59
The Test Track ride leaves my hair tangled and my eyes stinging. It was fast and jarring, and I loved it. “What did you think?” I ask Ethan as we walk off the ride. I’m practically skipping, so invigorated by the experience.
“It was awesome. I can’t believe those cars go 60 miles per hour.” Ethan looks around as the walkway splits in three directions in front of us. Not sure which way to go, he asks, “What’s next?”
I consult my mental map. Epcot has two main sections—a front section that is mostly rides and a back section called the World Showcase. The World Showcase surrounds a large lake and has 11 different pavilions that each feature a different country. The architecture of each pavilion matches its country, and in each one there’s native food and shopping. I suggest we go there. Ethan nods in agreement.
We walk through the first couple of countries, stopping to window shop and people watch. When we get to the Germany pavilion, Ethan asks to get lunch. It’s getting late, so I agree. A quick-service restaurant advertises authentic bratwurst. The spicy sausage is delicious, on a fresh-baked bun with house-made chips.
Not wanting to take the time to sit down and eat, we munch as we walk. There’s a chill in the late fall air. Dry leaves and a few stray pieces of dropped popcorn skitter by our feet, stirred by the breeze. A shiver runs through me as a particularly strong gust sends my hair flying.
Without a word, Ethan takes off his coat and places it over my shoulders. The jacket is still warm from his body. I shove my arms into the sleeves, liking how they’re too long and hang over my hands, keeping my fingers toasty. Hoping Ethan won’t notice, I turn my nose to the collar and inhale his clean scent. It’s comforting, the now familiar blend of soap, laundry, and mint. I settle deeper into the jacket with a contented sigh.
Ethan’s watching me, a tiny smile lighting up his face. “You’re different now from how you were when I first met you. It’s like you’re lighter, sunnier. Like you’ve bloomed.”
I think about how he’s right and wonder if he realizes how much he has to do with my transformation. It’s from spending time with him that I’m learning to trust and be happy again. I want to grab that joy and keep it with me, but what if I’m not always able to hold onto it? Would he reject me then? Leave me like I’ve been left before?
“Do you like me better this way?” I ask tentatively.
Without hesitation, he answers, “I like you all ways, happy and sad. I like all the Tiffany’s past, present, and future. I’ll take them all.”
His words turn a key deep in my heart, opening doors that have been locked for far too long.
A kiosk on the edge of the Italian pavilion catches Ethan’s attention. It’s a small brown building with a tile roof. A sign on the side advertises gelato and cannoli.
Ethan eyes it hungrily. “Should we stop?”
“Really? You’re still hungry? We just had lunch.” I shake my head, amazed at the capacity of his stomach.
He grins crookedly. “Don’t you know that there are two stomachs, Tiffy? One for regular food and another for dessert?”
I’m trying, and failing, to suppress my smile. “Hmm…weird. I don’t remember learning that in anatomy class.”
“It’s a fact. Just ask any eight-year-old.” Ethan angles off toward the gelato shop, walking quickly.
“You’re admitting to your immaturity? Identifying with eight-year-olds.” I follow him into the line of people waiting for the icy Italian treats.
“I admit to nothing,” he says, smirking.
We read the menu, debating about what we should get. I tell him, “My mom used to make home-made cannoli. It was delicious. Totally spoiled me. I don’t even bother trying it anywhere else. Nothing will be as good as hers.”
“That sounds amazing,” says Ethan. In unison, we step forward in the line. “Was she a good cook?”
“The best. Made pasta from scratch. Cooked her own marinara. I don’t know where she learned it, but Italian was her favorite.” It comes back to me, the bubbling pot on the stove. The smell of oregano and sauteed tomatoes. How that aroma would fill our entire apartment and waft down the stairs. Shelly would inevitably knock on our door when she smelled it, on the hunt for a rare home-cooked meal.
We reach the front of the line, and I get a single scoop of vanilla, which earns me an eye roll from Ethan and some mumbling about how my taste buds are “boring.” He chooses the Coppa Amarena, a concoction of vanilla and cherry gelato topped with amaretto cookies, whipped cream, and chocolate shavings. Even I admit it looks delicious.
