How I Fly (12 page)

I take it from him and wait while he unwraps his. “Oh, I do know. Those little peanut bits would be…going just everywhere and in every direction right now…” I’m staring at the warm flickers of teasing fun inside his golden brown eyes.

“And all over
my bed
? And down my shirt!” He winks. “We’d have to get them all out.”

“Do you ever stop?” I laugh.

He raises an eyebrow, and his eyes shift so they are blatantly, boldly staring at my lips. Most of the air seeps out of my lungs.

“I stop when I get what I want.” He takes a huge bite of his cone, eyes not once leaving my lips.

*Holy…mother…of…help…me but this guy is so…*

I shake my head, and because I’m suddenly tongue-tied and dying, I take a bite of my cone as if he’s not just melted every inch of my spine into goose bumps. As if he needs to tear his gaze off me, he turns some to the side and relaxes back next to me against the wall.

I stare at his boot and he’s staring at mine.

Finally, after a few more bites of our ice cream, he says, “You will probably bust on me forever about this, and you will say I’m using one of my
lines
, but if we’re going to be sitting for a long time…should we…can we…remove our…black metal boots?”

I glance over and see that it’s his turn to blush, and suddenly I’m smiling. “Oh, God. Please. Yes!”

“Here.” He laughs and hands me the lower half of his ice cream cone to hold. Within two seconds he’s leaned forward and undone the huge Velcro straps off his boot. He lets it fall to the floor and moves his legs up to crisscross next to me. I try hand him the two ice cream cones so I can undo mine, but before I can blink, he’s taken my leg
   on
onto his lap and he’s undoing my Velcro straps like this is totally a normal thing to be doing!

“Oh. Um.” I swallow, trying to pull away. “You might not want to get such a close view. The scars are way worse on this side, plus it’s all skinny and weak because of the break. It’s so—I’m so—messed up. Maybe I should leave it on.”

His hands freeze on the third and final strap, and he traps my gaze in his for a second before he puts my booted leg aside and slowly uncovers the leg I’ve been hiding from him in the blankets. He runs a strong, tanned finger down the leg that’s not in the boot. I gasp as he gently traces over each and every scar that’s on my CP-side ankle. “More scars than this tiny ankle?”

I nod, shivering and blushing because of how he’s touching me. I meet his gaze dead-on, keeping my uncaring expression in place. I can only hope this guy has no idea that this moment has crumbled every bit of wall I’d built up to keep people away from my heart. “Yes. More. And…you’ll have to know that…like…hanging out with me is sort of a commitment. In addition to having the stamina of a flea and crap balance, I’m sort of covered in all of these ugly scars. Inside and out.”

“Ellen, do you really think I’m the kind of person who cares about any of that?” He picks up my booted leg again. “Trust me.”

I nod, but turn my eyes away from his because I don’t have the courage to watch his eyes going over what he’s going to see underneath that boot. Thankfully my spastic calf isn’t hurting anymore. I feel the boot on my leg come all the way off and hear it clump onto the floor. My chest flips then grips with fear as I hear him let out a low whistle. “Holy sweet Jesus. I’m such an asshole for making you walk down any stairs ever. I’m an asshole for making you walk anywhere at all. How do you get around with all this going on?”

“Crutches?” I shrug. “I have really strong shoulders and I don’t weigh that much.”

I want to go on and tell him how lucky I am. To be able to walk at all when you have CP is the luckiest thing of all…but I can’t speak or move or breathe. That’s because I feel his fingers tracing the scars along this ankle, just like he did the other, only he’s so very gentle, like he’s afraid he’s going to hurt me. Eventually, that hand works its way back up and over my knee, and then with both hands, he shifts my other leg gently to match up with the one he’s let out of the boot, so both of my knees are bent over his crossed legs.

I’m so close to him now, and thoroughly embarrassed. I’m also well past nervous, to the point where I’ve definitely crumbled to bits. I move to hand him his ice cream back, but suddenly he’s got his hands on both of my cheeks. He’s pulling me toward him, and I’m letting him.

His lips are soft and warm, and when I return his kiss I feel him smile against my lips. I relax, that urge to giggle returning as I breathe in, deepening the kiss and recognizing the pine smell that’s all over him. Aside from me holding back the question as to how he manages to smell exactly like his candle, and aside from the fact that I should get some sort of a medal for kissing him for this long, all while making sure the ice cream melting out of the cones doesn’t get out of control, I realize this kiss is really nice. It’s sweet, and the way he’s so gentle is super romantic. Totally different than…

*Shoves back thoughts about the past. Tries not to think that this might be missing some sort of magic. Kisses him harder. Better. Longer.*

We stay kissing like that, my lips against his, our breath mingling, me trying to learn some of him, and him trying to learn some of me until I pull back and hand him his ice cream cone.

