

His hands wrapped around my arms and pulled me closer to him, until our knees overlapped, tangled. “Of course you didn’t. Don’t be upset. Not for me.”

“But I
am
upset for you. You shouldn’t have to go through that.”

He twisted my shoulders, and I turned in place until my spine was nestled against his chest. Jason leaned back against the cab and wrapped his arms around my stomach beneath my breasts, his knees drawn up next to my sides. I rested my arms on his knees and tilted my head back to lay it against his shoulder, and suddenly, between one breath and the next, I was completely contented. I felt safe. I could feel his heart thumping faintly, and his breath soughed gently onto my nape. I was entirely too aware of his body then, of his hands so close to my breasts, his mouth which I could twist in place and kiss, if I were bold enough, his strong arms caging me perfectly. My heart hammered, and I had to focus on stillness so I didn’t panic. I wanted more, more touch, more of his heat, more of his strength. His nearness was intoxicating, and forbidden. I’d sneaked out of my house in the middle of the night, and now I was wrapped in the embrace of a boy. A man? I wasn’t sure. Was he a man yet? Was I woman, or a girl? We were stuck somewhere in between. Thoughts like these floated through my head, demanding answers but receiving none, because his proximity and his hardness were intoxicating.

We breathed together in the cool night air, the sky a silver-bathed black above us. We didn’t need to speak, and that was an amazing thing in itself. The only sounds were our breathing and the wind rustling in the leaves, and a song playing from the radio, fading into a female DJ’s voice announcing the next song: “All right, that was Montgomery Gentry, going back a ways for that one. This next song is for all you late night lovers out there. It’s Gloriana, with ‘(Kissed You) Goodnight.’”
 

My heartbeat ratcheted up to a frantic patter as I listened to the words of the song, sung sweetly and inciting romance between us in the darkness and the cold of a stolen midnight date. I turned my head, leaned slightly sideways so my shoulder nudged the edge of the truck bed. Jason’s eyes were darkest green, glittering in the starlight and the pale luminous moon glow. I felt his heart pounding against his ribs and my side, and I knew he was going to kiss me then. I waited, breath bated, eyes locked on his, my hands clutching his knees for courage. I wasn’t afraid to kiss him; no, I was afraid I would be too impatient and kiss him first. Hunger for a second kiss was like desperation in my blood, thundering in my muscles and my heart and firing in my brain.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice a soft whisper into the quiet.

I smiled up at him. “Shut up and k-k-k…” I trailed off and closed my eyes, let the word float up and out, “…kiss me already.”

He closed the distance eagerly, covering my mouth with his, and the thunder of our hearts was a syncopated crash of need and nerves. I lost myself, and gloried in the welter of touch and taste—soft and wet and hot, soda and salt—and the soaring sound of my pulse in my ears, and music in the spaces between lip-touches—
and I kissed you…goodnight
.

When we pulled apart, Jason’s eyes devoured mine. “Kissing you is…god, it’s amazing.”

“Then do it again.” I was amazed by my boldness.
 

So was he, but he lowered his lips to mine and kissed me again, deeper this time, mouths moving and tongues hesitantly touching and drifting. His palms were splayed on my stomach, and one drifted up my side, stopping at the lower swell of one breast. I lifted my hand and curled it around the back of his head, a move I’d seen in a movie, and knew then the power of my touch, the beauty of a kiss, the wonder of this intimacy. When my fingers caressed the buzzed hair above his nape, he kissed me harder, as if my hand there fueled the fire of his desire. Then his hand slid up just slightly, and his fingers were brushing the side of my breast, a hesitant touch, a quest, a question. I didn’t know the answer, the right response. I wanted more. I did. But…was it okay? Was that wrong? Was it too much, too soon? I liked the way his fingers felt, teasing the edge of propriety, the borderline of modesty. Did I dare encourage him to go further?
 

He took my hesitation for a demurral, and his hand slid upward, away from temptation. I felt the loss of his touch on my breast like a pang of regret, and covered his hand with mine, stopping it near my underarm. Our kiss paused, and our eyes met. His green orbs searched mine, and then widened as I guided his hand down. His sweatshirt had fallen away as I leaned back into him, and his hand drifted up over the swell of my breast. Even through my sweater and my shirt and my bra, I felt the heat of his hand, the rough power in his touch, the gentility in the way he caressed me. No one had ever touched my breast before, and the thrill of it was like a drug in my system.
 

