Last Kiss Page 7

  He’d lit them off late the night of July fourth—throwing them into metal garbage cans beside the boardwalk, within sight of her bedroom window, while the rain poured down. She’d heard the wild booms—louder than the thunder that had been rumbling all evening—jolting her out of bed. Staring down from her room, she’d seen the bright, intense flashes—blue-white and crazy-close. There, silhouetted by the afterglow, was Gavin. He stood on the boardwalk, reaching his arms up as if he could touch or catch Sheridan.

  She remembered staring down with horror. How could he put himself in such danger? The blasts had wakened the whole beach, and her mother and sisters stood by the window trying to see who was vandalizing the garbage cans. The police were called, their sirens screaming. Sheridan shook, not knowing what to hope—she wanted Gavin to get away, but she also wanted him to get caught, so he’d never do anything so stupid and destructive again.

  They’d seen each other the next morning, at Foley’s Store. Drizzle fell, soft and gray, cushioning the pain she felt inside. The police had missed Gavin—he’d spent the night running from them, hiding under various cottages. He obviously felt elated, seeing Sheridan walk in wearing her yellow slicker.

  “Did you see?” he asked when she approached his table.

  “I have to talk to you,” she said, shaking. He noticed her expression, and his smile dissolved. Nodding, he followed her outside. A police car cruised slowly down the street. Together, without a word, they ran around the corner, ducked into the dark and narrow path that led into the cemetery.

  “Why did you do it?” she asked as they hid behind the stone wall that encircled the graves.

  “For you,” he said. “You said you were sad about the fireworks being canceled, and I didn’t want you to be sad.”

  “Gavin,” she said, “you could have gotten your hand blown off. You could have gotten killed.”

  “No way,” he said. “That would never happen to me.”

  “It could have,” she pressed.

  “I did it for you,” he repeated, not understanding. She watched him go pale. He didn’t get it, and truly, neither did she. They sat hunched under the dripping trees, so close together she could feel the warmth of his skin. It was even more intimate than the fireworks last year, and the way he was looking at her, the way his eyes looked so perplexed yet so washed with emotion, made her tremble.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt,” she said.

  “I won’t,” he said, and it sounded like a promise. “I can’t.”

  “How can you say that?” she whispered. “You’re fourteen. You’re a boy…flesh and blood. That was too dangerous.”

  He shook his head, and she watched him bring his hand so close to her face, holding it just an inch from her cheek as if all he wanted to do was touch it, trace her cheekbone, bring his mouth close to hers.

  “Don’t you get it?” he whispered.

  “Get what?”

  They sat there, trapped in silence as grownup feelings and thoughts ran through them. She wanted something she couldn’t put into words. If she could have, she would have crawled into his jacket with him. She would have pressed herself against his body, she would have made herself his other half. She was shaking, and so was Gavin. It must have scared him, because he broke the spell.

  “I’m invincible,” he said, breaking into a grin.

  “No,” she said.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, nodding.

  “How can you say that?”

  “The cops didn’t catch me, did they?”

  “Forget the cops. You could have gotten killed.”

  “But I didn’t. Sheridan…” He stared into her eyes, and the feeling began rolling back, like a huge wave all the way out at sea.

  “What?” she asked, her voice a croak.

  “I’m trying to tell you what it’s like,” he said. “I’m not afraid of anything. Dynamite, it’s nothing. You just have to pay attention, lighting the fuse. I know what I’m doing. Do you believe me?”

  She stared at him then, and the strangest thing happened. Her desire, all that passion pent up inside from last Fourth of July, turned into the most tender emotion possible. Instead of fire in her skin, she felt tears in her eyes. He was just a little boy, really. He came from a tough place, unlike anywhere Sheridan had ever been. They’d both lost their fathers, but the difference was, Sheridan had enough family love to hold her and keep her and make her want to be safe. She didn’t trust that that was the case for Gavin, and she didn’t even have to think about it: she just took his hand.