“My, but hot girls with sexy scars are also really good kissers. Who knew?” He winks, taking a huge bite out of the cone just before a huge glop hits his lap.

I laugh, also trying to eat my ice cream cone quickly before it gets all over his…
bed.
“It’s a secret,” I say, with my mouth full. “As the only girl here with CP, please don’t out me or I’ll be swarmed with stalkers. It happens all the time.”

He leans back, acting as if he’s pleased with himself. “I’m the happiest guy in this entire school. Does this make us official…like…?”

“Like…officially good kissers, because you seem to have passed that test, Harrison Shaw.”

He grins at the compliment. “Do we have to put a label on it? Us?”

“No. Of course not.”

I’m watching his reactions through my lashes. His shoulders slump a little, but he covers with a dry laugh. “Just…want to be sure I’m front of the line should any of those stalkers start knocking down your door because…to me…that kiss was the best kiss I’ve ever had.”

“Aww…”

He picks up my hand and turns it over on his lap. “Didn’t you feel…
something
?” He levels me with this sad, worried look. For the first time, those teasing light eyes aren’t quite so sparkling. Maybe I’ve just crushed him completely simply because I don’t have any self-confidence about what it is I’m feeling about him. I feel so guilty, so I lean over and plant another quick, soft kiss on top of his very cute frown, racking my brain for sentences that will ring true for him and for the confusion in my heart.

“Look. I’m also the happiest girl in this entire school to be sitting here with you like this. And…yes. I felt…something.” It’s not a complete lie. I did feel something. I felt happy, like I’ve felt all along around him. And I felt unafraid. And I felt ice cream dripping down my arm.

Isn’t that more than enough for a boy I’m just getting to know? I’m sure my hesitations are simply because I’m doing what people aren’t supposed to do when they kiss a new guy after they’ve kissed that
first
guy. Of course, one would hope the second guy kiss would be one of those blow-you-away kind of moments where it’s obviously no contest—but possibly that, too, is some fantasy I’ve bought into thanks to movies and TV shows.

This whole time I’ve been making comparisons to kisses and shoulder widths that don’t match up. In the back of my mind, I’m noting that Harrison’s arms are skinnier and lighter as they go around me. And his hair feels rougher, and his chin stubble’s really sharp, which is cool and manly and different and—
what
? What does it matter? It’s a different guy, and he’s cute, and he likes me and so…yeah. He’s different, just as I’m sure I’m completely different than the other twenty or so (or two hundred?) girls Harrison Shaw has kissed in his life.

Heck, these are all comparisons that I’m not even sure I’m able to remember correctly, because it’s been so long since the first time I kissed anyone anyhow.

Even if I am remembering them just right, and even if Cam Campbell was a way better kisser, Harrison’s kisses have been sweet and nice, and it’s not fair to Harrison or to me that I’d compare one guy next to the other guy, because what’s in my mind and what’s in my memory is so long gone.

It’s like me thinking back to the first time I went to Disneyland, or that one Christmas when Nash dressed up like Santa Claus and rang our doorbell when I was five. First times are simply always coated in extra sparkles and extra sighs. Even the five-year-old me knew things that feel as wonderful as Santa at the front door and places like Disneyland are simply temporary.

They’re like the photos we take. Just a snap of a moment, and then they become part of the long list of things you glance back at and remember.

I lean back, examining Harrison’s high cheekbones, the way his mop of hair flops over those soft, gingerbread-colored eyes that are now staring at me like I’m about to reach out and break his heart. He tightens his gentle hold around me, and I feel his long, lean muscles flex as he pulls me into another kiss. I’m guessing by the way his torso feels under my hands that he’s actually six-pack perfectly made hot under his shirt. The way his hands are going up my back, I almost wonder if he’s imagining my body, too. Even though I’ve accused him of being a player and because of curiosity, I just might let him, but he only deepens his kisses, and never once do his hands try to cross any sort of line.

He’s a gentleman, and he’s so…nice. He makes me happy and I’m not afraid of him.

*Decides: Why not?*

As he pulls back, I say, “Here’s the deal. Now that I know just how amazing you are at this kissing thing, let’s just be official.”

“Really?” He smiles.

“Yeah. I don’t think I’m into leaving the door open for any French visitors.”

“Flattery. From my
girlfriend
?” He kisses each of my cheeks. “Pretty sure there’s nothing better than that.”

Cam

I’ve been on the Western Ontario Arts campus for only two hours.

When dorm lady came to my dorm room and handed me my student ID, my food card, and a map of the campus, and told me the cafeteria would open in twenty minutes, I knew I had to at least get out of the dorms before I was accidently face to face with Ellen, Laura, or Patrick.

Once I found out the cafeteria was the only place students gathered for food during the summer, I knew I would be skipping breakfast today. Hell, maybe I’d also skip lunch.

Because, like I said, I’m just not ready for this day. I might not ever be ready, but it’s not like I’ve got a choice, so I need to suck it up and get ready.

