Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gus
TWO NIGHTS AGO WE FOUND TED and Mary-Alice.
Afterwards we’d taken George home, then I’d brought Kit to my place.
He hadn’t argued. It wasn’t like he’d wanted to sleep in the room where we’d almost been killed, the room where Lester Tomlin had died.
Kit hadn’t talked about it, but it had to still be bothering him.
There was a reason he’d chosen to be a correspondent instead of signing up for the war, and it had nothing to do with bravery and everything to do with his nature. Committing violence wasn’t in it.
We’d made our way to my room wordlessly, and when he’d pressed me down onto the bed, I let him. Quiet and slow, every movement, every second was meaningful in a way I couldn’t verbalize. An edge of desperation and sadness had lingered in the shadows of his eyes.
I didn’t know what he wanted. Not really. Hell, I didn’t know what I wanted. So, we realized we made mistakes when we were kids. What did that realization mean for us now when our lives were so different? When we were so different?
I was more guarded these days than I’d ever been back then, and Kit…needed reassurance and words that I had a hard time providing. I wished there was a way to read his mind or for him to read mine. Maybe then we’d know what we were doing.
Then last night, something about Kit had been off. He’d gone out and come back late, smelling of smoke and tasting of liquor, but he wouldn’t talk about where he’d been. He hadn’t outright said he wouldn’t tell me, instead distracting me with an ease few people could.
This morning when I woke up alone and aching for another round, I only had his voice on the radio to help get over my disappointment. I needed to get used to that.
At least it was good news. German forces in northwestern Germany, Denmark, and the Netherlands had surrendered, and Kit was talking about how that meant the German army was close to collapsing, close to throwing in the towel.
The electricity in his voice had echoed how half the world was holding their breath waiting for the end of the horrors in Europe.
Everyone hoping we could put down arms, pleading for their loved ones to stop dying or coming back wounded, forever changed.
Kit embodied those wishes, the weight and pain and the half-spoken prayers that it was right around the corner. Across Canada, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, children, were trusting him to soothe their fears, believing with everything in them he was right.
It was a responsibility he wore well. I sat there and listened, rubbing the ache from my thigh, ignoring the sinking in my gut.
Even if this unprecedented tragedy was ending, the world would want more from him, and it was clear as day in the magnetic sound of his voice that he wanted more too.
Why would he ever choose to stay here, with me, when there was still so much he could explore?
I’d spent so long blaming Kit for not giving me a chance to apologize back then. I hadn’t thought about how it would feel when my anger started leaching away, and I was left with only tender spots and rough edges.
It was worse than when we used to fool around back then, before Kit finally blurted that he loved me. Back when I believed how I felt was one-sided and he really only did want to practice. I couldn’t blame my lack of awareness on being young anymore.
I should know what to do, but I couldn’t get any further than just wanting him and knowing way deep down wanting him wasn’t enough. It never had been.
Relationships, the kind that a secret part of me wanted to build with Kit in spite of everything, never worked out.
Someone fell out of love eventually and broke their lover’s heart, or died too soon, or started sleeping around like my father had.
I couldn’t handle the thought of either of us hurting each other again.
Not after glimpses of how deeply breaking it off had affected Kit. How much guilt he’d been carrying because of what I’d said.
No matter how good our intentions were, hurting each other was inevitable.
There wasn’t anything Kit could do to me that would make me stop loving him.
I’d learned that the hard way, but was it fair to hope for the same from him, when he hadn’t made any promises?
Even if he promised, could I believe him, with the whole world open to him?
I spent the day sitting at my workbench, carving detail into wood, lost in my thoughts despite trying to escape them until a knock on the door interrupted me.
Kit stood on my porch with an uncomfortable smile that transformed into something more genuine when he heard the soft music drifting from inside the house.
My cheeks heated. He’d caught me listening to our song.
Hoagy Carmichael crooned, and Kit’s lashes fluttered as his gaze dropped briefly before flicking back up at me. Too damn adorable for his own good.
“Invite me in for a dance, August.” The playfulness in his bright green eyes made me want to give him whatever he asked me for.
I tilted my head in invitation, holding the door open wide.
As soon as it was shut, I laced our fingers together and brought him into the living room, pulling him close.
He shifted easily with me, his hand resting on my shoulder while my free palm went to his waist.
“Hi,” I murmured, wanting to memorize everything about him up close and joyful and sweet.
“Hi,” he replied, every bit as soft, a little breathless, and a lot like he was as emotional as me.
We moved in perfect rhythm, and I didn’t fight the warm swell in my chest, old memories rising, blurring into what could have been.
He smelled fresh and masculine, the faint underlying hint of thunderstorm magic only noticeable when you got this near.
His adoring gaze as we slowly spun mesmerized me.
Eventually I goofed the steps and tripped him.
Laughing, Kit rested his cheek on my shoulder, his nose pressed to my neck.
I skimmed my palm to the centre of his back and squeezed him closer, enjoying the hitch of his breath against my skin.
A bittersweet ache reminded me not to take a second for granted, so I kissed the top of Kit’s head and kept us moving to the music instead of letting the mood shift to something hotter. Even if I wanted him that way too.
“I’m rusty,” I mumbled, a little embarrassed as I clipped the toe of his polished shoe again.
“Still a good partner.” Kit’s voice was wistful, and I closed my eyes, wishing he meant for more than dancing.
“You’re a better one.”
We ought to talk about what we were doing, we ought to act like the grown-ups we were and talk.
I should tell him I still loved him—always had and always would—and damn the consequences.
Only he might not feel the same. Wanting to relive his past with me didn’t mean he’d forgiven me, and sure as hell didn’t mean he wanted to stay the way I wished he would.
Maybe I couldn’t have forever, but I could have right now with Kit relaxing against me, safe and blissful. For now, he was all mine. It didn’t matter I couldn’t keep him or how much it would hurt when we broke apart for good. I wanted Kit Lovely too damn much to cut this short.