I’m not, but right now, that doesn’t seem to matter.
All that matters is that I’m here, with her. She looks at me with so much want that I crave to give her everything.
“I moved back to dad’s place. Well, it’s my place now. A few months ago,” she tells me as we stand at my mother’s grave.
She’d have liked this. Holly and me, here. My mom was sweet like Holly, but broken. She was a drunk and she died with a bottle in her hand. I was only eleven years old when I found her like that, and even though I should be angry — what I really am is sad.
At least now.
For a long time I took out my pain on everyone and everything. That’s the boy Holly knew.
I’ve changed. And God, how I want to show her that’s not the man I am anymore.
“Anyways,” Holly says, grounding me in the present. “I was clearing out some stuff, and came across your things. They were in your old room. Would you want to come over and look through them?”
The idea of going through my past, old photographs and letters — it seems like going backwards.
But it also means going home with her.
“It’s not even a question.”
She bites her bottom lip, and I know she has more to say but she doesn’t speak. We just turn from the graveyard and walk, our feet crunching in the deep snow, toward her house that holds so many memories. I itch to hold her hand or wrap an arm around her. Soon enough I will.
“It’s weird being back here,” she says as we stand in front of the old Victorian. “Remember how we used to go up to the roof, after my dad fell asleep?”
I run a hand over my beard. Of course I remember.
I wasn’t allowed in her bedroom. Now, there is no father figure keeping us from one another.
“I should call Truman, let him know I might be running late for the dance.”
Truman. Her father may be out of the picture, but apparently this boyfriend of hers is very much present.
I’ll have to change that. Hell, she’ll want to change that. I know she’s missed me, she’s told me as much. Now I need to discover if she’s been dreaming of me the way I’ve always dreamt of her.
She pulls out her phone and sends a text before we walk in the front door. When she finally pushes open the old oak door, my heart pounds in remembrance. What was. What could be.
“I decorated,” she says, flicking on the lights of the living room.
“I see that,” I chuckle, remembering how it was her favorite time of year, how she’d make her father and I traipse to the basement the day after Thanksgiving to grab the bins of decorations. I only lived here two years, but it feels like it was so much longer than that.
Now, here again, I wish I hadn’t let her father’s dying words penetrate my heart so deeply. I wish I could go back in time. Take back what I was too scared to take.
I’m not scared anymore.
I look around the room, taking in the Christmas tree that comes to life, glittering and gold, the evergreen branches laden with baubles and beads. A wreath hangs over the mantel, stockings are hung, thick wool throw blankets drape over the arms of leather chairs and poinsettias flank the fireplace. “It looks like home.”
She blinks slowly, her thick eyelashes taunting me with want. “Remember when it was our home?”
“I do.” I pause, still not knowing how to tell her that it was because of her father, the one she idolized, that I left in the first place. Why I didn’t feel like I could ever come back. I look back at the mantle. “Is that my stocking?”
She smiles stepping toward it. “Yeah. I found it when I was going through the house. I hung it up just the other day. And now … you’re here.” She bites her bottom lip. “It feels meant to be, doesn’t it?”
I want to pull her to me now, drag my hands over her curves, run my fingers through her hair. I want to kiss her, hard. Then I want to fuck her slow. So damn slow we both forget to breathe. So damn slow so it never ends.
I can’t help myself. I pull her to me, needing this. Her. Me. Us. I know she wants it -- she wouldn’t look at me like this if she didn’t.
My mouth crashes against hers. It’s been so long. So fucking long. And yet I’ve waited for her since the day I left.
It has always been her.
She whimpers, her body sinking against me. Her lips part, my tongue finds her and I hold her at the base of her neck, the small of her back, dragging her closer still.
I want the kiss to last forever. But it doesn’t -- she pulls away. Shock and desire swim in her eyes.
She’s scared.
Scared of this need clawing inside her; a need I know she’s never given into. But fuck, how I see her need. For me. A need only I can satisfy.
“I can’t,” she says, a whisper a heart beat, a lie. “Truman.”
“You love him?”
She gasps, covering her mouth, as if shocked by her own carnal need. “I think … I …” Then she blinks, fast, straightening her shoulders -- remembering herself -- her old self. The Holly that wasn’t just kissed.
“Did you want to see the things I found?” she finally says.
I look at her, knowing I’ll take my time if that’s what she wants, but praying to the God I know she still believes in that it won’t take long. I need Holly. I need her by my side. Through thick and thin. Forever.
I love her.
“Of course,” I say, stepping back. “Show me.”
We climb the stairs to the second floor, my eyes on her ass the entire time, and when she pushes open my old bedroom a flood of memories flash before my eyes. “Fuck, it’s been a long time.”
She turns to me, smiling -- hesitant, but hopeful. She remembers too. “I would lie in bed at night, imagining you in here,” she says pulling a cardboard box from the floor. “I would try to picture what you were doing. You were such a mystery.”
I smirk. “I was probably getting off thinking about you.”
Her eyes go wide. “Really?”
I laugh. “Holly, I lived here as a seventeen and eighteen-year-old teenager. I thought about sex every ten seconds. You were the only thing ever on my mind.”
Her cheeks go red, and to distract herself from what I’ve just said, she unpins her hair, unfurling the red braids. The strands catch the light in the room. She looks so damn beautiful.
“And now?” she asks, stepping toward me -- just when I thought she was bound to step away. “What do you think about at night?”
“You, Holly. It’s only ever been you.”
She looks up at me, her lips part and I can practically taste her wet pussy. I’ve been dreaming of it for so fucking long.
“The box,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “We should go through it.”
“Of course,” I say, stepping back, knowing she has always been timid, a little shy. Needing room to think things through.
We sit on the bed, the box between us, looking at a few old photographs, my yearbook, a pair of socks she knitted me, the crappy journal of mine where I wrote bad poetry. “Not much here.”
“I know, but … it’s something.” She reaches into the box. “Look, a mix-tape. Remember how you scoured thrift stores for old cassettes? You’d painstakingly record them.”