15. Charlie
15
Charlie
I’m a sweating, filthy mess but Bea doesn’t seem to care. I know that look in her eyes—eight years later it’s still the same.
Or...it’s been longer than eight years since I’ve seen her look at me with such desire and need. Too long.
How could I not kiss her?
Bea’s mouth opens under mine and her flavor floods me. I want to drink her in, memorize the differences from what I remember.
My finger is still at her chin, feeling the movement of muscles and the shift of her jaw as she kisses me back, that soft spot flexing as her tongue tangles with mine. I let my hand slide down, my fingers brushing over her pulse point and cradling her closer to me. My thumb wanders to the front of her throat and she shivers when I fully grip her.
Bea’s wearing black leggings and I bend slightly, gripping the back of her knee and lifting it up. Her leg wraps around my hip, keeping the weight off her injured ankle. Our centers are closer together now, and Bea’s hips shift. I need more pressure.
I push, gently, and Bea’s hands reflexively come up to grab onto my sides. Her fingers tangle in my shirt as I lift her up and walk us forward, mouths still fused together, until she’s against the side of the house and I’m pressed against her.
She gasps when our bodies align and I’m so hard for her it hurts. I can still feel her pulse under my palm, the shift of her swallowing against the pressure.
Her hand wraps around my left forearm and squeezes, and I snap back to focus. I’m hurting her, pressing too hard. Shit.
I let her go and pull back but she protests wordlessly, tugging my hand back. Her eyes are lidded, her cheeks flushed with color.
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
My hand wraps back around her neck, pressing just slightly harder and she whimpers, this hot, needy little sound that shoots straight to my cock. I lean back into her body, invading her mouth with my tongue.
My jeans are tight and restrictive, but I bite down on the discomfort because I know that the rough material probably feels amazing through her pants.
She groans and pulls away, breathing hard and tilting her head back. I pulse my hand tighter and shift her head to the side. I trail my lips down her cheek and over my thumb, past the hardness of her jaw and to her earlobe, which I nip.
“You know you’re mine, right?” I growl. I pull back, and Bea’s eyes are dilated, the blue a light ring around her irises. Her lips are kiss-swollen, her hair ruffled from my hands and the wall behind her.
I’m holding her by her throat, which feels so delicate under my hands—hands that are scratched and roughed up from the axe. Sweat clings to me, though for an entirely different reason now, and I’ll probably be sore and have blisters tomorrow, but it was all worth it. I don’t feel like myself, and as my hips grind with Bea’s and I feel the start of an orgasm building, I realize that I’ve never been this rough in my life.
Somewhere in the house behind Bea, a door slams.
My gaze snaps to hers and both our eyes widen.
“Hey, who left my chicken out on the counter? And why the hell is the oven on?” Jasper’s voice comes from the kitchen.
I drop my hand and set Bea down carefully. Once she’s on her feet, she pushes me away. This fragile thing should stay just between us for now. Until I can make it more solid.
Bea straightens her sweater and reties her hair back, not meeting my gaze while I stand frozen like an idiot, still hard in my jeans.
With a brief glance at me, Bea spins and hobbles into the house.
I’ve barely said two words to Bea since our make-out session. But I’ve been thinking about it constantly since then.
Last night, after dinner was over and I could reasonably excuse myself, I went up to my room. I hoped Bea would join me at some point, but she never came. Disappointing, yes. But I had lain in bed, replaying our kiss over and over again. My mind snagged frequently on my hand on her throat; the way her soft skin felt against mine, the tiny movements of her body, the moans that vibrated under my hand. Was it simply me holding her that she liked? Or would she want to go further? Breath play? I went down a rabbit hole on the internet of safe practices until I fell asleep.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Bea might have a new interest in the bedroom. I have things I’ve learned over the years that I wouldn’t have even known were on the table when we were teenagers. I want to make sure I do it right, without hurting her but still heightening her pleasure.
Now, though, it’s December 22, and that means secret Santa shopping. The eleven of us pile into the three cars, and then we’re barreling down the road into town.
I catch up with Arlo via text. He’s sent a few messages checking up on me, knowing that holidays can often be stressful and I can tell he’s worried about me. His kids made me a Christmas card and his oldest, who’s nine, has been playing with drag-and-drop programming, so I message with her until the car slows and I look up.
