All We Left Behind (18 page)

“Coffee?” he says quickly, and I don't know if I want to cry or scream. Because there's no way I'm going back up to that ridge. I must have been wrong about that kiss, and him sharing his music, and us being—

He grabs my hand.

“No, for real this time,” he says, his thumb rubbing my fingers softly. “No, like actual coffee.”

*  *  *

Kurt walks out of the gym after practice and his hair is wet from showering. I get up from the curb where I've been waiting and smell soap on him. He looks me over, checking me out, only it's not leering or even sexy. Just a look.

He's unreadable. But somehow unreadable doesn't strike me as unsafe.

I want to kiss him. The cold and the smell of soap have me feeling bold, but I don't know the rules. What does that kiss at Carrie's party make us?

The gym door clangs open and a group of Kurt's teammates come out the door. Laughter cuts the quiet and I see Conner and Tommy look in our direction.

“Do you have a car?” Kurt asks, running a hand through his hair, and I'm thankful he's asking about
my
car and not his.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding to where it's parked and leading the way.

Kurt raises a hand to his teammates and their whistles shoot across the parking lot. He flips them off.

“Golden!” The word rings out and I know it's Conner.
I'm certain he said the word “Golden,” but I hear
Goldie
in the back of my mind. It curls my stomach with the smell of barbecue and beach peas.

I turn. “Are you sure we should—”

But Kurt's right behind, and we're so close he smacks right into me.

“Shit!” He twists to the left, but our chests connect. I try to catch my balance, but we trip. There's a jumble of arms, and—
smack!
—my elbow cracks against something hard.

I stumble back to see Kurt clutching his chin.

“Oh no! Did I—?”

He grits his teeth together, biting back a surge of pain. I reach out to help, but he steps to the side, holding a hand up that means he needs a minute.

“I'm sorry,” I say, giving him the space, and he turns away to spit blood on the asphalt. “Oh God!”

“It's fine,” he says, spitting again and wiping his mouth with a sleeve.

“No, it's—”

“Really, I'm fine,” he repeats, swallowing with what looks like considerable effort. I don't believe him for a second. “Taylor.” His eyes lock on me and I think he's going to tell me to forget coffee. Forget all of this. But then he breaks into a smile, and his teeth are laced pink with blood. “I knew you were trouble.”

The Firehouse is crowded, packed
with people from school. There are a couple guys from the team who nod when I enter, but I pretend not to see them.

The place is like a cage. Brick walls. Fire poles. Too many chairs.

“What do you want?” Marion asks, and I look at the chalkboard covered with eight hundred menu items.

People stare. People definitely saw us at the party. I've heard the rumors. And the swimming thing is getting around too.

“Coffee, black,” I say to the girl behind the counter, and Marion orders some fancy soy double who-knows-what. I taste blood in my mouth.

“That's seven fifty,” the coffee girl says, and I nudge Marion.

“Don't you think you should pay for this after busting my teeth?” I joke, but she doesn't get it.

“Sure,” she says, pulling out her wallet.

“I'm kidding,” I say, nodding to her cash, but she stands there with her wallet open. “Put that away. I got this.” I throw a ten on the counter, swallowing back the pink in my mouth. Damn coffee's expensive.

“Thanks,” she says, fiddling with her purse and grabbing too many napkins from the counter. I move to put my hand on the back of her neck, to get her to relax, but the guys from the team are watching us. My hand stops halfway between her and me, hanging there like a useless slab of meat.

“Sir? Your change?”

I swing my hand to the coffee girl like it's what I meant to do in the first place, and Marion looks at me funny. I shove the change in my pocket, grab our drinks, and turn to the room.

“Uh . . .” There are no empty tables. “Let's go outside.”

“In the back.” Marion points to a table crammed in a corner and walks toward it. I pass Hector, from the team, as I follow her, and he gives me a nod. I roll my eyes. He winks with a knowing grin, like he gets it. Coffee first. Fun second. Only that's not how
this
is going to work. And I hate that Hector looks at Marion and thinks it is.

