Walking Heartbreak (22 page)

Yeah… I shouldn’t be this comfortable. It isn’t right. It doesn’t make sense. Why are things— Why am
I
easy with him?

Long, strong fingers trace my ribs under my shirt and stop at my breasts. “Let’s get this off, okay?”

His calm approach. The way he teases me into agreeing, inch by searing inch. I’m writhing, trying to keep myself from hyperventilating. He studies his own hands, how they form around my breasts, and gather them at the center of my chest.

He pinches lightly, and I plead, “Bo.”

As if mesmerized, his eyes remain on my boobs. His fingers slide open, making room for my nipples and squeeze so they swell between us. “Darling. You’re incredible.”

It’s not true. I know who I am: a midrange pretty girl with darker features and long hair. Boobs the right size for a man’s hands, but there’s nothing special about me. Even so, for a moment, the appreciation vibrating in Bo’s words makes me almost believe him.

I reach up, stroke his cheek. I’m not a vixen, versed in the ways of lovemaking. Sure, Jude and I, we… but it wasn’t like this.

My fingers stroke taut, lean arms beneath the sleeves of his shirt, and I peek up at him, hiding beneath my lashes. Hoping he’ll understand when I fumble with the buttons.

“You want me to take my clothes off, Nadia?” he whispers.

I shut my eyes but make myself nod.

“Will you say it too?”

Oh. The part of me still under Mother’s heel, under my old religion’s thumb, doesn’t want to. “Why?” I ask.

“Because it’s beautiful for me to hear that you want me naked as much as I want you. Do you like my skin against yours?”

“Yes,” I breathe, cheeks flaming.

“And?” He’s a little bit stern, a little bit playful, and a whole lot of hot and sexy and demanding.

“I… want... you?”

“You want me. How?”

“Naked… on me.” I sound brave.

“
In
you?” he asks so sweetly I clench my thighs to silence the ache.

I swallow. Then I reply, “Please.”

BO

In the morning,
we have breakfast alone at the hotel. Quietly, she rests in the crook of my arm after we finish eating, eyes dark, secretive, but still with me. We’re ready when the bus pulls up outside. Ingela and Cameron arrive at the same time with their brazen goodbyes, and as we jump on the bus, I realize I’m not happy about Ingela getting Nadia’s cell number and address. I can picture her now, visiting in Los Angeles and messing shit up.

This girl. I look at Nadia as the bus pulls out of the hotel parking lot; she’s got her fingers fluttering in subtle greeting, so different to the two outside. Cameron has Ingela high in the air, trying to wave with her body, and Ingela’s playing it up, all but dancing in his arms. I once almost fell for Ingela’s vibrant charm. Now, my chest constricts over someone poles apart.

Nadia and I are reclusive on the bus. We keep to ourselves on our way to whichever destination precedes New York. In my mind, I already fret over wanting a hotel room again, but I know I should remain frugal.

I need to touch her. The back lounge is a quiet bubble where I keep her hand between mine, open fingers to study her palm, and joke about love lines. I keep eagle eyes on her phone, which never rings, never buzzes with a text, her husband absent from our lives.

She takes out her wallet, insisting on giving money to Troll for truck-stop supplies, and when Troll leaves, I take it from her and open it wide.

A young man with a huge smile and happy eyes stares back at me. He’s handsome, with longish, windblown hair framing his face. Mostly though, what I see is Nadia’s presence in the photo.

“You took this picture, didn’t you?” I ask in lieu of asking who it is.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. Posture rigid, she wants the wallet back, but she doesn’t reach for it.

“He loved you here.” As soon as I say the words, there’s a sting going off beneath my sternum. It’s uncomfortable. It hurts. The realization upsets me.

She nods quickly, energetically. Looks down at her hands, which aren’t in mine anymore because I’m holding the photo of her husband.

She doesn’t talk about her marriage. Zoe doesn’t either. I’ve tried.

“He still loves you?” I ask.

Her head bobs in affirmation, silky brown drooping over her face as she bows.

“Do you love
him
?” Something like hope throbs in my chest, in that place where a love muscle should sit. Mine is just a heart. An organ. A blood pump. The last time I asked her something similar, she told me she did love him.

“Yes, very, very much.”