  “It’s okay, Gavin,” she whispered, staring into his eyes, seeing tears pop over his lower lids. “It’s really okay.”

  “I’ll never get hurt,” he said fiercely.

  She just squeezed his hand, unable to respond.

  And they sat there in the silvery-green gloom of the graveyard as police cars drove up and down the winding streets of Hubbard’s Point, hiding from the law and hiding from whatever it was in Gavin that made him think it was okay to put himself in the gravest danger, that made him believe he wasn’t worth treating with precious care.

  That was the summer they were fourteen; it was the next year when everything had really, irrevocably changed. He’d put her on warning, shooting off the stolen dynamite, let her know that loving him came with the high price of worry and a certain insecurity—that he’d always take risks. But passion didn’t come with brakes or caution.

  She stood in her kitchen now, remembering that next summer. Her desire had had a whole other year to build, and so had his. It was late, after midnight. They were fifteen, and although it was past the curfew his grandmother had so ineffectively tried to enforce, he’d sneaked out to come up the hill and listen to her play her music. He’d been begging her to let him sit there and listen, and she’d told him she wasn’t ready for an audience—even him.

  Sheridan’s family were all fast asleep. She’d been sitting right here, at the table, with the battered old guitar she’d bought at a tag sale, playing chords, trying to work out a song she’d been writing. Through the screen door, she heard crickets in the yard and seagulls crying across the water on North Brother, off Black Point, right in the same bay where the fireworks were always held. Then she heard something else:

  “Shit!”

  Jumping up, holding her guitar, she pressed her face to the screen.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Me,” Gavin said, stepping out of the shadow of the oak tree that had been there then. It had fallen in a hurricane five years ago. He held up his foot. “Sorry—I stubbed my toe. Keep playing.”

  “I told you—no one’s allowed to hear,” she said.

  Even in the darkness, she’d seen him grin. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I had to sneak out to hear you. What’s the song about?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Come on. Play it for me.”

  She remembered moths bumping into the screen door, trying to get to the light. Her heart had felt like that in her chest. If she let him hear, then he’d know. She hadn’t ever played in public, or for anyone but her family—her performance at Newport was a year away. Besides, the lyrics in this particular song were very specific and personal, and Gavin would hear them and realize how she felt. They played in her mind, making her feel dizzy.

  Without even planning, she felt herself slowly opening the door, felt the cool night grass beneath her bare feet. She held her guitar under one arm as Gavin followed her to the herb garden.

  Sitting on the wall, she felt Gavin sit beside her, so close their hips were touching. Her pulse was racing so hard, and she adjusted her guitar, checked to make sure it was in tune. She’d glanced at him, seen him staring at her, his eyes blazing in the starlight. Her mouth was dry.

  “I’ve only played for my family,” she said.

  “What am I?” he asked. “We’ve known each other forever.”

  She swallowed hard. It was true, all Hubbard’s Point kids were like one another’s family,
but that wasn’t what this song was about. When she played for her mother, grandmother, and sisters, she sang Irish songs, or traditional American songs, or classics like “Moon River.” Or she and her grandmother would sing spells from the book.

  “It’s just a song,” she said, giving herself an escape hatch. “It’s not about anyone or anything in particular…”

  “Okay,” he said, sitting so close she swore she could hear his heartbeat.

  She began to strum. Then she got her courage up and began to sing.

  “Maybe some time, maybe some day,

  Maybe you’ll feel the same way,

  I’ll close my eyes, I’ll think of this,

  You’ll be there, and then we’ll…”

  She stopped, unable to say the last word. Overhead the stars were tiny white lights in the black sky. She stared up, feeling embarrassed.

  “Finish singing it,” he said, gazing at her.

  “It’s not done,” she said. “I don’t have the last line.”

  “Please?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Will you tell me the title, at least?” he whispered.

  She shook her head.