Brick buildings that probably date back at least a hundred years line the main street of Here. I had read that it was a logging town in the early parts of the last century, and expected to die a slow death as the industry moved on, but then the ski resort opened and the Catskills became a hot spot for tourism, leading to Here’s survival.
Many of the buildings hold businesses on the first floor. There are a few restaurants, retail shops, a brewery, and more. A cat in the window above a Vietnamese restaurant makes me think the upper floors are housing.
Should be easy enough to find a gift for Bea.
The cars break apart to find empty parking spots and me, my parents, and Yvette and Lance pour out of the Suburban.
“Have fun, kids,” Mom calls, grabbing my father by the hand and tugging him down the street.
Yvette grabs her fiancé’s hand and they wander off too, leaving me on my own. I suspect that this year, it’ll take longer for us to reconvene, with everyone shopping—or window-shopping—long after they’ve bought gifts.
Plus, it’s already eleven a.m., since getting eleven people up, fed, dressed, and out the door is a herculean feat.
I flip an imaginary coin and head off in one direction. Iron lampposts dot the street, sporting flags for the season. There are Christmas wreaths, reindeer, Stars of David, snowflakes, and more lining the street in bright primary colors. I walk the length of the “downtown” area until the shops thin and give way to houses with bigger lawns, and then I turn around and walk back. I catch sight of my parents popping into a jewelry store and Jasper in line at a coffee shop.
And then I spot Bea. She’s standing in front of a real estate office gazing at the for-sale listings.
“House shopping?” I ask when I reach her side. She’s by herself and the street is quiet. This is the first time we’ve been alone since the Great Make-out Session of Yesterday.
I expect her to laugh it off, but instead she tips her head. “Maybe.”
I jerk my head in surprise. “Really?”
She shrugs. “Yeah. I’d love to have a little house somewhere quaint. You know, raise kids somewhere they can play.”
I swallow hard. A memory hits me—Bea and I talking about the future and her saying she wanted to have a big family like hers. “We grew up just fine in the city.”
Bea rolls her eyes. “Our parents raised us in the suburbs of a medium-sized town. We had a big park to run around in and a cul-de-sac where we played games. Can you imagine growing up in a place like this?” She gestures around us. Cars slow at the pedestrian crossing down the street to let old ladies cross, there’s a playground I passed two blocks away, and I bet the good citizens of Here don’t even lock their doors.
“What would you do for work?”
She laughs. “Who needs an assistant in a town like this? I’d rather be a mom anyway.” Bea tosses me a look that clearly says duh before sauntering off.
I look at the listings, and then stare past them. The other night I was imagining an alternate universe where Bea was pregnant with my child. How many kids would we have? Three? Four? Five?
That’s a lot of people to take care of. I’d want Bea to do whatever she wants, whatever makes her happy. Selling the business would take care of that. No one would provide for Bea like I could. Not even Kit-what’s-his-face.
I meander a bit more, until finally, I step inside a gift shop. There are shirts hung up on one side pronouncing “You Belong Here” in scripted fonts; “Hereian, Hereigan, and Here-er” all crossed out and “Herevian” with big bold letters and exclamation points; “Proud Herevian” and, my favorite: “Forget Whovians, I’m a Herevian!” with a blue telephone booth.
At the end of an aisle is a spinning postcard rack. With a flick of my finger, I spin it one way until it takes a sudden stop and spins back.
I step out of the aisle. Bea is on the other side.
“Hey, again.” Brilliant opener, Charlie.
Her lips quirk. “Small towns.”
She’s playing with the rack, spinning it slightly back and forth.
“Have you called Kit?” I ask.
Bea’s eyes snap to mine. In a low voice, she says, “You know I’m not going to call him.”
My lips curve in a smile. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and she swallows before looking back up at me.
I take a step closer. Bea’s chin tilts up slightly. I let my lips part, and then...
“Can I help you two find anything?” A short, older woman pops around the corner.
Bea blinks and clears her throat, stepping away. “Just shopping for secret Santa gifts.”
“Oh, how fun. Did you know we have some locally made goat’s milk soap? Or how about some strawberry jam?”
