Chapter 19 Past
Traveling down the familiar roads, his hand rested gently on my thigh—like it belonged there.
We rode with the windows down, thunder rumbling in the distance.
I let my arm hang out the window, my fingers slicing through the warm summer air.
I closed my eyes.
My once-tight braid had loosened, and stray pieces of hair whipped gently against my face.
I was taking in the moment. The welcomed pressure of his hand, the heat enveloping my senses—I let out a sigh that cause his hand to tighten just a bit.
I breathed in the air and suddenly had the feeling that he was looking at me.
Our eyes met just as thunder crashed louder just above us.
It felt like the Alabama summer night was feeling exactly what we were—alive, charged, as if it anticipated the intense storm that was about to overtake us.
We made it to his driveway; he cut the lights and turned off the engine.
We costed in trying to not wake anyone. There were only a few lights on, but Paul didn’t seem to be too concerned—his dad was out for the evening at some fund raiser in Pensacola and his brother wouldn’t rat him for missing curfew.
Paul got out of the car and gently closed his door. He walked around to my side and helped me out. After closing my door, he took my hand.
I thought he was leading me toward the house, but instead, we passed the side stairs and headed down the path that led to the lake.
I didn’t let my mind wander too far into what we were doing. I focused on not tripping over a root or misstep in the dark. The moon had slipped behind storm clouds rolling in from the lake, and the path was barely visible.
Then, as if on cue, my mom’s voice echoed in my head: “Watch out for snakes.”
I tightened my grip on Paul’s hand.
He pulled me in closer—part to steady me, but mostly, it settled my nerves.
The heat lightning that had mirrored my thoughts just minutes ago now felt a bit more dangerous.
You could hear the rain coming, moving toward us through the trees in a low, hushed whisper.
The frogs went quiet. The fireflies vanished.
We barely made it into the boathouse before a wall of water came crashing down behind us.
Breathless laughter rang out.
“That was close,” he said, pulling me deeper inside.
Once I could inhale without it burning, I took a look around.
It was one of the larger boathouses on the lake, but there wasn’t much inside.
Of course the Newsomes had a nice boat—like Molly’s, it was red and white, only quite a bit bigger.
It rocked gently against the side wall as the lake grew restless with the storm.
On the far side of the room, several boxes were stacked neatly. A few chairs surrounded an old poker table, and I couldn’t help but notice the empty whiskey bottles scattered across the floor.
There was a small fridge humming in the corner, and a few bottles of pop inside it.
Paul was already near the fridge once my eyes stopped scanning the room; The sound of thunder and lightning crackling outside the wooden building.
Paul walked over, grabbed two bottles, and came back grinning.
“Hope you don’t mind waiting out the storm with some questionable beverages,” he joked, handing one to me.
With a quick flick of the wrist, he popped his bottle open against the edge of the poker table—like he’d done it a hundred times before.
The cap clinked to the floor, and a soft fizz filled the space between us.
I followed his lead, trying the same move—I was clearly less practiced—it took me two tries, but I managed.
Our eyes met over the glass necks of our bottles, and for a moment, the storm outside seemed like background noise.
He grinned over the mouth of the bottle and slowly walked over to the chairs.
We sat, not saying much—just casually matching each other, sip for sip.
The soft slosh of Coke in our bottles and his quiet laughter were the only sounds we heard between thunderclaps.
He got a kick out of me flinching every time the thunder cracked outside.
Not even trying to hold back a full laugh, he teased, “I thought Northern girls were supposed to be tough.”
I shot him a look, dripping with sarcasm.
“First of all, I’m from Maryland—not the Bronx. And who said I was tough, anyway?”
He leaned back in his chair, grinning.
“I guess I gotta toughen you up, huh?”
I raised an eyebrow, playful but curious.
“Oh yeah? And just how do you plan on doing that?”
He set his bottle down on the table.
His grin faded.
Suddenly, the intensity of the storm shifted—from outside to inside.
He licked his bottom lip slowly, eyes locked on mine—intense.
He shifted his chair closer.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
His body was composed, deliberate.
When his hand slid gently onto my thigh, he leaned in, voice low and rough at the edges.
“Do you want me to show you?”
I tried to keep calm, but my body betrayed me—pulsing, aching.
I nodded before I even realized I had.
His other hand slid under my chin, lifting it just slightly. His lips hovered—I could feel his smile against mine.
He breathed me in—and then, as thunder cracked through the air, he kissed me.
I wasn’t sure if I jumped from the storm or from the heat rushing through my veins.
In one swift motion, he pulled me from my chair, settling me into his lap. My legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. Every inhale was met with a heavy exhale—his hand warm against my back, mine tangled in his curls.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Something about the way he looked at me made my whole-body ache, my legs tightened.
Another roll of thunder. The lights above flickered as lightning flashed nearby.
Then he kissed me again—this time slower, deeper.