The chairs suck. They're made of cheap metal rods, bent funny and poking in every direction. I sit across from Marion, with everyone behind us, and shift my weight. Only everything's too close and I elbow the dude at the table beside me.

“Watch it!” He shoots me a dirty look.

“Sorry, man,” I say, trying to give him some space, but there isn't any to give.

“It's not normally this crowded,” Marion says, glancing at the guy. Her eyes fall to her coffee like that might be a complete lie. Red flushes over her neck and I think about how I wouldn't have been able to see that when we were swimming.

“You come here a lot?” I ask, and she hugs her mug close.

“Yeah, with Lilith mostly.”

I nod and sip my drink. It tastes like dirt.

She busies herself by pouring sugar into her cup and I try to ignore the doo-wop fifties music coming out of the speakers. Why doesn't anyone play good music anymore? At least jump forward a decade or two and play some Emmylou Harris or Leonard Cohen. I catch her stealing a glance over my shoulder, but refuse to look and see how many of them are watching.

I consider leaving, which is stupid. I want to see her. Just not
here
.

There's light in her hair and I think about her listening to Mom and me. Really listening. That dimple on her cheek, pinching, and then her lips. I've never played that song for anyone. Not even Conner. And the only people who'd remember it are Dad and Josie.

I catch red flushing over Marion's ears again and I know she's waiting for me to say something. I'm not
trying
to make her feel uncomfortable. I just—

I don't do this.

“So, uh . . .” She picks at the edge of her napkin.

“Yeah?”

She sorta smiles, and maybe I'm too eager for her to say something. Her eyes flick over my shoulder again and I gulp down coffee.

“When's your next game?” Little bits of napkin cover the table.

“Thursday,” I mumble, and she smiles like that was the most fascinating thing I could have said. Which is exactly why I don't do this.

“You like soccer?”

“I like to run.”

“Oh . . .” She squints, and I can tell she's overanalyzing this. “You don't like the passing and shooting parts?”

“No, I like that too, I just—” A giggle comes from behind us and I look back to see—fuck—everyone
is
watching us. “I like the air,” I say, trying to ignore them. “The adrenaline. It makes me focus, makes me . . .” I stop. Drops of coffee have fallen from my cup. They pool like brown scabs on the tabletop. Like Josie's scabs.

“Makes you what?” she prompts, but I don't know what she wants me to tell her.

Suddenly talking about soccer seems unimportant, and I want my guitar, and real air. I don't want the coffee machine grinding and everyone staring, and this brick-wall fire-pole bullshit.

I push out my chair.

“Hey, wait, are you—” She stops midsentence as I stand.

Clearly, I am.

“Look, I've got—” I start, but I don't know how to finish that. I could lie to her, but I don't want to. “I just—”

I look around the room. It's only people from school. Like at a party. But all I want is the door.

“I get it,” Marion says, but her tone isn't snarky. Not like how Vanessa would say it if she realized I was going to bail. Marion says it calm, like this is something she understands, and she's okay with it. She pushes her coffee away and nods to the door, leading the way. I'm so thrown, I just follow her.

Outside, I can breathe again. The air is like an icicle stabbing my lungs. But it makes everything sharper.

“It's October,” Marion says. “It's going to be really cold.”

I nod, thinking she means the air, but after a few breaths, I realize that doesn't make sense.

“What?” I look at her confused.

She walks to her car and the air is so crisp everything is in hypersharp focus. And yet I swear she motions for me to get in and says—

“You can swim, right?”

My bare feet dig into
the sand and a chill crawls up my calves. Kurt and I have both rolled up our jeans to below the knee, and I'm cold just looking at the Atlantic. The sun is setting behind us and the purple of evening has begun to shade the horizon.

The water is calm, but the air is fierce, tossing hair across my face. I know swimming in the lake was cold, but swimming in the ocean will be fire. Even summer water is freezing. We're north of the Cape, which sends the tropical currents out to sea. Our water comes from the Arctic.

