He admires me, dropping my sweatshirt and T-shirt to the carpet. In a trancelike state, he slides off my pants, too. Ethan steps closer, a half an inch from me, taking my face in his hands, searching my eyes for the answers about right and wrong. Maybe sex is the right answer. Just sex. But we’ve tried this. For some reason, it comes back to this.
His mouth takes mine. At first, slowly, sensually, his tongue probing my mouth with thought, using it as a tool of measurement.
How far do I go?
When will I stop? If I stop.
What happens when my hands reach her breasts and brush against her nipples, and they harden? Then, what?
He does this. He takes two fingers to my back and unhooks my bra with one snap, and my breasts release with a jiggle. Ethan slides my bra off as his lips reach my neck. My nipples grow hard against his chest, and he groans at this. He pulls away and looks into my eyes first, as if asking for the go-ahead. The signal that all of this is okay.
I reach down and undo his belt but not without admiring his body first. “Is it a job requirement for game wardens to stay in shape?” My eyes scan his body.
“No. It’s just part of the job.” He stoops down and toys with my mouth.
When his belt is off, I undo the button on his jeans and slide them down. His unit at attention, I slide his underwear down, and he reaches out, gripping my wrists, pulling me back up to him, my body sliding against his on my way up, coming alive with every inch of his.
Ethan pulls my hair back with one hand, searching my eyes once again.
“What are you looking for, Ethan?”
“I haven’t let a woman kiss me on the mouth in a long time.”
“Why not?”
He shakes his head. “Just not the way I operate.”
“Then, why do you let me?” I hold my breath, and his lips barely graze mine as he closes his eyes.
He shakes his head again. “I don’t know.”
I grab the back of his neck and allow us to blend together as my lips, my tongue find his. We fall against the bed, and my legs spread, asking for more. As he trails kisses down my chest, his body moves to the side, and he uses his eyes to look me over. Look after me. Ethan’s eyes meet mine again as he takes my breast in his hand. My nipple hardens beneath his touch as I clench my legs, wanting more of him. He moves over to my other breast, this time acknowledging my budding nipple between his fingertips. My feet up on the mattress, I use them to push my hips up to meet his touch.
Ethan’s hand moves down my stomach. My head drifts, and I have to close my eyes. His hand slides further, dipping under my black lace panties.
“Ethan,” I say in a whisper, opening my eyes to see his hooded look. “Please.”
“Please what?” His fingers reach my opening, and he stops.
I pant. I watch him.
“What do you need from me?” His fingers touch my middle, and I call out beneath his mouth when it crashes down on me.
I grab my own breasts and arch my back from the mattress, pushing my middle closer to his fingers.
“Bryce, you’re so wet.” Ethan pulls back and watches me as I begin to unravel underneath his touch.
“I can’t …” Ethan’s voice changes. “I can’t give you any more than this, Bryce.”
Wanting more, I push harder against his hand. He groans, falling against my neck.
I put my hand in his underwear and take his length in my grip.
“Fuck,” he whispers in my ear, pushing himself into my hand.
In one swift move, I push myself on top of him.
Ethan grips my hips hard as I feel his length between my legs.
“Take your underwear off, Ethan,” I demand.
“No.”
“Ethan, take your fucking underwear off right now.”
His eyes narrow as he stares up at me. Bewilderment, frustration, curiosity burn through the look on his face. He reaches down, me still on top, and effortlessly slides off his underwear. As my middle falls to his hardness, we both groan.
I start to move, sliding myself on top of him. Skin against skin.
He pulls.
I push.
He sits, taking me in his arms, pushing himself to the side of the bed, as if I were a rag doll, his muscles contracting beneath me. He stands, my legs wrapped around his middle, his hands around my ass, breasts against his chest.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Kitchen.”
“Kitchen?”
He reaches my lips with his and slides his tongue between them. I wrap my hands around his neck and enjoy this feeling he brings me.
Ethan carries me to the kitchen and slides me against the counter. It’s darker in the kitchen. Less moon. He leaves me on the counter and goes to the refrigerator. He opens it and stands there, the light hitting his body in all the right places, his manliness still standing at attention. I marvel at him, stare.
He leaves the refrigerator open and walks to the cupboard.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting hydrated.” He grabs two glasses.
Ethan walks back to the refrigerator and pours two glasses of water. He walks back to me and hands one to me. “Drink.”
Ethan eyes me as I watch his Adam’s apple bounce with each swallow.
I put the glass to my lips and tip it back, feeling the coolness fill my mouth. I swallow.
Ethan is close enough to me where I see the conflict in his eyes, the storm that rages between bouts of clarity.
“What?” I ask, setting the water glass down next to me.
I realize just how naked we are. Clothes don’t hide our flaws, our insecurities, what we do to make ourselves feel better, our need for purpose. Clothes hide our external wounds, our trouble spots, our outwardly strength.
Ethan stands next to me. “I need to walk you home.”
I already knew he would say this. I saw it in his eyes, the way he swam the sea of regret to get to me. Pushed himself to touch me amid the war that waged behind his eyes.