I decide to locate the digital photography classroom. Maybe if I meet my professor, speak to him about just where Ellen, Patrick, and Laura were fitting into his classroom, I could then figure out where I needed to place myself away from all of them to create the minimum impact for all of us.

As I walk in the double doors, I can’t help but be impressed by the look of the classroom. Like the dorms, it appears to be all brand new. It’s very artistically modern and slick. Compared to Huron High School back home, well…damn…this place proves we sure aren’t in Brights Grove this summer.

I draw in a steadying breath, looking around at the computers lined up on each curved seating tier. Despite my fears, my doubts, and the damage control I need to work through today, I am suddenly soaring with excitement. If this is what a world-class art university looks and feels like, then…damn if this classroom doesn’t feel like I’m home!

If only my dorm room had felt the same.

After hugging my mom and assuring her I’d be absolutely okay without her here—to the point I’d begged her to drive away and to let me check into the dorm room all by myself before everyone woke up and started swarming the hallways—she finally understood and drove off. That actually was a bit of a mistake, because she was supposed to sign some waiver things at the dorm office. It made the dorm office/guard/manager/waiting person—whatever she was—unfairly pissed off at me. After I’d vowed to scan the documents she needed and get them back to her signed by my mom after classes
and
before the end of her business day, she’d calmed down and gave me a key to my room and the name of my roommate.

Harrison Shaw.

I unlocked the door just as the kid was trying to depart for a morning run. At first I was excited to see he was a runner, even thought he and I could maybe run together. But that thought didn’t last long. My entry really freaked him out.

Apparently
Mr. Harrison Shaw
wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me, nor was he expecting a roommate at all, because he’d decorated my side of the dorm room into his own personal swinger-type bachelor pad. My desk and my side table had been united and covered with a large beach towel to make it look as if it was a long table, on which he’d placed a portable dorm fridge, some glasses, a huge candle, a lighter, and various snacks. He’d turned what was supposed to be my bed into this paisley-covered hippie couch. Strange decorator pillows and all. And the kid had even taken over my closet.

I wasn’t really mad about it. In fact, he was the one that was all pissed off. He’d told me he thought he’d have a single for the entire summer, and even ordered me not to unpack because he was going to make the administration move me out. By then, that idea was just fine with me. I might have done my own snack corner in a dorm room because hell yes…snacks are important, …but the strange,
look-what-my-mom-bought-me
decorator touches really did freak me out.

I suppose I also freaked him out. I seem to do that a lot lately. My shaved head—a mandatory gift from the boys’ home dress code—which I’m planning to grow back out, as well as my size and the part where I’m super in shape thanks to all the running and yard work I did while locked up, seems to intimidate people.

I grew almost two inches during my stay at the boarding school. I think I top out around six foot four now. This bald-and-badass look has people thinking I’m way older than I am, too. But even better, on the four-day road trip to get here, I noticed my look makes people avoid me—like they think I’m dangerous or something. I love it, because when you aren’t planning to get close to anyone ever again, the ability to repel humans is a direct advantage.

I’ve also been wearing this faded green army coat that the head grounds maintenance guy gave me as a gift right off his back the day he found out I was leaving. The guy was one of my only friends. I’d hounded him all spring to reveal exactly where he’d bought his cool coat, but he wouldn’t give me the information because he was sure I’d convince someone to send me one and then we’d show up to work in matching jackets.

It took him about two minutes to get yelled at by the lady who gave my key to the dorm room. She stomped in and informed him that I was, indeed, his new roommate. He tried make it better, but between apologizing to me for not being aware I was coming, and then tripping over all of his junk because he suddenly ditched his running shoes and put on this huge black metal boot that he said he only had to wear part time as a precaution because of an old injury that was no almost healed, I was not impressed with the guy at all. As for the boot, maybe his injury was healed. It sure didn’t seem he really needed to wear it at all. He was using the thing to kick all of his junk back to his side of the room.

While I dismantled his snack-candle area and turned it back into my furniture, he busied himself with ripping his junk out of my closet, and then he removed all of his shady bachelor-swinger stuff from my side of the room before taking off. As he left, he could hardly look at me. He was muttering something to the effect that he hated to miss the breakfast here—without inviting me to go along, of course. The dude didn’t even ask my name.

I had a feeling he wasn’t going to breakfast at all. I think he was going to whine-cry all over again to the lady who’d just checked me into the dorm about this invasion of his personal privacy. I hope he’s successful in getting me out of rooming with him. I’m reserving my judgment on this Harrison guy, but right now I’ve spelled out the letters—T-O-O-L—and they’re hanging at the back of my mind waiting to be made into a word. A word that is Harrison Shaw.

If he and his personality don’t make a complete 180 by this evening, I figure it will only be a matter of days before I’m saying it to his face.