Wing Jones(65)

“Wing,” he breathes, like a wish, like a prayer, and it’s as if it is my heart’s name and not my own because my heart flutters in my chest, desperate to get out to fly to him.

The best I can do for my poor heart is to press myself even closer to him and hope my heart will hear his, and that will calm it.

I don’t know what my heart hears but whatever it is sends it into a frenzy, it’s beating faster than when I run, and I feel each beat all throughout my body.

I sense a deep and building something low in my belly and I wonder if any part of my body is my own or if all the pieces will mutiny to get what they want.

I wouldn’t mind. I want what they want.

The waves are coming up higher now, above my ankles, the stars singing over our heads, and the breeze is blowing against us. The night is warm and the breeze and the water offer a welcome relief.

“Wing,” he says again, and it is less of a prayer and a wish and more of a plea and I tilt my head back and look at him, his eyes dark and infinite in the night, and I let my fingers splay on the back of his neck, up against his short, tight curls, and I lean up and press my lips to his.

I’ve never kissed anyone. And I’m not exactly sure what comes next.

Aaron makes a low sound in his throat or his chest or from somewhere deeper inside of him and wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me even closer and he opens his mouth, and I open mine, my eyes fluttering in surprise, as if they’re moving in accord with my mouth, and I can see the stars above our heads and in the distance the lighthouse, and the beach is still blessedly empty but keeping my eyes open is distracting and taking away from the kiss so I shut them, quickly, and lose myself in the kiss. Lose myself in Aaron.

Runner’s high has nothing on kissing.

I feel like I’ve learned to fly. It’s like when I started running, really running, for the first time and my body woke up and every part of me was in tune, and it was the most right thing in the world. Kissing Aaron feels like that.

But better.

Bubbles are popping all inside me but not soap bubbles, honeyed bubbles, and they’re lifting me up but keeping me grounded all at the same time, and when they pop they’re full of liquid gold that’s pouring through me.

A wave splashes against the back of my legs, soaking my underwear, and I jump, breaking the kiss, but not breaking the moment.

Aaron is looking down at me with a smile on lips and in his eyes. “Wing,” he says again, and this time it’s like my name is his everything. My whole body responds, not just my heart, but everything inside me.

His hands have moved down from my back and rest on my hips. Another wave comes, and this time it nearly knocks me over. I giggle, suddenly feeling a little bit shy.

Aaron takes my hand and pulls me up out of the surf, and with my wet legs and the wet hem of my T-shirt, I feel like a mermaid emerging from the sea. Now that we’re out of the water and not pressed against each other, the breeze feels cold on my skin. The sand feels even rougher as it grips my legs and climbs over my feet and up my calves. The clouds are moving quickly across the sky, blocking the moon, and now that we aren’t in it, the water isn’t glowing anymore and looks dark and dangerous.





CHAPTER 45


We slowly, slowly walk back to where all the tents are, our hands still locked together, and we pause outside a green one at the end of the row. Aaron’s tent. His tent that he isn’t sharing with anyone. “I could come hang out in your tent for a bit,” I say, so nervous he’ll say no that I can’t look at him. He takes a deep breath, like he’s preparing to say no, and I tense, waiting for it.

“It’s OK with me if it’s OK with you,” he says. Is it OK? Because this is supposed to be a track training trip, and I’m definitely supposed to be in my own tent, not in Aaron’s. Because we have to be up and running in about three hours. And because Marcus is my brother and Marcus is Aaron’s best friend and Marcus is still in a coma and we should be doing everything we can to help him and instead we’ve been kissing on the beach. And I want more.

“It’s OK,” I say, and climb inside his tent.

I don’t know if it is because Aaron is so much bigger than Eliza or what, but we can’t both be in his tent without touching. It’s impossible.

He takes my hand, gently rubbing his thumb over my palm. All my sensations are centralized there, in the center of my palm, and I watch his thumb move, mesmerized by the movement. My head tips slowly over and finds a place on his shoulder. Our feet are still covered in sand, and I feel bad for getting his tent all sandy, but not that bad.

I never knew that wanting something could feel so good. Or that sitting next to someone, listening to them breathe, having my hand in their hand, could make me lose all sense. No one ever told me this. I think of all the times I’ve seen Marcus holding Monica’s hand, brushing her hair off her neck, and wonder if it feels like this every time for them.

Thinking of Marcus sends a bullet of guilt straight into my stomach. Not just one bullet, a whole round of bullets, one for each of the different types of guilt I feel for being here with Aaron. Each one tears through my stomach lining and lodges deep inside. It must show on my face, because Aaron’s thumb stops its rhythmic movements and I feel him still.

“Wing? Is something wrong?”

I turn toward him and scoot back, pulling up my legs to sit cross-legged on the sleeping bag. Aaron leans back on his side, curled toward me.