I'm not sure what I was thinking. I only know that I saw Kurt's face in that coffee shop, ready to bolt, and this all started by running into the water. So perhaps all we need to do is run on in—again.

Kurt pulls off his shirt and goose bumps ripple over him.

“Jesus,” he curses, wrapping his arms over his chest. I take in the skin of him, shivering beside me. “You really want to do this?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “But I'm not taking off my shirt.”

He laughs. “That's fine.”

I dig my feet into the sand and run, knowing if I don't do it now I'll lose my nerve. I head for the ocean, full speed, with wind whooping in my ears. There's a loud whistle and maybe a cackle of laughter behind me. But as soon as I hear it, Kurt's running beside me. Fast enough to catch up. Fast enough to pass.

He matches my pace.

Sand kicks up behind us and four seagulls shriek, taking to the air. We pound past their flapping wings and Kurt puts his arms above his head like he's about to cross a finish line. We both yell as the adrenaline surges up from our feet, and we take our first step into the icy-cold water.

Then our second—

And our third—

And leap.

It's a shock—the water.

It's how I imagine dying, with black at my temples and ice in my skin, and the dark current dragging me from the light. Or maybe it's like being born. The type of thing you can only come into screaming. Where every part of you is suddenly, painfully—

Alive.

We run out of the
water and all of me is pain.

The sky blazes red and Marion shivers with her whole body. She's three steps to my right. Hair snaked over her face. Eyes wild with salt and sting. It makes me laugh.

Wind tears past us and I know we can't stay out in this chill. But the rush, the clarity, makes the pain seem inconsequential.

This
must be what Mom drank to find.

Marion cuts across the sand and steps in front of me. She backpedals before stopping and there's boldness in her eyes. Her clothes are wet and I can't think straight.

I pull her against me and her mouth tastes like salt. Her hands snake over my chest and I groan, wanting her. She shivers, pulling me close, and I know I have to get her off this beach. There's no way I'm laying her down in the sand.

I pick her up, and her jean-soaked legs wrap around my waist. Somehow, I make it to her car and I lay her down in the backseat. She moans, body arching, and her mouth
finds mine. She feels so small in my arms. Delicate, in a way that makes me not want this to go too fast. But she reaches inside my pants.

I press into her and begin unbuckling. Her jeans are so wet they're hard to remove. Our feet scraping against each other and covered in sand.

I pull back and look at her. Blond hair is splayed over the seat cushion, wet and dark as seaweed. She looks straight at me, her eyes dark, and sits up. She pulls her shirt up over her head and leans forward, kissing me lightly.

She unhooks her bra and lies back, under me.

We've been like this before.

In my car.

“Are you—” I start, but she pulls me into a kiss, peeling down my pants.

I throb and want—

But I shouldn't.

Not with
this girl
. Not after the disaster in my car, with her shaking. And no matter how much I want to pretend this doesn't mean anything, I already know that it does. And fuck, I hate that I want it more because it does.

Her hands are all over me and her body seems to want this. Mine certainly does. And this would already be done if—

I pull back and find my coat. It's wedged between the armrest and the floor. I rummage through the pockets for a condom. I find one inside the first sleeve, but pretend to
look in all the other pockets—just in case she needs a minute, to decide, or . . .

I look back and she's shivering. Instinct puts my mouth on hers again, and that tremble becomes a quaking in both of us.

I want this.

I want this in a way I didn't know I could want it.

I put my lips to her ear because I have to ask.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I say.

“Yes,” she says, and her hands dig into my back when I enter her. Her throat releases a sharp gasp of breath, and even though I knew she hadn't done this before, it still surprises me.

I slow and move to the sound of the ocean.

I slow till all I hear is the crest of her breath.

Kurt's body is an ocean.

He feels too good and salt raw and is made of sweat and sliding. My body reacts without permission, stretching at his tenderness as his hips dip.