Of course, how could a thing really be scandalous, when there was no one to scandalize?
So, perhaps scandalous wasn’t the right word.
I knew the kissing was leading us somewhere, I suppose, and I was grateful that he was the one stopping us from getting there, because getting there was the end in some way.
Now, here, on our travels, on our adventures, flitting here and there, everything was open and possible and nothing was decided. But once we got wherever that kissing was trying to take us, I knew that something would shift between us, and then, that would sort of be the end.
Not the end of us together, I supposed, not that.
The end of the exploration.
The end of the journey.
Sometimes, he would rest his forehead against mine, ripping his lips away from mine. We always seemed to be out of breath in those moments, our chests heaving as we clung to each other. He would shut his eyes and say things like, “Have mercy on me, Lizzy,” and I wouldn’t know what he meant, exactly.
Sometimes, he would take my wrists and pin them above my head so that I could not touch him and wheeze, “No more, not now,please.”
And then, we would catch our breaths and rearrange ourselves and we would go to sleep, and my body would feel wound up like a thread wound tightly around a spool, wound too tightly, so tightly that it almost hurt. I would lie in the darkness, my heart still pounding, and think I wished to be unraveled.
I had a notion, in those moments, especially when he was holding me down, keeping my hands away from touching his skin, that I could have it if I wished, that he would not take much in the way of convincing in those moments, that if I begged him to do it, to unravel me, that he would.
He knew what it was.
I didn’t even really understand.
But I didn’t ask that, either.
Something held me back.
We traveled through France, from one shore to the other. When we made it to the southern sea, we stood and gazed out into the distance, the waves going all the way to the horizon, and it seemed as if we’d accomplished something.
But later, sitting in a seaside tavern, eating a bisque made with fish and mussels, I realized we’d accomplished nothing.
“Where to next? What is Lizzy’s pleasure?” He smiled at me, indulgent, easy, ready and willing to do my bidding.
I filled my mouth with soup so as not to have to answer.
“We could travel into Spain,” he said. “Or we could go to Italy or Germany. How far do you wish to travel? We may be limited by doing it by land, but we could likely get quite far, if we wish. Not to the Americas, I suppose, but it might be possible to get into Africa, if you’d like to see giraffes.”
I let out a little laugh, thinking of that, of animals from books, all sorts of things to be explored and seen.
And yet…
“I wish us to get a room this evening,” I announced instead.
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yes,” I said. “I wish us to have a good night’s sleep in a bed somewhere. I don’t know how we do it. If we are worried that a room in an inn may be occupied on Thursday morning during the reset, perhaps we ask an innkeeper for a room that has been vacant the night before.”
He held my gaze, his dark eyes steady.
“For, after all,” I said, “if we offer to pay extra, we can simply pass it off as some sort of quirk, some indulgence that they must see to because we shall make it worth their while.”
“This is a bit of a subject change, Lizzy,” he said. “You are avoiding saying where you wish to go next?”
I ran my spoon through my soup. “It is only that arriving here, seeing the ocean, it’s… rather less gratifying that I thought it would be.”
He dipped some bread in his own soup and then tucked it into his mouth. “I’m confused,” he said, after he’d swallowed.