My sweater was a button-up cardigan, and I reached up to flick open the first button, and then guided his hand across my body underneath the sweater to my opposite breast. His fingers curled around the weight of my breast, testing, touching, hesitant yet eager. I felt so bold, so daring, so…the word that floated to mind was
naughty
, as childish as that word seemed. I shouldn’t be letting him touch me like this, much less encouraging it. But it was so thrilling, so intoxicating. I felt my pulse crashing as he explored my breast through two layers of cotton. I felt adult and womanly and worldly as he kneaded me, caressed me, kissed me.
 

After an amount of time I couldn’t begin to measure, we pulled away, and his hand fell from my breast back to my stomach, closer to my hip this time.

“You never read me a poem,” he whispered.

My face heated. “You really want to hear one?” He nodded. “You won’t laugh?”
 

“Not unless it’s supposed to be funny.”

“I don’t write funny poems,” I said, gathering my courage. “But you can’t tell anyone, and you can’t tease me about this.”

He frowned. “Would you tease me about my photography?”

I shook my head. “Never.”

“Then why would I tease you about writing poetry?”
 

I dug my notebook out of my purse and flipped through the pages, searching for the right one to read him. I found the perfect one, one that spoke to my current feelings, in a way.

I knew I’d never be able to read it out loud without embarrassing myself, so I handed him the notebook and let him read it himself. I could see the words in my mind’s eye, feel them as he read them.

GHOSTKISS

You’re not here, and I’m not there

I’m a girl, alone in her room

And you’re a myth

A possible future

A ghost of my desires to come

I breathe slowly and close my eyes

Tilt my face to the ceiling

And wait for the kiss

Of ghostly lips on flesh

Dream mouth on real

Fantasy tongue tasting mine

Tantalizing and imagined

Because I wonder

What a kiss is

How lips taste

How a tongue feels

Will I know what to do

Without being shown?

A more worrisome question arises

One unique to me:

Can you stutter, in a kiss?

Can you fumble
 

In the throes of desire?

You’re just a ghost

A neverknown fraction of what-if

And you cannot teach me what I wish to know

Until you become real

And kiss me and kiss me and kiss me

Jason glanced at me, then back at the page, amazement in his eyes. “God, Becca. That’s…I don’t even have words. Magical. That’s not just poetry, that’s word magic.” He looked back at my notebook and seemed to be rereading. “How do you know how to make the perfect words go together? I know all these words on their own, but…but I could never put them all together like this, into a poem.”

I ducked my head, heat on my cheeks. “Thanks. I just…the words just come out. I think I write poetry because it’s a way for me to be coherent. Eloquent. I have to work to speak clearly. Every single sentence I speak takes effort to not stutter. Poetry? It’s just effortless.” All the while he’d been talking about my poetry, I’d been scripting that speech, planning it out, forming the words in my head and practicing them.
He started to flip the page, but I took the notebook from him, gently but firmly. “I’m sorry, but I’m not ready to let you just…peruse my private thoughts. Reading that is like reading my mind. I’m just—just—just n-not ready for that y-y-yet.” I heaved in a deep breath to slow myself down.

He smiled reassuringly, and showed not one iota of impatience or embarrassment at my stupid stutters and blocks. “It’s fine, Becca. I understand completely. Thanks for sharing that with me.”

“You showed me yours, so it’s only fair I show you mine.” I grinned to play up the double entendre.
 

Jason smirked. “True. They do say that turnabout is fair play.” His hand rose up my side again, inching closer, daring higher.

“Tit for…tat…” I could barely breathe as he neared my breast. I wanted his hand there again.
 

He cupped me through my sweater, and I could breathe again. Then, as if physically tearing himself away, he moved his hand and rested it on my thigh, and my pulse slowly returned to normal. “We should probably go,” he whispered.

“Yeah, probably.”

“I don’t want to, though.” He buried his face in my hair and sniffed. “You smell good.”

I laughed. “Thanks? I don’t want to go, either. I like it here. I can see why this is your favorite spot.”

“You should see it in the daytime, when the sun is out. All the way out there,” he waved toward the front of the truck, where the hill fell away into an open field, “is all flowers. It’s beautiful.”