and I need it to go away. I need to fill it with something so that there isn’t any room for the ache or all the thoughts that come with it.
He closes the door. My heart is beating too fast and my face is flushing hot and red and a little voice inside me is going, What are you doing, Claudine? Back away. Turn away. Run away.
He walks over to me and holds out his hand. I give him mine and he pulls me to my feet, and then that hand is on my face, tracing the line of my jaw, and his forehead is against mine, and his eyes are on my mouth, and I stand like a statue, stiff and unmoving. But I don’t pull away because suddenly I want his mouth on mine, to chase away the thoughts that are creeping back into my head. Maybe that’s what I’ve wanted since I crashed into him downstairs.
And then—without asking—he kisses me. And there’s the surprise of a new and different mouth from the one I’m used to. I make myself kiss him back even as part of me is going, Stop this. Walk away. Both his hands are now on my face, just like in a book or a film, and even as I’m thinking this is a move he knows well and uses all the time, and even as the voice in me is starting to shout, STOP THIS RIGHT NOW, I keep kissing him.
I kiss him harder and he kisses me harder. His teeth bang against mine, and instead of stopping I keep going. Harder and harder.
I kiss him until I feel his hand on the skin of my back, underneath my shirt, and then I pull away as if my brain has suddenly come back to me, along with all my common sense, along with me, actual Claude, who—floor or no floor—doesn’t want to kiss Grady.
“I can’t do this. Jesus.”
“You could a second ago,” he says.
“I changed my mind. Sorry.”
He’s smiling at me, but it’s not a friendly smile. Anger hides at the corners. He says, “I don’t fucking get you.”
“You don’t have to.”
As I head toward the door, he steps in front of me.
“I’m pretty sure you came up here to lead me on. And you started all this, and now you’re walking out. Which is frustrating, if you know what I mean. You’re lucky I’m a nice guy.”
“So lucky. Please move.” It’s as if every part of me is holding its breath, even my heart, which is no longer beating fast or maybe at all.
When he doesn’t move, I say, “I may have come up here and I may have started this, which—believe me—is not one of my proudest life choices, but when I ask you to move, you should move.”
I want to wait for him to get out of the way because I shouldn’t have to be the one to walk around him. But I also know that I need to get out of here, the faster the better, and in one piece.
He doesn’t stop me as I walk around him, as I push out of his room, down the hallway, past Wednesday, down the stairs, out the door, off the porch, into the yard, past Jared, who calls after me, and Emory and the others. I forget about the bicycle and run as fast as I can.
DAY 24
(PART THREE)
The blue shotgun shack is lit up now. In a second, the door opens and it’s him. Standing in bare feet, no shirt, grinning at me. I don’t say anything. I half expect to start crying until I’ve flooded his house and this entire island. But instead I launch myself at him. Kiss him hard. Catching him off guard. He wraps his arms around me and lifts me over the threshold and into the house, and now I’m against the wall in the kitchen and I can’t kiss him hard enough. I tug at his shorts, as in I practically rip them off him, and that’s when he pulls back. Lays his hand on mine.
“Hey. What is this?”
“I want you.”
“Yeah, we’ve established that. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Can’t I just want you?”
“Fair enough.”
I kiss him again and he starts kissing me back, and there it is—his wonderful mouth, the mouth I know, the one I’m supposed to be kissing. And then he wraps an arm around me and kind of carries me upright to his bedroom, where we fall onto the bed