We carry our gelato over an arching bridge to a small pier that juts out into the lake. Colorful striped poles rise out of the water. An authentic-looking black-lacquered Venetian gondola is docked before us. It’s just like pictures of Italy that I’ve seen in books and magazines.
Ethan and I sit on a bench with our backs to the main walkway. He stretches his legs out, rubs his right knee, and then crosses his ankles.
“You okay with all this walking?” I slowly lick the sweet vanilla gelato off the back of my spoon.
“It’s fine.” He lets out a contented sigh and leans back, slanting his face up to the sky as the breeze teases his hair, ruffling it like a lover’s fingers.
It’s peaceful where we sit, surrounded by the lake on three sides. Small wavelets stirred by the wind ripple across the blue-gray surface. A snowy white bird with a curved beak, an ibis I think, comes to perch on the metal railing. Ethan tosses up a piece of his cookie, which the bird catches in midair. With a whoosh of wings, it takes off to enjoy the snack.
Storm clouds slowly gather overhead. The wind has picked up, and even in Ethan’s jacket I shiver. He notices and slides closer. He hesitates, then puts his arm around me and pulls me tight against his side.
We keep ending up like this, I think, touching one another. It’s like we’re magnets getting pulled together over and over. I allow my head to lean back on Ethan’s warm shoulder. He shifts into a more comfortable position as I ease myself against him.
“This feels nice,” I tell him. It’s a dangerous thing to say. To admit that all this looking and touching hasn’t been by accident.
“It does,” Ethan murmurs against my hair, sending a shiver through my body that has nothing to do with the cold. “You feel nice.” His breath is hot across my scalp. His hand rubs up and down my arm, chaffing it, trying to warm me.
“You too,” I whisper back, glad he can’t see my face right now. My stomach tightens, and there’s a tingling growing deep within my belly. It’s absurd. If this little bit of contact makes me aroused, what would it be like to kiss him?
I lift my head from his shoulder to find him staring into my eyes. We’re inches apart. Ethan watches intently as I push closer, rising slightly off the bench to meet his height. I close the distance between us. He holds absolutely still, like he’s afraid to break a spell.
I kiss him.
It’s a soft kiss, gentle and yielding. Ethan’s lips are silken, and his mouth is sweet from the gelato. I sense he’s holding back, letting me take the lead like he doesn’t want to scare me off.
I’m not scared, though. I’m awash with desire. It burns through any remaining trepidation, leaving my insecurities in ashes. More confident now, I kiss him harder. His mouth falls open with a sigh, and I sweep my tongue in to meet his.
The contact is electric, a shot of adrenaline straight to my core, warmth pooling between my legs. I wrap my arms tightly around the back of his neck and turn to him fully, getting as close as I can.
Ethan’s restraint slips. His hands rise to tangle in my hair, fingers kneading the tender skin behind my ear and at the base of my head. Then his right hand runs lightly down along my jaw. He takes my chin and lifts it, angling my mouth to deepen our kiss. It’s so delicious that a soft moan escapes my parted lips. The sound of it wakes me out of the lust-induced stupor I’ve slipped into.
“Oh.” I pull away, my hand coming up to touch my kiss-swollen lips. Wide-eyed, I stare at Ethan, who looks back cautiously. When I let out a low laugh and drop my hand to settle on his shoulder, a relieved smile spreads across his face. He must have been worried about my reaction.
Blinking, I take a couple of slow breaths of air. I’m trying to get my heart rate under control, to marshal the desire that still dominates my body. “Sorry,” I say and shake my head ruefully. “I didn’t mean to make out with you in the middle of Disney World.”
Ethan lets out a shaky laugh. “Trust me, Tiffy, you have no reason to apologize. You can kiss me anywhere, anytime.”
He’s having a hard time catching his breath as well, I note with some satisfaction. At least I wasn’t the only one stirred up.
“Especially if you kiss me like that,” he adds.
Trying to harness my newly rediscovered inner flirt, I gaze up at him through my eyelashes. “Are you implying that I’m going to kiss you again, Ethan Clark?”
“God, I hope so,” he answers. We sit there like idiots, grinning at each other as if we’ve discovered the cure for all the world’s unhappiness.