  “Please tell me, Sheridan…what’s the title of your song?”

  “‘First Kiss,’” she whispered.

  He nodded, staring at her. She felt herself shaking. She should never have done this. It seemed so forward, so crazy, as if she’d just decided to turn herself inside out right in front of him.

  She’d never been kissed before, but she’d dreamed for so long about kissing Gavin; it had inspired her to write the song, and in spite of what she’d been thinking about escape hatches, there were none in sight.

  “Sheridan,” he whispered, putting his arm around her.

  She’d been clutching her guitar, but he gently took it out of her hands. In her dreams since the fireworks two summers ago, she’d worried that she’d be awkward when it happened, but when he finally kissed her, she fell into the kiss and knew exactly what to do. His lips were cool, and the scent of the herbs surrounded them, so she thought kisses tasted of mint, verbena, and thyme.

  Their hands were shaking, and Sheridan felt herself trembling, so she pressed closer against his body, to feel how strong and solid he really was. Their tongues touched, and it made her feel hot inside, and the song she’d been writing flew out of her head, and she learned in that instant something she would never forget: that songs could be beautiful, emotional, passionate, but nothing compared to real love.

  Because it wasn’t just a kiss: it was the start—or maybe the middle—of their love. Sheridan pulled back a little, to look into Gavin’s eyes. They were staring at her, as if they’d always known her, could see inside her heart.

  “Sheridan,” he whispered.

  She nodded, waiting.

  “Did you write that song…”

  “For you,” she said.

  And now, standing in her kitchen with her sisters, Sheridan thought back to that night when they were both fifteen, amazed at the way they’d laid it on the line. Neither one of them had pretended anything. They’d told each other the truth.

  They always did, and it had been the truth, eventually, that drove them apart. Thinking about that, Sheridan soaked a sponge and wiped Gavin’s footprint off her kitchen floor.

  LOVE WAS STRANGE. Stevie Moore had always known it. She lived in her little house on the hill, just a couple of yards down from Sheridan Rosslare, and felt an ache in her heart. With dinner over, and the dishes done, she stood alone in her studio. Nell was in her room, and Jack had stalked out after dinner, going on one of his long, solitary walks.

  Stevie gazed down the cliff at the wide crescent beach and the half-moon bay, at the gleaming white boat anchored just inside the breakwater. She knew that Nell had been out there—that, in fact, she was responsible for Gavin coming to town.

  She paced her studio, stopping at her workbench. Maybe if she mixed some paint, she’d feel more centered. She squeezed cadmium red from the tube onto her palette. Staring at it, her vision blurred, and she felt dizzy.

  The paint looked primal, like blood. It made her think of her heart, which was hurting. She sat on the window seat, hand over her heart, feeling it beat under her fingers. Down on the beach, the waves washed in one after the other, endless and without end. Her life source had always been right here: the beach, the waves, Jack.

  She closed her eyes, thinking of him. How could love hurt so much? Sometimes it seemed the more you opened yourself up, the greater the pain. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Wasn’t closeness supposed to bring happiness, peace, joy, security? If that was true, why did Stevie feel as if she was tilting and falling, about to slip off the earth?

  Jack seemed so unhappy. The worst part was, she had started it last night with one little touch. Jack had seemed so withdrawn lately. The way he’d sit at dinner, hardly able to smile. And the way he’d sleep on his side, facing away, as if he wanted to forget he was sharing a bed with Stevie. Last night she’d reached over with her foot, touching him with one tentative toe.

  Sometimes she’d do that and he’d turn over, wrap her in his arms, kiss her with such passion she’d flood like a tidal creek. She’d overflow, unsure of where she ended and he began. They’d make love, and whisper secrets, and the tide would rise higher, and they’d float away together—right out of their bed, out the window, out of the world. On nights like that, they lived in their own sea. They were each other’s boat, and they were each other’s tide, and they were both the safety and the danger of a risky voyage.

