All I Ever Wanted(17)
The closet was crowded; an air-conditioning vent ran through the space, so we had to stand close. Mark smelled wonderful—a mix of soap and sweat—and I could hear him breathing. He took my other hand. My palms were sweaty, but his were warm and dry, and my body temperature shot up well into fever range, sweat dampening my forehead. “You’re cute, Callie,” he whispered…the first time he said my name, and I almost threw up with the thrill of it all.
“Thanks,” I whispered back, swallowing a little bile. My heart thudded so fast and hard it was a wonder he couldn’t hear it.
“You ever been kissed before?” There was a smile in his voice, though I couldn’t see it in the dark.
I bit my lip. “Um…not really,” I whispered.
“Is it all right if I kiss you now?” he whispered back.
“Sure,” I managed.
It was a soft, gentle, wonderful kiss, chaste and perfect, his lips soft and warm. Something flipped in my stomach as his mouth moved against mine, and suddenly, to my mortification, a little moan escaped from my throat. That kind of moan. An oh, babymoan. Dang it! Mark laughed quietly, pulling back.
“Was that okay?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” I answered, too horrified to say anything else.
Then he kissed me again. This wasn’t a magical, perfect first kiss. This was…oh, it was warm, and mature, deeper and, oh, Lord, hot. My knees weakened in a near painful rush. The pit of my stomach tingled. Mark’s hands slid down to my ass, and he pulled me against him. Oh!
Then he stopped. “Okay. We’re all set, then,” he said casually, the way a cool guy would. He stepped back and opened the closet door, the bright light and giggles from the other kids like the rude buzzing of an alarm clock calling me from a soft and lovely dream.
My first kiss! My first kiss was from Mark Rousseau, and it had been perfect. And that second one—holy crap! I floated back to my place in the circle, next to Annie. She asked me something, and I murmured some nonsensical syllables in response, but I didn’t hear, couldn’t see, was absolutely heedless of the sharp and curious glances from my friends. My heart pounded and kept pounding, faster and faster, the rhythm repeating over and over, Mark Rousseau kissed me. Mark Rousseau kissed me.
Of course, I fell crazy in love with him. Made a point of appearing in his path here and there, noting when, during a football game, he might head to the concession stand and hustling there myself so we’d innocently run into each other. He always said hi, sometimes even using my name. I began riding my bike past his house occasionally (well, four or five times a week, to be honest). I even joined the cross-country team because they warmed up near the lacrosse team.
Mark didn’t break up with Julie. Didn’t hold up a boom box under my window and play Peter Gabriel songs. Didn’t swing outside my window to get a glimpse of me.
But he did say hi, and when you’re a freshman and a high school junior says hi, that’s pretty huge. The next year, he went off to college—and I didn’t date anyone until he did…I was so hoping he’d notice me and wanted to be free just in case. But he didn’t; he left for the University of Chicago after high school. I dated a nice boy or two. Went to college myself. Had a relationship. Even fancied myself in love, sort of, though the feeling lacked that capital L feeling.
After college, I lived in Boston for a few fun and impoverished years, but in the end, it wasn’t for me. My job at a large PR firm was pleasant enough, though the pay was mediocre at best. I had some great friends, we had fun, I dated a bit, but I missed Vermont. Missed my family, especially Bronte and baby Josephine. It was time to go home. Settle down. Find some guy and get married. Find Love with a capital L.
Back to the clean air and rushing rivers of Georgebury I went, back to the funeral home, back to the sweet light of a Vermont summer. Mom and Dad both seemed pleased that I was home. Freddie, whose IQ was in the genius range, was often bored in school and welcomed the chance to torture me. I babysat for my nieces, hung out with Annie and Jack, got a job covering town meetings for the little local paper and waited tables at night, figuring some job opportunity would present itself.
It did. Mark returned from Chicago, where he’d been working, and opened up Green Mountain Media.
It seemed like it was meant to be, didn’t it? I mean, come on! Of course I applied. So did three hundred other people. Jobs like that were rare in our corner of the state, and it was big news in Georgebury. I wore my favorite skirt and sweater ensemble, bought on Beacon Street in Beantown, trying to look creative and funky and professional. Spent even longer on my hair that day, practiced my answers in the mirror.
When I walked into Mark’s office, the old attraction came crashing back. He was better-looking than ever, more manly, broader in the shoulders, and he was as nice as could be. Asked me about college and my job in Boston…most of my work there had been trying to make “oily discharge” sound less horrific on drug warning labels, something I acknowledged honestly, getting a good laugh from Mark. He told me he loved the Back Bay and tried to make at least one Sox game a year, chatted about us both moving back to Georgebury. I, in turn, made sure to ask questions about his company, talked about my creativity and excellent work ethic, and agreed that the Sox were looking great.
“I have to tell you, Callie,” he said, glancing again at my résumé, “you’re one of the most qualified people I’ve had in here. This looks really good.”