One More For The Road

by Delilah Blake

  I choke back a laugh. “You’re kidding!”

  “I am not,” he says with a grin. “It was okay though. It really livened up my bar-mitzvah.”

  He rolls onto his side and I follow suit, noses close, his breath rustling over my cheek. “Is your family anywhere near as crazy as mine?” he asks.

  I tuck a renegade strand of hair behind my ear. “Hardly. Dad’s an orthopedic surgeon who makes enough money to fund a different third world country every year, not that he’d ever be interested in helping one of them. And Mom is a typical country club socialite; married into a fortune and spends more money on martinis and cigarettes than groceries.”

  “How do they feel about their daughter sleeping on bus station floors and traveling to California all on her own?”

  There’s no need to lie. “They actually don’t know I’m here.”

  “Scandalous!” he gasps, pretending to be shocked. “Are they the reason you ran?”

  “I’m not running.”

  Lie

  “Not from them.”

  Half-lie

  “But someone?” he tries again.

  I feel my lips quirk into a sly smile. “Has anyone ever told you persistence isn’t necessarily a virtue?”

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you the truth shall set you free?”

  “Those people weren’t sleeping on a bus station floor.”

  He raises himself up on his elbow, the muscles in his chest tensing wonderfully beneath his shirt, tiny strands of dark chocolate hair falling across his forehead as he leans ever so slightly forward, casting me beneath his shadow.

  “There is such a thing as having too many walls up, you know.” His words escape in a low whisper, warm like his returning gaze.

  I hear the shiver in my own voice. “Only if you’re a poorly constructed house.”

  “Always sarcasm with you.” He shakes his head.

  “Would you be following me around a bus station if I was any other way?”

  His lids land heavy over his eyes, and I watch his gaze slips lower, lower, lower, until it rests on my mouth. “I’m starting to think I might follow you anywhere,” he says, breathless.

  The clever retort I have planned is cut short by a pair of lips, soft and yielding against mine. He tastes like cinnamon and sugar, sweetness wrapped in a spice that burns just beneath the surface, and I lose myself in the curve of his chest, the hard press of his body against mine, wrapping my fingers around muscled forearms and gentle hands that have somehow found their way to my hips.

  And for one complete, never-ending second, I allow myself to be kissed, whimpering lightly as he growls, low and hungry against my mouth, one hand sliding into the roots of my hair, other pressed against the curve of my back. His tongue teases mine, his lips full and fitted against my mouth. It’s been so long since I’ve kissed anyone other than Andrew, and I find myself longing shamelessly for this new, exciting set of lips.

  Andrew. I don’t remember him ever kissing me like this, not even when we made love. I’ve never felt this sort of hunger before, this urgent sense of need. Andrew never… Andrew…

  Andrew!

  “Stop,” I murmur, my heart in the throat. He pulls back with a look of confusion, tearing his lips from mine. “What am I doing?” I choke, trying in vain to catch my breath. I climb quickly to my feet, putting some much-needed space between us. The tile floor seems to tilt dangerously beneath my shoes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! What am I doing?”

  His lips, open and yearning, hang in the air as if searching for another kiss. “I just thought—”

  “You thought what?” I don’t let him finish. I can’t, not if I want to get out of this night with my sanity intact. I’d fight for my dignity as well, if I weren’t already sure it left my body the minute I melted into his arms. “You thought that because I was opening up, you could stick your tongue in my mouth?”

  “No!” He sits up, resting his arms along the tops of his knees. “I thought you… I thought we… I mean…” He steadies himself with a deep intake of air, driving a hand through his hair only for it to fall back across his forehead in the next instant. “I’m sorry if I got the wrong impression,” he says after a moment, sounding genuinely sincere. “I’m sorry I let myself get carried away. I’m sorry I kissed a near stranger on a bust station floor, and more importantly, I’m sorry that I’m not lying when I say it was the best kiss of my life.” I watch his fingers clench into his palms, knuckles bloodless and rigid. He stares up at me through a wall of dark hair. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?” I snap, feeling the low boil of my temper begin to bubble over.

