Ugly Love: A Novel(43)

Miles and I remain motionless, boxed into a circle of light cascading down from a streetlamp as we watch them walk away. I look down at the sidewalk below us and scoot one of my shoes to the edge of the circle of light, watching as it disappears into the darkness. I look up at the streetlamp, wondering why it’s shining down on us with the intensity of a spotlight.

“Feels like we’re on a stage,” I say, still looking up at the light.

He tilts his head back and joins my inspection of the odd lighting. “The English Patient,” he says. I look at him questioningly. He gestures to the streetlamp above our heads. “If we were on a stage, it would probably be a production of The English Patient.” He flicks his hand back and forth between us. “We’re already dressed the part. A nurse and a pilot.”

I mull over what he says, probably a little too much. I know he says he’s the pilot, but if this really were a stage production of The English Patient, I think he would be the soldier rather than the pilot. The soldier is the character who is sexually involved with the nurse. Not the pilot.

But the pilot is the one with the secretive past . . .

“That movie is the reason I became a nurse,” I say, looking at him with a straight face.

He returns his hands to his pockets, shifting his gaze from the light overhead back to me. “For real?”

My laugh escapes. “No.”

Miles smiles.

That rhymes.

We both turn at the same time to head back toward the hospital. I find myself using the lull in our conversation to construct a really bad poem in my head.

Miles smiles

For no one else

Miles only smiles

For me.

“Why are you grinning?” he asks.

Because I’m reciting embarrassing third-grade—level rhymes about you.

I pin my lips together, forcing my smile away. When I know it’s gone for good, I answer him. “Just thinking about how tired I am. Looking forward to a really good”—I cut my eyes to his—“sleep tonight.”

He’s the one smiling now. “I know what you mean. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired. I might even sleep as soon as we’re inside your car.”

That would be nice.

I smile but bow out of the metaphor-laden conversation. It’s been a long day, and I actually really am tired. We walk in silence, and I can’t help but notice that his hands are shoved firmly into his jacket pockets, as if he’s protecting me from them. Or maybe he’s protecting them from me.

We’re only a block away from the parking lot when his footsteps slow, then stop completely. Naturally, I stop walking and turn around to see what caught his attention. He’s looking up at the sky, and my eyes focus on the scar that runs the length of his jaw. I want to ask him about it. I want to ask him about everything. I want to ask him a million questions, starting with when his birthday is and then what his first kiss was like. After that, I want to ask him about his parents and his entire childhood and his first love.

I want to ask him about Rachel. I want to know what happened with them and why whatever happened caused him to want to avoid any form of intimacy for more than six years.

Most of all, I want to know what it was about me that finally put an end to it.

“Miles,” I say, each question wanting to dive off the tip of my tongue.

“I felt a raindrop,” he says.

Before the sentence leaves his mouth, I feel one, too. We’re both looking up at the sky now, and I’m swallowing all the questions along with the lump in my throat. The drops begin to fall faster, but we continue to stand there with our faces tilted up toward the sky. The sporadic drops turn into sprinkles, which then turn into full-on rain, but neither of us has moved. Neither of us is making a mad dash for the car. The rain is sliding down my skin, down my neck, into my hair, and soaking my shirt. My face is still tilted toward the sky, but my eyes are closed now.

There’s nothing in the world that compares to the feel and smell of brand-new rain.

As soon as that thought crosses my mind, warm hands meet my cheeks and slide to the nape of my neck, stealing the strength from my knees and the air from my lungs. His height is shielding me from most of the rain now, but I keep my eyes closed and tilted toward the sky. His lips come down gently over mine, and I find myself comparing the feel and smell of brand-new rain to his kiss.

His kiss is much, much better.

His lips are wet from the rain, and they’re a little bit cold, but he counterbalances that with the warm caress of his tongue against mine. The falling rain, the darkness surrounding us, and being kissed like this make it feel like we really are on a stage and our story has just reached its climax. It feels as if my heart and my stomach and my soul are all scrambling to get out of me and into him. If all my twenty-three years were laid on a graph, this moment would be the crest in my bell curve.

I should probably be a little bit sad and disappointed about this realization. I’ve had a few serious relationships in my past, but I can’t recall a single kiss with any of those guys where I felt this much. The fact that I’m not even in a relationship with Miles and I feel this affected by him should tell me something, but I’m too invested in his mouth to scrutinize that thought.

The rain has turned into a downpour, but neither of us seems to be affected by it. His hands drop to my lower back, and I fist his shirt in my hands, pulling him closer. His mouth fits mine as if we’re two pieces from the same puzzle.