I’m upset. No. A black cloud rises in me, and it’s anger—it’s fucking anger. Because it’s unbearable that she loves him, and because I don’t understand why she’s on this bus.

“If he’s so great, why the hell are you here with me?” I bark, making her flinch. I don’t want her to flinch, but I think about this too damn much to let it go. I close her wallet. Throw it on the table. I can’t stand his face in that picture.

“Never mind, Nadia. I get it. I’m the triple fling, no big deal. Just sex, yes? Are you at least learning a thing or two you can bring home to Hubby so you can spice up the home life?”

“Bo, please.” There’s a quiver in her voice, warning me that she’s about to break. I don’t listen.

“If he loves you so much, why doesn’t he check on you? If you were mine, I’d check on you all the fucking time. You’d never be with someone else. Not even for a minute.” I regret my outburst when she turns away from me, shoulders like shivering bird wings beneath her shirt as she hides her face.

“I’d keep you happy. I’d keep you satisfied,” I mumble.

I get up, lean on the windowsill opposite her, and stare out. Woods. Woods, woods racing by. Nothing to interrupt the fight I’ve started. I don’t want to hurt her, and of all people, who am I to judge anyone?

Just, I want to
know
this girl. Have access to her mind. It’s crazy—when I’m inside her, I fucking always want to be deeper.

Possessiveness. I’ve never wanted to own someone before. Now I do. I detest that she’s going back to her husband in two days.

She’s crying behind me.

Sad, beautiful, lovely, sexy.

Why doesn’t she humor me and answer my questions? Why doesn’t she explain why she does what she does?

“You’ve got the answers,” I say, my voice after-concert rough with emotion. “You just don’t want to share, do you?”

“It’s complicated,” she whispers so low I barely hear it.

“Is that your standard reply to everything? Because I’ve heard it before. So many phone calls, Nadia. And what about last night? This morning?
Now
? Don’t I deserve that you at least crack your damn shield open?”

I rush my hands into my hair.

“I’m sorry, Bo.”

What is she sorry about? I don’t want to know.

“Listen. No:
I’m
sorry,” I say, because I won’t lose the days we have left. “You’re right. You’re thinking we’re not even friends yet. You’ve known me for, what, three or four weeks? And why would you talk with me about something that pains you, even if it is him?”

I peer at her hands. They’re over the closed wallet on the table. The bus does a turn, causing the sun to stream in over them, mocking me with the bright gleam from her wedding band.

And I lose my repentant moment. Shake my head and return my attention to the woods outside.

“I can tell you… some things,” she says in a small voice.

Crumbs. She’ll give me crumbs.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like… stories.”

“You’re going to tell me stories about him?” I tip my head back to stare at her. She’s suffering. I’m not comfortable being the one who triggered that quivering lip or the tear she wipes with the back of her hand.

“Real stories. Things that happened. When we got married, for instance.” The blush sneaks up her throat, another reminder of how distressed she is. My fault.

Jesus. I laugh inwardly because, hey—my life’s on repeat. This is just a new way of breaking a girl’s heart.

“Oh I’m so dumb. Of course you don’t want to hear about our wedding,” she backpedals, but I’m not letting her. If it’s what she wants to talk about, it’ll be a piece to add to the puzzle that is Nadia.

“No, not dumb,” I reply. “To learn about your big day is better than not knowing shit about you.”

“You know more than most,” she whispers.

“I know nothing!” I cut her off because I’m a jackass. Then I regret it and eliminate the distance between us, sink down beside her.

Her throat works through a swallow, so I nudge her shoulder gently with mine in encouragement. “Nadia, I’m a dick, okay? An impatient dick. Know that it’s because I like you. Very much.”

The little twist of her mouth encourages me. I cover her hand with mine on the table. Lace our fingers. Drag it down to my lap. “So how did you get married?” My question is so light, so offhand-sounding that she makes an almost-laugh.

“We… had fled from Payne Point.” Absently, she raises our joined hands and holds them to her mouth. A dry kiss lands on my knuckles. With the story she’s telling, it surprises me, but then again, nothing about Nadia is straightforward.

“Why did you run away?” She better prepare for questions because I’ll be doing my best to milk more than the easy stuff out of her story. With her I’m a curious bastard.

“Lots of reasons.”