“I know.” Gently, I slide off the counter, eye-level with his bare chest. I take his lean hips between my hands. I gently kiss his chest, the dusting of hair touching my lips. “I know,” I repeat.
And, with that, I leave him in the darkness of the confines he’s created to lie down with himself. Sleep with himself. Rest uneasy with the decisions he’s made to protect others from his own hurt.
I come back out of the bedroom dressed, my hair retied tighter against my head, making myself feel more in control.
Somehow, Ethan is clothed, which makes this all the more harder, although, I’m not sure why. Perhaps a wall created to keep out what hurts and nurture what doesn’t in order to keep the heart intact.
Ethan opens the front door for me. “After you,” he whispers in the same voice he did moments ago in his bedroom. When I walk past him, I catch his scent, and it almost consumes me. Secretly, I wish I could sleep with one of his shirts to keep his scent close to me, so I wouldn’t forget the way it made my heart feel when he touched me. Ethan Casey seems to trigger my senses and rights the wrongs of life.
Next time, I tell myself.
Late evenings in Granite Harbor are colder. Something Los Angeles never experiences. Late evenings in Granite Harbor are my favorite. The peepers call out, expressing their concern for the change of weather.
I match his pace, two steps to his one, we walk down the hill to Magnolia Road in the silence of the world; the only interruption is the painful reminder that we can’t go back.
After a few short minutes of silence, we reach the front of the house that used to be pink; now, only the eaves are patiently waiting for their new coat.
He stares down at the ground, most likely looking for the right words to tell me or excuses of why he stopped. I should tell him not to explain. I should tell him that I don’t have expectations, but secretly, I do, if I’m being honest. So, I don’t say anything.
We walk to the door, and he stands far eno
ugh away so that I can’t touch him.
“I’ll see you, Ethan.” Like this is good-bye. Like we’ve made an agreement that it’s better this way. That we can’t let things get out of hand.
But why? Why not let them get out of hand?
Because, I say to myself, you saw his eyes. The conflict. The remorse.
And then I remember it. In Los Angeles, right before he entered me, the same look, both wild and unreachable.
I look at Ethan. He’s ruggedly handsome, so beautiful, both in character and to the eye. It’s as if God graced him with perfect muscular facial structure. I want to ask him if the storm rages behind his eyes just with me, but I’m too scared. Too scared to hear the words that will most likely drive me to heartache.
“Good night, Bryce.” He meets my eyes.
I nod, opening the door to Magnolia Road. “Good night, Ethan.”
He doesn’t move until I step inside and turn back toward the front porch.
Ethan turns to leave.
“Ethan?” I ask. Don’t do it, Bryce. Don’t.
“Yeah?” He turns to face me again, this time from the bottom of the steps of the porch.
“The storm that rages in your eyes, is it just for me?” I nervously wait for his answer.
He looks down at the sidewalk and then back to me. Ethan knows what I’m talking about it. He might not see it, but he feels it.
“It’s always just for you, Bryce,” Ethan whispers loud enough for me to hear his words that are crystal clear.
And this makes my heart shatter into a million tiny pieces that fall to the cement walkway like feathers. If I’m responsible for the storm, I’m also the maker of the wind that moves the storm. Until he rights himself, we can’t work, and I’ll just have to accept that.
Sixteen
Ethan
I need to clear my head. Gain some stability.
Last time we were together like this, she made me feel things and do things that were unfamiliar territory. And the feelings drifted into days, weeks, months after we were together in Los Angeles.
I push us to the edge of the bed, her on top of me, and put whatever feeling she gives me into my touch as I stand, wanting her to know it isn’t her; it’s me.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Kitchen.”
“Kitchen?”
I take her mouth and own it as if it were mine. As if I could selfishly take it anytime I pleased. When she wraps her hands around my neck and kisses me back, I feel her legs tighten around me, and I almost lose my shit.
Oh, fuck.
I recite the only creed that kept me sane, distracted, from what was around me in war.
This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will.
My rifle and I know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, or the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit.
My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights, and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage as I will ever guard my legs, my arms, my eyes, and my heart against damage.
We reach the kitchen, and I slide her onto the counter. I walk to the refrigerator in my nakedness; for some reason, I don’t care when I’m with Bryce. I open the fridge. Something about her gives me a piece of freedom. A small slice of hope buried somewhere in the ramblings of who I’ve become since I came home from war and transitioned to civilian life.
Glasses. I need glasses. I walk to the cabinet and grab two glasses.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Getting hydrated.” I walk back to the refrigerator and pour two glasses of water. I hand Bryce one, trying to contemplate my next move. “Drink.”
I watch her as she drinks. Her breasts need kissing. Touching. The way God outlined her body in this moment is as if it’s for me and only me. I wonder if he created Bryce just for me. That would be a perfect world. But he wouldn’t create something so perfect and just give her to someone who’d most likely hurt her.
You don’t deserve a heart like hers, Ethan. You’ll see. It’s just a matter of time before you break her heart. Save her the ache.