I felt him fully—his lips, his body, the pull of wanting me.
And then his tongue, working against mine—unhurried but hungry.
Every touch, every sound, every breath left me wanting more.
Our shirts had started to rise, inch by inch.
Bare skin met bare skin—just slightly. Just enough to make my pulse race.
My hands trembled as they moved to his waist, wrapping around him, feeling his body tense beneath my touch.
I lingered there.
I didn’t know what I was doing—but somehow, my body did.
I reached for his belt.
And that’s when his hands gently caught mine.
The kiss slowed... and then it stopped.
He rested his forehead against mine, breath uneven—with the slightest tremble and a deep, hesitant sigh he said, “No. Not here—not like this.”
My head dropped, I let out a sigh of frustration, “You Newsome boys really are good guys.”
He groaned, “Yeah. It’s a blessing and curse.”
He took another deep breath as he pulled his head back.
My head was still slumped down, he once again guided my chin to meet his eyes, this time my lips were met with a soft kiss and a whisper, “I guess I need to get you home.”
With a shy but honest grin, I murmured, “I kinda told my mom I was staying at Molly’s… she might wonder why I’m home.”
He paused for a second, I could tell he was working on something.
“Okay,” he finally said, the beginnings of a grin tugging at his lips.
“I have an idea.”
He leaned in and gave me one more soft kiss—lingering just a moment before pulling away.
I slowly untangled my legs from around his waist and stood.
As I adjusted my clothes—back into a more comfortable, though admittedly unwelcome, position—he offered a soft smile, trying to ease the tension.
“It stopped raining,” he said casually—like we hadn’t just been completely wrapped up in each other.
I rolled my eyes, unable to hide my grin.
“Oh, good,” I said, dripping with sarcasm. “Glad we didn’t get all worked up over the storm or anything.”
He laughed and grabbed my hand, leading me toward the door.
He flipped off the lights behind us, the old hinges creaking as we stepped out.
The cooler air hit us right away, slipping under my skin in the best kind of way.
It was quiet now—calm. The kind of calm that only comes after a storm.
The moon was out, its reflection dancing across the waves.
The welcome moonlight made it easier to see where we were going.
With his hand still holding mine, we walked until the path gave way to a patch of lush green grass.
Paul’s house came into view, its familiar outline softened by the night.
A single light glowed from a downstairs room—small, but steady.
It felt like a lighthouse guiding a ship.
We moved toward it slowly.
At the window, Paul pulled an old milk crate from the bushes, stepped up, and slid the glass open with practiced ease.
He slipped inside, then turned and motioned for me.
That same rush from the boathouse returned as he reached down and lifted me in—his hands strong, sure.
For a second, I forgot to breathe.
I took a slow step forward, letting my eyes adjust as I looked around.
I wasn’t sure what I expected his room to look like—but it wasn’t this.
It was clean. Simple.
A deep blue rug stretched across a worn oak floor that creaked softly as I shifted my weight.
A nightstand beside the bed held a small lamp and two books. The bedding—navy and green plaid—was neat, two pillows sat at the headboard, which matched the chest of drawers on the wall. A desk in the same warm wood tone was scattered with stationary and a few half-written notes.
Even the hamper in the corner looked like it had a place, though a shirt was hanging just over the edge. Everything felt like it belonged—except for one thing.
His bedroom door.
I stared.
Locks—at least six of them—lined the edge from top to bottom.
My stomach twisted a little. I didn’t know what to think, but I couldn’t look away.
Paul was near his closet, pulling off his shirt and reaching for a clean one.
When he noticed me staring at the door, he paused. His expression didn’t change right away—but his shoulders tensed slightly, like he’d been caught off guard.
He slipped the new shirt over his head slowly, then turned toward me.
“Yeah… that.”
He walked over and gently pulled me down to sit at the edge of his bed beside him. His voice was quiet but steady.
“Look... my whole life is on display in this town. Everyone knows my name, my family’s name. There’s nowhere to just be—to breathe without someone watching. So... there are some things I keep for myself. My room is one of them.”
I nodded, but before I could speak, he rubbed the back of his neck and added, a little more carefully,
“My dad tends to…” He paused, searching for the right words. “He barges into my room. Especially when he’s been drinking.”
The sentence lingered in the air—heavy, unfinished. His voice even, but I could hear something else underneath it. A quiet echo of my own thoughts.
“I understand,” I whispered, offering a sympathetic smile.
I didn’t fully grasp everything—but I understood him. I understood how it felt to want to protect someone you love.
I felt the same way about my mom and her pills.
I didn’t want people to know.
I didn’t want them to think less of her.
Paul didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed the top of my head.
Then he stood.
“Stay here,” he said gently, his voice low. “I want to see who’s home.”
I nodded, still caught in the words that hung in the air.
One by one, I heard the soft clink of each lock turning as he opened the door and slipped out, closing it behind him.
And just like that—I was alone.