I don’t know who Bea has for secret Santa, but she tilts her head and asks if they have any other jam flavors, and the woman leads her to a display in the corner. I hang back, checking out a display of magnets, when my eyes fall on the perfect gift for Bea.
We always have at least one dinner out during our Christmas vacation. In Pithole that meant a 24/7 diner where most of us ordered breakfast for dinner. This year, we've got a reservation for the nicest place in Here, the Vietnamese restaurant on Main Street.
As such, we have dressed accordingly and are converging in the front hallway. Mom has on a flowy emerald dress and she’s fussing over Dad’s sports coat. I join them in dark gray slacks and an open-collared button-up.
“Charlie,” Mom coos. “Don’t you look handsome.” She reaches up to kiss my cheek, and then swipes away the lipstick left behind with her thumb.
Jasper and Lance are already down, chatting quietly on the couch while Jasper twirls the keys on his finger. Well, Jasper’s chatting. Lance is the quietest person I’ve ever met—both soft-spoken and a man of few words.
Jasper’s volunteered to be a designated driver tonight, and I wonder if it’s in solidarity with Kayla or to throw off the scent for pregnancy suspicions.
Now that I know Kayla’s pregnant, I notice some things that most people would probably miss; she occasionally touches her stomach and often goes to “lie down.”
Underneath the Christmas tree is even more stuffed than before—when we got back from shopping, we all took turns wrapping our gifts with one of the three rolls of wrapping paper Erik and Jody brought.
I talk to my parents for a while (Dad and I carefully stay away from financial topics) as people filter in. Bea and Naomi are the last to come down, and when I spot Bea, I’m struck all over again by how gorgeous she is.
Her hair is up in a tight bun, winged eyeliner makes her eyes look even bigger than they are, and a berry lipstick colors her mouth. Her ankle is feeling a lot better, and she was able to walk normally today, though she still iced it and propped it up, so she’s wearing ballet flats instead of heels. She’s in a simple garnet dress, one that accentuates her waist and has a neckline that cuts across her collarbones...against which a familiar necklace lies.
I freeze. That’s the necklace I gave her. The last gift before we broke up.
Bea doesn’t meet my eyes, and in fact, refuses to look at me as we get herded out the door by Jody, who frets about being late. She pulls Naomi, Yvette, and Lance into her rental car, so I load into my parents’ Suburban.
Why is she wearing that necklace? She has a great job and dresses for work all the time. I’m sure she has nicer jewelry than a piece that twenty-year-old me could afford.
Why does she even still own it?
Unless...I look at that necklace and can’t think of anything but our breakup. What if she does the same? What if she’s wearing this necklace to remind herself of how awful the implosion was?
“You okay back there, baby boy?”
Mom’s question pulls me out of my thoughts. I’ve been staring—well, glaring, probably—out the car window at the snow-covered woods and buildings passing by.
“Fine. Why?”
My parents exchange a glance, and I’m glad it’s just the three of us in the car.
There’s a beat of silence, and then Mom pokes Dad, who sighs. “Have you been spending any time with Bea?”
“Some,” I say carefully.
“That’s good. Just, uh. Be careful there.”
Mom turns in the passenger seat to face me behind her. “We just love you both so much and don’t want either of you to get hurt. I feel a change in your aura. And I noticed the necklace.” She gives me a pointed look.
“Me too.”
We pull into a slanted parking spot on Main Street a few blocks from the restaurant. They’ve put our big, loud party in a back room and given us two servers. I’m across from Bea, and that means that the whole evening, over platters of spring rolls and steaming bowls of ph?, I can see every time she touches the pendant.
Like her sister touching her stomach, Bea has a far-off look when she does it, and to me, it feels like every time she touches the pendant, the string between us grows longer and she gets further and further away.
Until the staff pulls the dishes away and all that’s left are our drinks and banana pudding and conversation, and Bea catches me staring at her. Her fingers freeze on the necklace, and after a beat, she lowers it to her chest, her gaze warming and her fingers touching it, not absentmindedly, but reverently.
Beneath the table, something nudges my leg. I stretch my foot out and our shoes align, heel to toe, and Bea smiles at me.