  “Are you sorry I kissed you?” he asks, keeping his eyes locked on mine, watching the way my chest heaves in sharp, uneven bursts. “Or are you sorry because you wanted me to?”

  God, am I ever.

  I can’t answer him, not knowing he’s right, not knowing that if I were to rewind the last five minutes, I’d kiss him first the next time around. I’d wrap myself around him just to hear his approval, just to feel him press against the heat emanating between my legs. I’d run my hands beneath his shirt and memorize the maze of hard grooves and lines of his stomach. I’d kiss my way down his neck, down his chest, down, down, down, until my lips went numb and my mind was finally clear of anything but his taste. Until there was no right or wrong, no reason to stop, no wedding, no Andrew...

  No, Frances.

  And I can’t.

  I grab my bag up from the floor and sling it over my shoulder. “You know what? I can’t do this. I’m sorry, Jesse, but I can’t handle this… this… bullshit right now.”

  “What part of that felt like bullshit to you? You think I would have tried so hard to get to know you if I was only interested in banging one out? You think I would have picked the most closed-off woman I have ever met if I was just looking for a quick, public fuck?”

  No.

  The truth is, I don’t think any of that is true, and the only alternative, that I’m the one who lost herself in little more than a kiss, that I’m the one who can’t think straight anytime he looks at me, that I’m the one with a would-be husband, the one who should know better, the one perpetually running, squeezes my heart until I’m certain I might collapse on the spot.

  “Just leave me alone, Jesse. Okay?” The words tumble past numb lips. I spin on my heel, leaving him in our once perfect, secluded world

  “Wait!” He clambers his feet. “Please. Frannie… I didn’t mean—”

  But his calls fall on deaf ears.

  I find another spot at the far end of the station, half-hidden behind a large, potted plant in desperate need of watering. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow, letting me stew in righteous fury all on my own. The only problem is I’m not sure what is making me angrier: the fact I trusted myself not to get too close and failed, or that my lips are still on fire from his kiss.

  I can’t sleep. Not that I’ve really tried. How can I when I feel like I’m going crazy, like my head may at explode at any moment? I have to do something, talk to someone, and right now my options are limited to a single person.

  I pull my phone from my bag and dial.

  Ring…

  Ring…Ring…

  “Hello?” a voice answers, thick with sleep.

  “Hey, Katie,” I say, keeping my own voice to a sharp whisper. “It’s me.”

  “Frances? What do you want? It’s two in the morning, for fuck sake.”

  “Oh, you know…” I’m not sure what to say, where to begin. “Just called to talk.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “No wait!” My voice bounces around the nearly deserted station. I drop it back to an urgent whisper. “I just need to talk to someone.”

  “What did you do now?”

  “Nothing! I swear. I haven’t done anything!” Sort of. “Do you think the only reason I would call my only sister is because I’m in sort of trouble?”

  “Frances.”

  “It’s just that there’s
this guy-”

  “Jesus, Frances!” she shouts into her end, cutting me off. I pull the phone away from my ear to avoid loss of hearing. “You’ve been gone for what? Two days? And you’re already having guy problems?”

  “I’m not having guy—”

  “How did you manage to rope this one in?” she stops me again.

  “No! It’s not like that!” I try to explain.

  “Don’t even try it, Frances. What did you do? Did you shake your hair out in front of him? Gaze longingly into his eyes? Blow him a kiss from across a crowded bus station?”

  “No!”

  It’s so much worse.

  “That’s how it always is with you. You toy with guys like some sick game of cat and mouse, and when you don’t want to play anymore, you bail, leaving me or some other poor idiot to fix it.”

  “No. It’s—”

  “You do realize you left an even bigger problem here, don’t you? Andrew? Remember him?”

