As far as first kisses go, it was one for the record books.
“She still badgers me about it every chance she gets.” My voice is husky from his touch and the nearness of that precious memory.
“Then why do you still have it?”
I’m tempted to admit that at first I told myself I’d keep the tattoo until the time came when I fell out of love with him. Then, when I realized enough time didn’t exist for that to happen, I kept it because it reminded me that at one time I was someone’s everything. But instead, what comes out of my mouth is, “You know me. I’m sentimental.”
Putting my hand back in my lap, he goes back to his original question. “So? The future?”
I twist my lips. “I guess if I believe Madame LaRouche, I’ll have some great love and be happy.”
When he smiles, I feel it all the way to my toes.
“What about you?” I ask. “What doyousee for yourself?”
He’s quiet for a second. Then, “Suppose all I’m looking forward to in the future is to live.” He nods. “Yeah, some life will do me just fine.”
I swallow and try to imagine all he’s seen and done over the years, all the danger and death he’s undoubtedly experienced. And the pain…
My eyes ping to the scar above his temple. How much pain has he suffered? How much pain is hestillsuffering? Does he worry his head injury will get worse instead of better? It that why all he wants out of life islife?
It’s enough to make my heart ache something fierce.
The sun is setting in the west, painting the sky above it in vibrant pastels. I appreciate how the waning light gives his complexion a rosy glow. But the illusion is ruined when his brow pinches and he grabs the flask from his back pocket.
I didn’t see him take a drink all morning—even though the flask was clearly visible in its usual spot. But the minute I sat next to him on the step, I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“It’s hurting, huh?”
When he looks at me questioningly, I point to his head.
He hitches one shoulder. “What doesn’t kill me makes me stranger, right?”
“You meanstronger?”
Is he getting his words mixed up? The alarm must show on my face because he winks. “Yeah. That too. But nothing much is normal about me anymore. Want to warn you of that right now.”
I battle the urge to take him in my arms and run my fingers through his hair. I want to soothe him, comfort him,lovehim. Old habits, oldinstincts, are hard to break.
“You know how noisy this thing will be, right?” I say. “Maybe you shouldn’t come.”
“I want to.”
“But your headache—”
“Maggie,” he interrupts. “Iwantto come. I’ll take any chance I can to take my mind off this stupid head thing.”
I nod even though I’m unconvinced. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
He laughs humorlessly. “Why the hell would you want to after the way I left everything?”
And there it is. The opening I’ve been waiting for.
But before I can get a word out, the familiar growl of an engine catches my attention. Luc is coming down the street in the same 1979 pickup truck he drove in high school. It was his father’s pride and joy. Helene Dubois, Luc’s mother, refused to sell it after her husband’s death. Instead, as Luc tells it, she sometimes went hungry to make sure she could pay for its upkeep until he got old enough to drive it.
Youthful laughter sounds in my ears, but I realize it’s an auditory hallucination. An echo from the past. The truck brings back so many good memories, I can’t help but smile.
Luc parks next to the curb and cuts the engine. When he hops out, I notice his hair is still damp from a recent shower.
