“No.” He waited, while I dug for something that makes sense. “I’m happy. I promise. And it’s not you. I have so much, even without the memories. I have a handsome man who loves me.” I smile at him wistfully and am rewarded when his lips quirk. “I have a baby on the way. A house that feels like home — even if I don’t remember picking it. I feel…” I stopped and bit my lip, knowing my next thought might be difficult for him to understand. “I feel blessed, if not exactly whole.”
His hands, resting on his knees, tightened a fraction before relaxing. I expected him to comment on my statement, but instead he asked another question. “What, besides your memory, do you think would help you feel whole?”
I stared into middle distance, thinking. Instead of a direct answer, I offered him a question of my own. “Who are we, when everything that formed, and shaped, and defined us, is gone? What remains?” I’d meant the question to be musing, thought provoking. Instead, longing and frustration crept unbidden into my words.
“You have your essence, still. Your soul, spirit, whatever you want to call it,” Hayes replied. His confidence in his belief was plain. And yet…
“Do I? Is the soul something distinct from nurture? I don’t think so. Not entirely, anyway. I think nurture — or those defining circumstances — are what makes us who we are.” Warming to my topic, I sat in the desk chair. “Think about all the research on sociopaths and serial killers. What makes them do the things they do? Most profiles identify specific instances or circumstances in childhood, particularly early childhood. If you took those experiences away, maybe replaced them altogether with a different experience, who is the person that remains? Is he still a sociopath? I don’t think it likely.”
“To an extent. There’s actually a great deal of research on nature versus nurture in psychopathy. The consensus is that it’s both.”
“So, the genetics that influence my soul remain, even if the experiences don’t?”
Hayes shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know. All I know is that you’re still you, even if you don’t feel like it. Why or how that is…I can’t explain that.”
I was silent, considering his statement. “All right. I’ll take your word for that,” I finally responded. “And I guess, to answer your original question — I am happy. I promise. I think I just need time to feel whole. Time to settle into who I am. Because, you know. I’m kind of just meeting me.”
Hayes nodded. “Fair enough.” Standing, he cupped the back of my neck and leaned down for a quick, hard kiss. “In the meantime, no more sneaking out of the bed when you feel overwhelmed. We talk, instead.”
I nodded. “Deal.”
“Part those sheets
like holy waters
and I
will worship your skin
like a born-again
believer.”
Tyler Knott Gregson
April │Birdie-Before
I WAS LEAVING IN A FEW MINUTES TO MAKE THE SHORT WALK FROM MY DORM TO THE BASEBALL HOUSE, WHERE HE’D PROMISED ME CHEF SERVICE AND A COZY EVENING. He’d never cooked for me before but claimed to be an expert at all things Mexican.
I loved tacos.
I was pretty sure I loved him.
He had snuck up on me, this playful-yet-super-smart jock with the wicked sense of humor and abs for days. He made me uncomfortable, but in a good, butterflies kind of way. He refused to let me sit in my nerdy artist corner and cast judgment on the pretty and the shallow, instead proving to me over and over that appearances could be deceptive.
I found myself grateful that he’d looked past mine — casual to the point of careless — taking time to see what was beneath my outer layer. He was everything I hadn’t known I wanted or needed, challenging me to think outside the box of my preconceived ideas, to take a step outside my comfort zone.
So, yeah. Tonight, if all went well, Hayes Ellison would have the privilege of ridding me of my hymen. Tonight is your night, bro.
The thought made me snicker as I turned from the mirror and grabbed my phone and purse.
“What’s so funny?” Remi asked.
“You remember that old movie with the short, round guy…he’s getting himself all fixed up to go out, and keeps singing to himself, ‘tonight is your night, bro’?”
“Twins! Oh, my god, yes! Is tonight the night?” She grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Are you losing the v-card tonight? This is so exciting!”
“Remi, good grief. Maybe. I’m thinking…maybe. Depends on how good the tacos are.”
“The only taco that matters is your taco. Did you lady-scape?”
I went to the door. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
Remi followed me out into the hall, calling after me loud enough to have a head or three popping from the open doorways of our floor. “All I heard was blah, blah, blah, I’m a dirty little tramp who’s gonna get de-flowered!”
Shaking my head, I half-ran out of the building.
I was still smiling when I knocked on Hayes’ door. “Hey, Shortie.” He bent to kiss me, grabbing me around the waist and pulling me off the ground and flush against him. I loved the strength that gave him the ability to do so, and ran my hands lightly, greedily, over the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He smelled delicious, like a blend between cumin and his usual leaves and leather aftershave. And he tasted like liquor and bad decisions.
“Umm…” I murmured. “You taste good.”
“I might have had a margarita.” He deepened the kiss, playing with my stud, his hands somehow managing to find their way to my ass and squeeze even as his arms around my waist kept me securely against him. “God, I love your ass.”
I smiled into his mouth. From the street a wolf whistle sounded. “Get a room!”
Laughing back against my face, Hayes backed us into the house and kicked the door shut. He eased me down his length slowly and leaned over me as I leaned back against the door, caging me with his arms on either side of my head. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
He bowed his head to kiss me lightly once again, and then rested his forehead against mine. “Come on, then. Let’s get you fed, and then I plan on kicking your ass in Scrabble.” Taking my hand, he began pulling me toward the kitchen.
“Scrabble?” My brow furrowed. He wanted to play board games?
He glanced back at me. “Problem?”
The small kitchen was redolent with the smell of tacos and the fainter underlying tang of Cointreau and tequila. I grabbed the margarita Hayes had already prepared for me and sipped appreciatively. “Not at all. It’s just not very…sexy.” I let my eyes, peering at him over the salted rim, say everything I didn’t trust myself to put into words.
“Sexy? Scrabble can be hella sexy.” He handed me a plate. “Eat up. You’re going to need your energy.”
I choked on the margarita. “I am?”
His eyes gleamed with humor. “Brain power takes fuel. If you have a prayer of winning, you’d better gas up.”
“Oh, babe. It’s so on.”