Chapter 10 — Bleachers （Beck） #2
She stood and stepped up one bleacher so we were eye to eye at last. The wind tugged her ponytail across her cheek, and I reached up and tucked it back without thinking.
My hand cupped her jaw. Her skin burned warm against my cold palm. I ducked the wind and kissed her first, hard and careful all at once.
The bench bit cold through my pants. Her knee knocked mine and stayed there. Above us a gull cried once and the wind took the sound apart.
Her mouth met mine, soft and sure, cinnamon sweet. Pressure bloomed through my chest into my throat. My breath stuttered. Hers did too.
I started to ease back, afraid I had taken too much, but she fisted both hands in my jacket and pulled me in harder.
“Don't think,” she breathed against my mouth. “Stay.”
So I stayed. I kissed her slower, deeper, learning the cinnamon at the corner of her lips and the way she rose into me when I stopped holding every inch of myself still.
We kissed again, slower, deeper. Heat coiled low and bright behind my ribs. Her fingers twisted in my coat. My thumb traced the edge of her jaw, again and again, learning the line.
“Kiss me once more, then — then walk me home. Please?” she whispered, smiling against my mouth.
I did. Soft this time, careful, mouths lingering. I felt her shiver and pulled her closer till the metal stopped biting through her jeans into my leg.
Her hands slid up to my neck, cold then warm. My heart ran so fast I thought she must feel it through both our coats. I held her face like something breakable and precious at once.
I stopped with my forehead against hers when her breathing changed. Not retreating. Thinking.
“Still with me?” I asked.
“Very,” she whispered, smiling with wet eyes. “That's the problem.”
Then her hands loosened in my jacket and the fear came back between us.
“Wait — wait, we can't. We just — we can't do this.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Cold slipped back between us. My hands dropped to the bench. The metal bit my palms.
“Talk to me,” I said. “What changed? Thirty seconds ago you were — we were —”
“I know,” she said. “I know, and I wanted it. God, I wanted it. But if they see — if Marisol hears — I'll lose my job. You'll catch heat. It's too much.”
“Then let me walk you home every night, and call it what it is,” I said it plain, no joke in it.
She stepped down one step so I towered over her again. She would not meet my eyes. Her fingers worried the cuff where the thread had been.
“Don't make it sound that easy. I've got — I've got too much to lose.” She shook her head fast.
“I know,” I said. “I'm not — I'm not saying it's easy. I'm saying you're worth the hard part.”
“Beck —” Her voice cracked. “Don't. Don't do that. Don't say stuff like that right after — after that kiss. I can't think.”
“Okay,” I said. “No more big stuff. Small stuff. Walk? Lamps're on. Wind's worse up here.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “Yeah. Walk.”
We climbed down. I kept to the street side without saying so, shoulder to the road, her to the curb where the light hit her hair. Old habit. Right habit.
The path toward Whitmore glowed under the lamps, leaves skittering ahead of us. Dusk turned the sky pink at the edges, blue going deep above.
We did not talk much at first. Our shoes scuffed in time without trying. Her sleeve brushed my hand, once, twice, then stayed.
The green thread tugged faintly at the hairs on my wrist with every step. I liked the tiny pull. It kept my feet under me.
“You okay?” she asked at last, quiet. “Really? After — after that guy?”
“My hands stopped shaking,” I said. “Yours haven't. Here — pocket? I've got room.”
“That's smooth,” she said, snorting through tears she would not admit. “Pocket sharing. Very romantic.”
“Elite romance,” I said. “Top shelf.”
“Shut up,” she said fondly, and slipped her cold hand into my coat pocket with mine. “God, you're warm. How're you warm?”
“Big engine,” I said. “Runs hot. Bad mileage.”
We passed the equipment shed with its doors chained, bats of light leaking through the cracks. Somebody laughed way over by the field house, small and far, then gone.
My shoulder brushed hers with every third step. I counted without meaning to, one-two-touch, one-two-touch, and made myself stop by watching the lamps instead.
“Your thread's showing,” she said, nodding at my wrist. “Pull your sleeve up so it doesn't snag.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I said, and pushed the cuff back. The little green knot sat bright against the navy. “See? Still there. Still ours.”
“Good,” she whispered. “Keep it that way. Promise?”
“Promise,” I said. “It doesn't come off. Ever.”
She laughed for real that time, head tipping back, breath clouding. The sound loosened the knot behind my ribs a turn.
We passed under lamp after lamp. Moths batted at the light. Her cinnamon smell wrapped warm around the cold air every time the wind dropped.
Far off, traffic hissed on the wet road. A porch light flickered on across the street. My ribs ached where my jacket pulled, and I breathed shallow around it till it eased.
“You went quiet,” she said. “Where'd you go?”
“Nowhere bad,” I said. “Just watching the lights. I like the way they pool. Like yard lines, but warm.”
“Yard lines but warm,” she repeated, smiling small. “That's very you. I like very you.”
“Beck?” she said after a while, softer. “What you said to him — nobody's ever — nobody does that for me. Thank you. And I'm sorry. For — for pulling back.”
“Don't be sorry for telling truth,” I said. “I can — I can wait. I don't like it. But I can.”
“You shouldn't have to,” she whispered. “That's the part that kills me.”
“Hey,” I said. “Look at me? We're good. We've got — we've got time. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, but she hugged her arms tight. “Halfway. Then I go alone, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said, though my chest pulled tight. “Halfway.”
Halfway to Whitmore we stopped under a lamp where our shadows pooled. She pulled her hand from my pocket and the cold rushed in to replace it.
“This is me turning chicken again,” she said. “I should — I should go the rest alone. Before somebody sees and talks.”
“Okay,” I said, though my chest pulled tight. “Text when you're in? So I know?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I will. I promise.”
She turned for her door, then ran back down the steps and into my arms.