  The station seems to swell with darkness at the sound of Andrew’s name. “Yeah, Katie. I remember.”

  “Clearly not! I don’t think you have any idea what you’ve done to that poor boy. It’s like you broke him, or something.”

  I wrap my free arm around my torso, trying to stop the dull, throbbing pain inside, breathing, breeding like a living creature.

  “Was that your plan all along?” she asks when I don’t respond. “Were you trying to break him?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I fling back at her. “Hurting Andrew was a laugh-riot for me. You should have heard me joking about it at the ticket counter.”

  “I wouldn’t even consider coming home if I were you, Frances. Not for a long while, at least. Andrew’s family is ready to murder you. Darlene has threatened to take police action. And Mom and Dad are currently pretending you don’t exist.”

  “How is that different from any other day?”

  “Make all the jokes you want,” she says. “But you’ve burned some serious bridges this time.”

  “Not ours, right?”

  As much as I love to mess with my sister, I can’t bear the thought of losing the one person I can talk to… who won’t try to kiss me when the conversation ends.

  She heaves a sigh into the receiver. “No. Not ours. On one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “Don’t ever call me this early again.”

  “Yeah, I think we can safely conclude you’re a lot less cranky after breakfast.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “I love you too.”

  -Click.

  “Do you prefer the periwinkle or the lilac?”

  “Are those my only options?”

  I stood in the middle of our local florist shop, The Posey Palace, as the saleswoman behind the counter presented one centerpiece after another with all the showmanship and grandeur of a Vegas magician.

  Outside the shop window, the leaves on the trees were finishing their annual change from the bright greens and jades of a long summer to breathtaking oranges and fiery reds of an encroaching autumn. The wind was growing crisper with every passing day, the oncoming chill nipping at the cheeks and noses of passersby.

  She held another in front of her face, every enlarged pore and layer of makeup coating her skin reflected in its glossy surface. “This charming pink would go so well with the crème tablecloths and roses you’ve already chosen.” She smiled across the counter at me.

  Her lines sounded rehearsed, her voice sugared and heavy in my ears.

  “Pass.”

  She raised a single, overplucked eyebrow.

  “Now, now, Frances.” Andrew was next to me in an instant, slipping an arm around my waist in either comfort or restraint.

  I was never quite sure.

  “Brenda is just trying to be helpful,” he said as he read the ‘Hi, My Name Is-’ tag pinned to the front of her vest. “I thought the last few options were lovely.”

  Always the diplomat.

  I wasn’t budging. “We’ve been over this a hundred times, Andrew. No pastels. I hate pastels. No pink. No baby blue. No sunshine yellow. Nothing that looks as if it belongs in the eyeshadow palette of a preteen prostitute!”

  Andrew’s arm tightened around my hips. “Honey,” he said, trying hard to keep his smile in place, “I can’t believe I’ve had to say this more than once since meeting you, but do try to refrain from shouting the word prostitute in public.”

  “Sorry.” I deflated a little. “But no pastels.”

  “Let me see if I have something in the back that’s more your taste.” Brenda was a blur as she dove into the back room, eager to get away from me.

  “So, this is fun,” I said once she’d disappeared.

  “It would be more enjoyable if you tried keeping an open mind about things, Frances.” Andrew released me, trudging to the opposite side of the store, and pretending to be deeply interested in a wreath of red and white carnations. “You were more than a little rude to her.”

  “Listen, I’ll apologize to her as soon as she comes back out. But let’s be honest, I’m sure she deals with this sort of crap every day.”

  “Don’t say crap.”

  “Sorry. I’m sure she deals with this sort of fucking shit every day.”

  His frown deepened. “How very mature of you, Frances.”

  I plodded over to him with a sigh. I hadn’t meant to be difficult. I’m not sure I ever meant to be difficult, but try as I might, flowers and seating arrangement and cake tastings were never going to be my cup of tea.

