Preston's Honor(18)

He was going to go off and live his life and meet new people, maybe even fall in love, and I was going to be here, finding what joy I could in the earth and the sky and warm Laundromats—small joys within the parameters I’d been given—but mostly, mostly just existing and trying to get by day by day by day.

An intense wave of need to make the most of what might be our last moment rose inside, drowning my usual reticence and the words fell from my lips, “We could . . . dance.” I blinked, holding my breath for a few seconds before releasing it in a barely controlled exhale. “So you can at least dance just once on the night of your senior prom. Especially since I’m kind of the reason you’re missing it.” The final words faded into nothing, my heart pounding in my ears.

He stared at me, his eyes darting to my mouth, and then quickly back to my eyes. He looked slightly startled and backed up a step, opening his mouth as if to say something and then closing it again. “I . . . no. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

I stared at him for a second, feeling a cold sinking in my stomach at being turned down, at the way he was moving away from me as if he didn’t want to be near me. Didn’t want to touch me.

Oh. Oh God.

Realization dawned. Of course. I’d almost forgotten about the bedbugs. I felt suddenly nauseated. Of course he wouldn’t want to get close to me. What had I been thinking? He had defended me before Alicia, but he was still revolted by me. There had been a moment of kindness in his eyes—how he’d used to look at me—but now it was gone. He was gone. “Okay,” I whispered. I turned abruptly and began stuffing the rest of my laundry into the bag.

“Lia.”

I ignored him, continuing to put the piles haphazardly away. My hands were shaking though, and I dropped a stack of pants, a tiny sobbing sound coming up my throat. I started bending to pick them up, but I felt Preston’s hands on my arms and then he had stepped right up to me and I felt the warmth of him at my back. “Lia,” he repeated.

The one word, spoken with so much intensity, lashed at my heart, causing the loneliness I’d felt inside most of my life—and certainly more so in the last couple of weeks—to come barreling at me as if it would knock me straight to the ground. Only his body, the solid wall of it, kept me from hitting the floor.

I leaned back against him, weak with the emotional impact, going limp as he wrapped his arms around me from behind. “I’m not . . . I’m not dirty. I made sure—”

“Stop,” he growled against my ear. “There’s nothing, nothing dirty about you.”

My racing heart steadied, and my ragged breathing calmed. He was holding me, and it felt so good. The need for human contact overwhelmed me and though I knew I should step away and compose myself, I couldn’t. Instead, I pressed backward, into his body and allowed myself to enjoy it. Just for a minute. Just a small sliver of joy. Just one memory of being in Preston’s arms.

After a minute or so, he turned me around and pulled me back into his chest, wrapping his arms around me again in a strong embrace. Oh, my heart sighed.

I gripped the material of his T-shirt at his back and turned my cheek into his shoulder, letting out a shuddery breath and then inhaling the comforting smell of him—soap and that same faint saltiness I associated with him, and only him. Preston.

He was murmuring my name and running his hands up and down my back. After a minute I pulled away slightly to look up at him, though I could have stayed that way forever. He was gazing down at me and his face was cast in the overly bright lighting of the Laundromat, the masculine lines of his bone structure made sharper by the harshness of the incandescent bulbs, the shadow of hair under the skin of his jaw made more obvious. There was something so manly about him right then and I stared, mesmerized. When had he lost the last vestiges of boyishness and become a man? Or was it me, overly aware of his masculinity pressed up against him like this?

I had a momentary flashback to the time we’d sat in the town square eating ice cream. I’d wondered then when he’d started losing the look of childhood. And now, I was staring at him again and he’d graduated into manhood.

Part of my love for Preston was like a slow-moving river that had gained breadth and speed over time. And another part came in short bursts of white-hot lightning, marking the very moments when the love in my heart had charged and intensified. And I knew this would be one of those flashes, one of those moments burned into my memory, and even possibly, the last one I’d ever get.

“Lia,” he said yet again and his voice was low and throaty.

My body stilled and the moment itself seemed to freeze as we both stared at each other, our chests rising and falling against the other’s. His eyes moved to my mouth again and I felt my lips part. For a breathless second I wondered if he might kiss me, wondered if those quick glances at my mouth meant he was considering it. But then his eyes snapped to mine and he moved back slightly. “I—”

“I’m sorry,” I said, dropping my arms. “I’ve gotten your shirt wet.” I pointed toward the wet mark near his shoulder where the tears I hadn’t even realized were falling had soaked through the fabric.

He glanced down distractedly, but didn’t comment. Didn’t seem to care. He watched me for a second.

I shifted on my feet, feeling embarrassed and emotional and drained, confused and fifteen, and like I desperately needed someone to answer all my questions about life and love and the aching throb in my heart that never seemed to go away.