“Like what.” I don’t make it a question. It’s a demand for her to talk even though she’s already volunteering. I’m struggling with my patience, not ready to let this be on her terms.

She giggles quietly, another surprise. I’d be annoyed if someone cut me off like that. “My parents. You know about my parents and my church.”

“Yes, but what changed? You guys were nineteen, you said, and your parents and the church had pretty much been the way they were since you were little, right?”

“It got progressively worse. Mother didn’t handle my growing up. The older I got, the more restricted my life became. I didn’t own a phone, and in the end I was only allowed to walk my dog in daylight and with Mother. Thank God for Jude’s astuteness. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know who I would have been today.”

“You would have still been you. The question is
where
you would have been.”

“No, I know where I would have been. In Payne Point, married to old Mr. Haasch, the main benefactor of our church. It was no secret that his tithe for the year I turned eighteen was the reason why we could add a building to our church. Mr. Haasch needed a wife. I was of eligible age, raised right, and I could give him children.”

“Jesus, Nadia. How old was he?”

“My grandparents’ age. He was a childless widower.”

“And they were going to just marry you off to an old man against your will?”

“Oh yes. It’s not uncommon in our church. Just that year, we went to a ceremony where the bride was a girl from the Heavenly Harbor’s school, and her groom was… not young. Jude and I fled town on the night before my engagement.”

NADIA

To think about my wedding
always makes me smile. Despite the situation, telling Bo about it brightens my mood, and in my mind I’m there, right there in the thick of Las Vegas, setting foot in my first real city under dreamlike circumstances.

I’ve fled from my destiny.

I’m getting married!

The trauma of Jude’s insulin shock faded as we drove into the wonder of Vegas. Car exhaust. Perfumed passersby on foot. The streets were a melting pot of hope and promises as Jude scooted our little car in between others in a back alley. Jude walked around the car and pulled me out. The dry heat of the desert burned my nostrils, but it was good, very good. They burned in a happy way.

“Baby, did you know that ‘He who steals a wife steals what is good and receives favor from the Lord?’” The desert wind wrestled with Jude’s white shirt, a clean, new one he had picked up for the ceremony. I hurried to button him up and suppressed the smile threatening to spread at yet another warped proverb.

“No,” I said. “Neither of us will because it’s ‘find’ not ‘steal.’ Stealing is a sin.”

“Ah you’re a hairsplitting wife-to-be. Maybe I should reconsider? A whole life with such hairsplittery could be tough for me.”

I giggled when he lifted me off the ground and tried to shake me. Of course I was too heavy for that.

“Plus, you’re mine. Stupid Mr. Old Man from the Heavenly Harbor would have ended up in Hell for the thievery of an already taken woman.”

“He didn’t know though,” I defend Mr. Haasch. A too-wide grin finally spread and didn’t fall the way it used to in Payne Point.

Freedom. It was magnificent. The only person staring me down did so with love, with acceptance sieving from the deep blue ocean he watched me with.

“We made it,” he whispered then, setting me down so slowly the tips of my toes touched the ground first.

“Yes, we made it,” I replied, holding his gaze too, standing here on a narrow sidewalk with people and scents and sounds bustling by and around.

“Do you have your dress?” he asked, never repressing his happiness.

“I do.”

“Remember those words for later. When you’re in the dress and in the church.”

“I will. I do,” I said. “Not ‘I don’t,’ right?”

“No, I’ll ask you something really nice, see, and you’ll say, ‘Yes, I very much do.’ That’s the only option.”

Silly Jude.

I loved all sides of this boy, and I did—I did want to be with him forever. I’d always love him. Every obstacle we met on our way, we’d tackle together. Life would be easy together. We’d grow old together.

Together. We’d always be together.

We were in a tiny, white church with fake wooden siding broken up by stained glass windows like a real church. I changed in the girls’ room. My dress was white, light, and shorter than anything I’d worn in a decade.

My legs felt bare, and I slinked back out, ashamed, until Jude’s approving gaze rested on me. The guilt disappeared, replaced with a shivering rightness, the same type of right that lasted for the hours Jude used to spend in my house at home.

But it was daylight now, not the middle of the night, and no mother was there to destroy our bliss. The only ones capable of that were
we
, and we would never destroy it. No, we would build our love, always build and cherish.