  “You know what we could do?” I asked, wrapping my arms around him, and resting my cheek in the crook of his neck. “We could forget about the centerpieces.”

  “They’ll never get chosen if we don’t do it now.”

  “I meant we could just forget all of this. We could leave right now and get married tonight. How about Las Vegas? You know, just get it all over and done with, and not have to worry with all the fuss.”

  He chuckled as though my idea was nothing more than an absurd joke. “We can’t elope to Vegas.”

  “It doesn’t have to be Vegas,” I said, trying another option. “We could go wherever you want. I hear Niagara is lovely this time of year.”

  “No, Frances,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “We’re not eloping. I mean, come on! Every other bride in the world throws herself into planning a wedding! Why aren’t you? Is it because you’re not interested? Or are you just lazy?”

  “Can’t I be both?”

  “Listen,” he said as he calmly pulled himself from my grasp. “It’s blatantly obvious you don’t like the idea of a big wedding. You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

  “When have I ever made anything perfectly clear?”

  “But this will all be over soon, okay?” he said. “We’ll be married, and all of this will be behind us. No more picking a band, no more china patterns, no more choosing between salmon in lemon sauce or lamb with mint jelly.”

  “What did we end up going with?”

  “The lamb.”

  “Good choice.”

  “Focus, Frances. Soon you and I will be on our way to Venice for two weeks of romance.” He rested his arm across my shoulders. “Can’t you just picture it? The two of us traipsing through the city. Traveling by gondola. Drinking fine wine and eating gourmet cuisine by candlelight.”

  I nodded. I could try to picture it anyway.

  He landed a quick kiss to my forehead before breathing in the sweet coconut of my shampoo. “Besides,” he said after taking his fill of his favorite tropical scent, “It’s a little tacky, don’t you think? Getting married in an all-night chapel? Would you want our wedding to be a cliché?”

  “Yes,” I thought. “Yes, I want to be cliché if it means I’ll never have to look at bridesmaids’ dresses or floral arrangements or seating charts ever again. I just want this to be over with already. I want to go back to being me, instead of a bride to be.”

  “No. I guess not,” I said instead, the
slight quaver to my voice the only sign of the war raging inside my head.

  Andrew pressed his lips to my cheek. “You’ll be so happy when the day actually comes, I promise. You’ll be so happy you won’t even remember the torture of having to choose a centerpiece.”

  God, I hope so.

  “Just play nice today, okay? For me?” His lips flittered against the tip of my nose.

  I nodded and leaned into the curve of his chest just as Brenda returned, bearing an enormous, pale green vase in both hands.

  “Now here we have a lovely mint-green setting,” she said, pausing as if awaiting the applause of a live-studio audience.

  I stare at the pastel centerpiece and kept my mouth shut.

  I fucking hate pastels.

  6.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  I open my eyes to see the navy vest and khaki pants of a station employee standing over me. His vivid, carrot-colored mustache twitches side to side as he wrings his hands together, looking more like a frightened jack rabbit than actual human.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Hmmm?” I murmur, still half asleep.

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to move.”

  I rub my eyes until they’re capable of staying open on their own. It’s morning and the station is once again bustling with life. Travelers wander in and out the front doors, some with bags, some with children, all in a hurry.

  “Ma’am?” he asks again. I’m obviously making his job difficult. “You need to move. You’re blocking the way of other passengers.”

  I swing my head around, finding myself curled around my bag, snoozing in the middle of the station. Travelers step around me; I’m sure more than a few have stepped over me, side glance of either pity or annoyance coloring their expressions. I don’t know how I ended up in the middle of the main thoroughfare. I thought I’d fallen asleep in the back corner of the station. Then again, I have been known to toss and turn in my sleep, even when not stretched thin and running on fumes.

  My voice is scratchy and hoarse as it frees itself of my throat. “Sorry.” I pick myself up off the floor and begin dusting off my clothes.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” With a sigh of relief, the station attendant turns to walk away.