  But not last night. When she’d touched his leg with her toe, she’d wanted him to roll over and look at her. Even if he couldn’t touch her, or tell her what he was feeling, or make love to her, she’d wanted to just gaze into his eyes. But Jack hadn’t turned around. He’d just stayed very still, pretending to be asleep. Then he’d inched his leg away from her toe.

  And that’s when Stevie had lost it.

  “You have to stop treating me this way!” she said, shaking him.

  “Shh,” he said. “It’s late. Go to sleep, Stevie.”

  “Go to sleep? How can I, when I feel so rejected?”

  “You feel rejected?”

  “Jack, I love you. Just because I have doubts about marriage—can you blame me?”

  Silence from Jack. Oh, long, terrible silence. No words, no sounds, but in the stillness he’d let her know that he wasn’t the one doing the rejecting, he wasn’t the one pushing her away. Sure, maybe he’d pulled his leg out of her toe’s touch, but that was nothing compared to what she was doing to him. He did blame her for having doubts about marriage—that was very clear.

  Arms wrapped around her pregnant belly, she stared out the window at Gavin’s boat and rocked herself. She couldn’t bear hurting Jack—but at the same time, she couldn’t bring herself to do what he wanted.

  And there she was, right back to thinking the same thing: love is strange.

  She’d lived such a wild and colorful, such a vexing and perplexing, love life. She’d followed her heart for so long, with such disastrous results. Stevie had been like a tropical storm, just looking for landfall. She’d been through so much—and had put others through so much in her past marital mistakes. Some people’s marriages ended in divorce. Sad, even tragic, but not the end of the world. But Stevie had had three. Three marriages, three divorces. She’d sworn she’d never get married again.

  She knew the science of the human body: that it was ninety-seven percent water. That her veins were filled with salt water, just like the creeks in the tidal marsh. That once a month—well, before her pregnancy—her body’s cycle echoed the moon’s pull on the ocean’s tides. She painted, and considered her art to be a force of nature—bigger than she was, and from sources she couldn’t understand.

  Jack Kilvert had been her harbor for so long now, ever since they’d gotten together. He’d let her rest within the walls of his protected anchorage. He’d let her ebb and
flow, he’d appreciated the intensity of her storms. He’d felt the force of her waves, and he’d slid into gentle pools illuminated by soft, yellow moonlight. He’d made her feel loved.

  So why had it become so difficult?

  She tried to track when the trouble had really started. After Charlie’s death, certainly. Nell had been wrecked, and they’d had to help her through every day. This school year, she’d been hanging by a thread. Her grades had suffered; she’d seemed indifferent to her future. It had been such a struggle to get her to care about college; the whole process of looking seemed to remind Nell of how she wouldn’t be joining Charlie at NYU, how she wouldn’t be seeing him ever again.

  Stevie had quit painting for a couple of months, just to give her extra attention. And Jack had scaled back his business travel, so he could be closer to home while his daughter needed him.

  Stevie and Jack had pulled together for Nell. They completely had, no doubt about it. But losing Charlie had been wrenching for all of them. They’d loved him almost like a son—a boy they’d known forever, the son of one of their best friends. His death had knocked everything out of them.

  Stevie had watched what it did to Jack. Perhaps the sudden violence of it had reminded him of Emma—losing his wife in the car accident. Once again, Jack had had to devote himself to helping Nell face the death of someone she loved. Charlie dying was another strong reminder that nothing lasted forever, that nothing in this world was permanent.

  And then Stevie had gotten pregnant. She cradled her belly. Yes, that’s when things with Jack had started changing. Maybe it wasn’t the pregnancy alone, but coupled with losing Charlie—the two together were a one-two punch of love, destiny, and mortality, too much for Jack to withstand. He proposed—knowing how she felt about marriage—and he hadn’t liked her answer.

  And now nothing was the same, and Stevie wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to go back to the way they were.