I felt myself sink a little deeper into the sand, like my feelings sank a little deeper for Price. He was like quicksand, though. I was sinking deeper and deeper, falling for him hard.
“Yep, you’re moving in. I’ll dress up like the bunny in your bar, if that makes you feel better ... more at home.”
His kisses were soft, closed mouthed, promising. I wanted more, harder.
“I’m not quitting the bar, I’ll have you know.”
“It’s fine, Johnny can take you. And you can pack. Happy?”
“Ugh, you’d better kiss me again. I don’t like where this convo is going.”
He obliged and more. Slipping his hand inside my shorts, he made sure his thumb found the right spot. I went off, not sure how he did that, especially so quickly. Not one to argue, I savored his fingers on me, inside me, our mouths fused.
“You sure about the condom thing? I’m clean,” he said, drawing me out of my haze. “I don’t want to ever push you to do something before you’re ready.”
“Except move in.”
This sassiness got me thoroughly kissed. Tongue-twisting, hungry,can’t get enough of me and my snarkkissed.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said when we broke apart. “When my dad didn’t know what to do with my periods, he had a neighbor take me to the doctor. They gave me the pill to regulate me. I’m clean too.” I winked, not able to help myself.
Price left my shirt on but lifted it to kiss my chest. He ran his hot breath over my bra, until he came to my belly button, where his tongue swirled. His hand quickly took care of removing my shorts and panties, and he shrugged off his own shorts.
“Commando?” I asked.
“You bet.”
And then he was inside me, and I forgot all about the fact that I was going to live with him at the encouragement of my dad, and Johnny was going to take me to get my stuff. For a few minutes, Bev hopefully waiting for me to make up with her didn’t cross my mind. Of course, I still wanted to find my mom, but she was way back in the recesses of my brain.
At this moment, all I wanted to do was feel Price, to be with him in every way.
Emerson
Monday night, I walked into the Lucky Artist Bakery, sweaty and worn out from moving, but the task at hand was too important to skip. I’d forgotten the significance of Monday until I shuffled through the door and mumbledshitto myself.
I’m important to Bev.
“Hey,” I said to my friend, whose back was to me as she fiddled with the cappuccino maker.
She turned and said, “Hi.”
Huh. So that’s all she’s going to give me. She’s going to make me work for it.
I reminded myself not to drop the glass jar in my hand and make a mess. “Here,” I said, sliding it toward her over the counter. The shells inside tinkled and rattled.
“What’s this?”
As she eyed me, I smoothed my hair back into my messy bun. “I made it at the shore this weekend. It’s just some shells I collected. A peace offering, I guess. A stupid one, but I didn’t know what to do.”
“It’s pretty.” She picked it up and placed it under the painting that started this shit. Paula’s whimsical coffee cup was anything but frivolous.
“Look, Bev, I’m really sorry. I didn’t come looking for you. When I came in here the first time, I thought of it as a lucky break. Some kind of luck, or the gods looking out for me. Now I’ve come to think of it as a sick coincidence. Shit luck.”
She didn’t interrupt or disagree, so I kept talking.
“What I didn’t count on was meeting you, finding the first true friend I’ve made in a long time. You became a good friend quickly, and I think that’s because we have a great connection. But I shouldn’t have lied ... by omission or otherwise. I should have told you what I was thinking from the minute I saw that painting,” I said, glancing at it and then back to her.
We still stood opposite each other, the metal counter nothing compared to the emotional divide between us.
