He takes my mouth with his, a hand grazing my throat like a warm, rough necklace.
"Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
My hands slip under his shirt, over his abdomen, his muscles tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I'...
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A Friday in August, 10:32 AM
The morning is stubbornly bright, the kind that makes you squint and smile. Today is full of them—smiles, I mean.
By the time I bound downstairs in a yellow sundress with lemons on it—one of my oldest, but favourites—my uncle and Raveena are sipping coffee at the kitchen table, no doubt just returning from twin night shifts.
"Ember, hon, hold on!"
"Gotta go!" I say with a smile, slipping my running shoes on, grabbing my farmer's market tote, and slipping out the door with, "Grey's taking me to Goldwen!"
"What? Sweetheart, you can't just—!"
"See ya!"
I'm already gone. Ha!
Greyson is already there, parked outside with his rickety car. He's leaning against the hood in dark jeans and a loose AC/DC band shirt, his cast making him look a touch more tragic than usual. His smile, though, is all I need to see.
Smiles all around. It's a good, good day.
"Hey, sleepyhead," he calls out as I approach, his voice teasing but gentle.
"Top of the morning!" I sing, hopping into his passenger's seat, folding my legs under me, fixing the skirt of my yellow dress, so giddy I feel like I'm twelve.
The drive to Goldwen will take just under an hour, and I make sure to fiddle with Grey's radio until I find an 80s station playing Call Me by Blondie.
I roll down the window and stick my hand out, my threaded bracelets fluttering in the wind as we hit the freeway.
"So, what's the plan?" I finally ask over the roar of the wind, turning to look at him. His eyes are on the road, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch with a smile.
"I figured we'd start with the campus tour. Show you the engineering building. I was reading about it. They've got this giant pendulum in the lobby that's supposed to symbolize something, but mostly it just looks cool from the pictures."
I pretend to mull this over. "Sounds profound."
"Oh, for sure. After that, we can grab something to eat. Apparently, the city has good muffins. Think of it as an early test of your college diet."
"Sounds like the Freshmen Fifteen waiting to happen."
And Pat won't be happy if I get, as he says, pudgy. Well, pudgier.
Part of my mind is busy trying to memorize everything: the way Greyson taps his fingers on the steering wheel, the scent of sun-scorched earth mingling with the farmer's fields we zip past, the sight of his profile against the changing landscape. I want to remember.
As Virginia's capital city approaches, it looms like a bustling metropolis carved out of the quiet rural tapestry we have just traversed. The cityscape is a kinetic canvas of glass and steel soaring into the sky.
