stubble? I want to find it, I think before I can stop myself. I want to find it with my tongue.
Logic sets in then, along with my dismay at having thought such a thing. Angels might breathe, and their hearts might beat, but how can they want someone the way I do? And even if they—
he
—could, why would it be someone like me? I am nothing. I am no one. I am a small-town hick who will always be a small-town hick because I’ll never leave this small town. I will live here and I will die here. I won’t ever be someone he could want. I could never be enough for him.
But I want to be. I’m scared, but I want to try.
When did this happen? When did this start?
“Cal,” I say, my voice stronger than I thought it would be.
He sighs, like his name on my lips is something wonderful to him. He moves until he is lying on his side, facing me. I can see his eyes now, the whites reflecting back at me. My breath catches in my throat. Even in the dark, I can see how he’s not human. There’s something about him that feels far older than I could possibly imagine. Again I think I’m insignificant, nothing more than a fleck of dust flung far in a gust of wind. Before it can overtake me, I push the thought away.
I don’t reach out to people, not anymore. I don’t even let most people come to me. I push them away so I can remain buried in myself, in my own pity.
So I push most all of them away. The ones allowed in are only trusted because they have been here with me since Big Eddie died. They understand my pain even if not its depths. I don’t know how deep their own pain goes, but I know it’s nothing compared to my own. Selfish, yes. I know. I know that through and through. But pain is selfish. Grief is selfish. It demands attention, and the more you focus on it, the more it wants from you.
“Do you want me?” I manage to say.
Please. I can’t do this on my own. Help me.
He’s silent for a moment, continuing to watch me. I want to look away, embarrassed by the need that echoes in my voice, but I can’t seem to break the connection. Something is holding me there, and though I can’t name it, I don’t want it to go away.
“I shouldn’t,” he finally says, and I am ready to shatter into a billion pieces, but I hold my tongue and wait. It feels like I wait forever. “I shouldn’t because it’s not what I was made for. It’s not why I came to be. But yes, Benji. God help me, yes. I don’t want anything more than you. I want nothing less than you.”
I take this for what it is. This is the eighth day since he fell from the sky, since I found him in the crater. Eight days since I found out what he was, since I began to believe there might be something else out there watching over us. Over me. I don’t know if I can believe it all, because I don’t think enough time has passed for my mind to process the monumental implications of Cal’s existence.
But none of that matters now. I sit up on my bed.
“Cal?”
“Yes, Benji?”
“Will you….” Say it, say it, say it. “Will you come here?”
There’s no hesitation on his part. He rises from the floor, shaking the blanket off. He looks even bigger than before. Little House creaks under his weight as he walks toward me. I am aware of each breath, each step. He finally stands above me, and I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of wondering. I’m tired of being alone. I reach up and grab the front of his shirt and pull his lips down to mine.
He grunts in surprise but doesn’t pull away. He’s tentative at first, barely moving. His movements seem shy and unpracticed. It’s only then that I realize he’s probably never done this before, that this is his first anything, and I have to stop myself from groaning. It’s slightly awkward, this kiss; the angle is almost too much, and we’re not quite synced up. But then my tongue touches his lips and he sighs again. His breath goes from him into me, and it tastes like he smells, earthy and strong. There’s a touch of something