The Unwilling(86)

“You remember our swim?” She slipped off her shoes, entirely serious. “How about a real one this time?”

When her shirt came off, the bra came with it. She blushed only a little, and I thought of all the times I’d seen her at the quarry, browned by the sun and sleek as a seal. She helped me out of my shirt, and kissed me. Her breasts flattened on my chest, and I felt them there, small and warm, a brush of skin before she stepped back and removed the rest of her clothes. The blush was still there, but she turned for the pool, crooked a finger, and tossed off a knowing smile. “Are you coming or not?”

I undressed and followed her into the pool, moving close until there were mere inches between us. “Why now?” I wanted to know.

“Because I was watching your face, and not Darzell’s.” She moved closer until we were touching. “Did you know that you were crying?”

“Only at the end.”

“I thought it was beautiful.”

“Why?”

“Because he made you believe in what you were doing.”

“I already believed.”

“But there’s a difference between duty and love. You wanted to help Jason because he’s your brother—that’s the duty. Darzell made you love him.”

It was true. She was right.

“Kiss me,” she said, and that’s what I did.

Softly.

Adoringly.

“Now, love me,” she said, and I did that, too.

Later, with Becky stretched beside me on a bed of ferns and moss, I thought for the millionth time that the day was barely real: the touch of our bodies, the foundations of childhood we’d burned down together. Even now the lines of her were like forgings on my skin: one leg across my own, her fingers twined into mine.

“Regrets?” she asked. In response, I held her tighter. “Can we do it again, then?”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

It was becoming my favorite question.

Much later, we dressed self-consciously, the awkwardness passing only when Becky caught my eye, and grinned. “The clothes came off a lot easier.”

After that, it was familiar and easy, her hand in mine as we made our way uphill through the old trees hung with ivy and kudzu. At the car, Becky pushed her hands into her pockets, shoulders rising as she measured me in a knowing, still-amused way. “Was that your first time?” I blushed furiously before she took pity. “It was pretty awesome.”

“The second time was better,” I said.

“Really? I thought, the third…”

She grinned again, and I kissed the curving lips, one hand on hot denim and the other on hot metal. Only the breeze was cool, and that’s because it was getting dark.

“So…?”

She broke the kiss as if dusk on the street ended more than the day. Sadly, I felt the same truth: that time may have stopped for a while, but only in the place we’d been. “This has been good,” I said.

“Good, but real.”

“Next-level stuff,” I agreed.

“So…?”

She said it again, but this time it was about Jason rather than us, the shadow of the day. “I’ll go home, I suppose. Talk to my father.”

“Will you tell him what we learned?”

“About Jason?”

“Maybe it will help.”

I nodded, but had my doubts. I was still so angry.

Even if my father believed …

Or if he already knew …

Becky took me home in Dana’s car, and the quiet between us was a comfortable one. We said goodbye at the bottom of my parents’ driveway, and what I saw in her eyes was like a jewel to carry in my pocket, and take out if the night got long. After she left, I stayed outside to watch stars come alive as purple light was drawn off like a veil. The air was heavy with the perfume of my mother’s garden, a blend of climbing rose and camellia, of Princess Blush and heliotrope, hibiscus and Plum Mist, hydrangea and dogwood and daffodil—a glut of plants and vine I was embarrassed to know as well as I did.

Turning, at last, I walked up the long drive and found my car parked near the garage. My father must have brought it from the impound lot. Inside the house, it seemed every light was burning, the rooms so bright I couldn’t find a shadow if I tried. I closed the door gently, wary of hushed-voice sounds that carried from the kitchen. In the years since Robert’s death, caution like that came to me as naturally as breathing. Fights. Tears. Hysteria. I’d walked in on every scene imaginable.

This time, it was quiet but tense, my mother looking wan as my father knelt at her side, speaking with the kind of calm assurance that had become, I’d often thought, the thread that held her together.

“He’s fine, sweetheart. I promise.”

“But we don’t know … we haven’t heard…”

“I’m sure he’ll be home soon.”

“But Chance said…”

“Chance said Gibby was fine, honey. He said not to worry.”

“But that was hours ago…”

Damn. I could have called. I should have. “Uh … hi, guys.”

They turned at the same time, and my mother swept up and across the room, her arms tight on my neck as she squeezed. I tried to disentangle the embrace, but she only squeezed harder, her face hot against my shirt before she pushed back, and let the anger out.