“What?” she asks, setting her glass of water down on the tiled counter I installed last winter.
I know what I need to do. Know what the right decision is. The best decision for her. The best decision for me right now is to take her up against the wall right now and let her know how badly I need her. Want her. But morning will come, and I’ll feel the need to disappear again.
I meet her eyes with mine. It’s as if she knows what I’m about to say. She shouldn’t trust me when I can’t trust myself.
“I need to walk you home.”
“I know.” Bryce pushes herself off the counter.
She puts her hands on my hips, and I feel the lump in my throat grow. When she kisses my chest, the act is so innocent, so transparent, that, for the first time in a long time, I want someone to see what I’ve seen, and it’s almost as if she has. I control the groan that wants to explode from my throat. It isn’t a sexual groan, a way of wanting; it’s an emotion.
“I know,” she says again and walks to my bedroom to collect her clothes.
When she leaves the kitchen, I breathe deep, resting my hands on the counter in front of me.
I throw on a green warden sweatshirt and other clothes from the dryer.
When Bryce comes back out from my bedroom, I envision we just made love. And, after, I’d give her a slow, open-mouthed kiss and pull her to me. Whisper in her ear that I’d like to do that every night to her. But, right now, the reality is, we didn’t make love, and I need to take her home.
I walk to the front door and open it for her. “After you.”
After I walk her home, my mind wanders on the trip back up the hill. When she asked about the storm that raged in my eyes, what I didn’t tell her was that I love her enough to leave her alone. I love her enough to protect her, to keep her safe from men like me. I have tasted her, longed for her, and I’m not willing to allow her to love a man who can’t give her what she needs.
I watch her through the crowd of people gathered on Main Street for the Fall Festival. She’s with Alex and Eli, holding the hand of their oldest daughter, Emily.
My mother has always found the Fall Festival to be both fun and wondrous. Her words, not mine. I find it to be confining and suffocating. But I do the hot dog eating contest as part of my role of game warden which is to entertain the kids and be a part of our community.
“I just don’t know how you ate one hundred and twenty-two hot dogs last year, Ethan,” Ruthie says, her mother, Ida, next to her.
Ida was our librarian in Granite Harbor as long as I can remember, and retired about ten years ago.
“One at a time,” I answer, following the fiery-red hair as she moves through the crowd.
“Anyway, I think that Bryce Hayes is going to give you a run for your money, Milton,” my dad, Bill, says, taking one last bite of his chili.
My mom smiles. She probably doesn’t know that I know she assisted with Bryce’s chili.
Aaron’s watching someone, too. I know he’s had a thing for Lydia since the minute she moved to Granite Harbor from New Hampshire some years back, but when Ryan swooped in on her—Aaron walked away. Truth be told, I don’t think Lydia cared at all for Ryan. She saw right through him, knowing he loved someone else.
“Fiery redhead at one o’clock,” Aaron whispers as we walk with Mom, Dad, Ruthie, and Ida through the crowd, watching kids bob for apples, play games. Other community members and groups sell pies and win chili conte
sts.
Don’t panic, I say to myself as I watch her walk closer to us, more Eli leading the way than Bryce.
Ryan and Merit approach with them, and their daughter, Hope, is in some sort of contraption that holds babies close to their parents, hands-free.
“Eli, Ryan.” Aaron and I each extend our hands.
Ever since we were kids, we’ve met down at the Fall Festival every year. But, last year, it seemed like we all had to work. And I never took leave in the military, so I missed some years.
Ida approaches Bryce. “Don’t tell my son-in-law, Bryce, but your chili won in my book. And, if you tell a single soul, I’ll swear I never said it and shove carrots in your ears when you’re sleeping.”
Bryce doesn’t know whether to laugh or run, but she manages a smile. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment, Ida. Thank you.”
Ida nods matter-of-factly. “You’re welcome.”
Ruthie looks to Eli, Ryan, Aaron, and me. “Whatever came of the person driving the black sedan, boys?” She takes another bite of chili from a small cup.
Eli chimes in, “GHPD found the car, but there was no one in it. Ran the plates, and it came back to Steven Williams out of Portland, Maine, who reported his car stolen three nights prior.”
Ruthie shakes her head.
I notice Bryce changes. It’s subtle, but she grows stiff.
“If you ask me,” Ida says, “it’s probably that serial killer from Rio de Janeiro.”
Ruthie looks at her mom, a befuddled look. “Mom, what are you talking about?” Ruthie rolls her eyes. “I thought I told the staff at the senior living center not to allow you to watch Dateline anymore.”
“Ruth Ann Murdock, I’m a grown woman, and I can watch whatever I damn well please.” Ida crosses her arms.
I catch Bryce’s eye and watch as the corners of her mouth turn up. She motions with her head that we move away from the group, that she’d like to talk.
I follow her lead, and we slip away from the group to a bench between Rick’s Pharmacy and Level Grounds Coffee Shop. We don’t dare sit on the bench together because, in the Granite Harbor gossip mill, you’re most likely to end up pregnant or married just by sharing a bench together. I think I’d be fine with that though.
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