Love Me Like You Do: Books That Keep You In Bed

by Fields, MJ

  The look in his eyes was filled with honesty, a passion for life in the outdoors. It was as if his peace was found in the solace of a campground.

  “I’ve never been. I don’t think I’m exactly the roughing-it kinda girl.”

  “Nah, you’d love it. I’ll take you. I promise, it will be the best weekend of your life.” He gave me a wink. “Hey, is that coconut you’re wearing?”

  “It’s my perfume.”

  “You smell delicious.”

  And there went that erratic-heart thing again. A tingle ran straight down to my toes. A tingle that should not have been there.

  I raced over to him and stole the ball from his hands. Instead of shooting it, I ran away, begging for him to chase me.

  And he did.

  Adam chased me around the driveway, laughing and smiling, hunting me down. I dipped and swayed to get away, but he managed to bear hug me mid run, causing us to walk in tandem—me holding on to the ball, him holding on to me.

  We came to a standstill. He was pressed hard into me, the curves of his lean body molding into my soft frame. His grip grew firmer, but he was no longer trying to take the ball.

  My chest rose, hard and fast. His head fell to my neck, hot breath on my skin. I closed my eyes, and all I could do was feel. Feel Adam clenching on to me. Feel his heart beating against my back. Feel the odd sense of want I had when I was around him.

  I couldn’t move a muscle because I didn’t want him to let go.

  “Leah?” His lips brushed my neck.

  “Yeah?” My word came out breathy.

  “What’s happening between us?”

  I swallowed, despite my dry throat. “I don’t know.”

  “I want to turn you around, but if I do, I’ll kiss you, and there will be no turning back.”

  His arm held me tighter. My body melted further into his.

  “Then, don’t turn me around.” I pleaded to God for him not to.

  “Because you don’t want me to kiss you?”

  “Because I do.”

  Adam’s mouth brushed my neck. A tiny kiss on the skin just below my ear. A morsel of a caress that shook my body like an avalanche.

  “Why do you let him treat you the way he does? Why do you wait for him when I’m right here?” he breathed.

  Why did I wait on Brad? Because I was faithful. Because, even though I was just learning what love was, I knew that when you made a promise to someone, you kept it.

  “Hey, babe,” Brad’s voice called out from behind us.

  Adam grabbed the ball out of my hands and dribbled it to the hoop for a dunk. He retrieved the ball and then walked over to Brad, pretending the moment we’d shared didn’t happen.

  The two spoke for a minute, and when my legs finally decided to move, I walked up to them.

  “Hey.” Brad cautiously eyed me.

  I would think it was because of the moment he’d witnessed between Adam and me, but most likely, it was because I hadn’t spoken to him all week.

  “Hi,” I said, looking at his right eye.

  The corner looked like he had a broken blood vessel.

  “I was hoping we could catch a movie?” he asked.

  “You said you couldn’t hang out tonight.”

  “I feel good.” Brad looked down at his phone. His jet-black hair was styled back in perfection. “Thought I’d hang out with my girl.” He swung his arm around me and tried to pull me in.

  Adam just dribbled the ball in front of us. I nodded and moved further into Brad’s side.

  “Just no McConaughey flicks, okay?” Brad said as we walked to his car.

  That was the last night I spent with Brad. If I were wiser, I’d have realized his demeanor was off, his frame thinner than usual. I went with him so easily because we hadn’t been on a date in weeks. The new friends he had been meeting up with were anonymous to me, yet I never questioned it. I never thought to. I was too busy spending time and playing basketball with another boy with copper hair and onyx eyes.

  Brad died later that week.

  Everything changed after that.

  Suzanne says I should talk about Brad. Really talk about what happened. I’m surprised I’m even allowing myself to travel down memory lane with visions of basketball with Adam. To go further, to acknowledge the most painful memories. . .

  I let out a deep sigh and continue to work.

  With clean brushstrokes, I do everything I can to make the front porch look as perfect as possible for the war veteran who will soon call this place home.

  When the columns have their first coat of paint, I try to reach up inside the awning, but I can’t quite reach it. Climbing up onto a stepladder, I stretch my entire body, every inch I can, but there’s still one spot on the top corner. I try to jump to reach it, but the ladder wobbles, and I hold my breath until I’m sure I’m not going to fall.

  “Here, let me get that,” Adam’s deep voice says from behind me.

  “Yeah, thanks.” I step down from the ladder and hand him the can and brush, our fingers touching just barely in the hand off. I keep my head looking the other way.

  Adam steps up and gets the naked spot with ease. Despite the long day, he smells delicious. Like cologne and soap mixed with sweat and a hard day’s work—the way a real man should smell.

  “You wanna stay and do another coat or head out of here?” he asks, turning to me.

  “I’d like to stay,” I say.

  His mouth widens in a closed mouth smile.

  I grab a clean brush from a nearby bucket, dip it into the paint, and start the second coat. I squat down and work on the sideboards. Adam steps down from the ladder and moves to the space next to me, working on the higher areas. My shoulder is just inches from his knee, my head in close proximity to his thigh. What I thought was a peaceful experience has now turned into a buzzing loud moment of uncomfortable silence.

  I stay crouched down for as long as I can, but my brush has long since run out of paint. I rise, and just before I’m about to motion for the paint can, Adam holds it out. I dip my brush in and go back down to the ground.

  I need paint again, but this time, before I rise, Adam lowers his arm toward me, and the can is within reach. The look on his face is of casual understanding. I give a small nod in thanks and go back to work.

  We work like this for a while. Two people painting a front patio in silence, yet speaking to each other with slight hand movements, nods, and glances.

  He works up high, me down low. The setting sun casts a faint orange hue on the white paint.

  When the base is complete, I move higher. Adam moves lower. When I reach to get a new area, my shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t shift out of the way. When he turns around to work on the door, his back rubs up against mine. I don’t step away.

  I glide higher, and he dips lower.

  I slide to the left, and he makes his way closer to the right.

  We dance in a circle.

  Funny thing about trying to distance yourself from someone when you’re in a tight space is, the further you move away from each other, the closer you become.

  Shoulder-to-shoulder. Brush-to-brush. Same wall, same level, same place.

  When the last spot is complete, I appraise the porch, and I’m happy with the progress we made today. The Montgomerys will be able to move in soon. That feels pretty damn good.

  Looking up, above the front door, under the eave of the roof, I notice an area is rough and rugged. It was a spot too high for me. Adam must have painted it.

  The longer I stare at it, the more I realize, it’s not rough at all. It’s carved wood, and there’s an inscription in it.

  Drawing closer, I rise up on my tiptoes and squint my eyes to read it better.

  For the heart finds comfort in the moments cherished

  with the touch of a hand.

  The words sound familiar. A poem? A lyric? I step back and bite my lip, trying to recall where I heard those words before. No, not heard. I’ve seen those words before. Written
down in a notebook a long time ago. Words written by someone I once loved.

  I spin around and face Adam.

  “Those are Brad’s words,” I say.

  He gives a half-smile and looks up at the wood. “Didn’t know if you’d remember.”

  “Remember? He was a beautiful writer. He never let anyone read his poems though.”

  “Except for you,” Adam says. “He let you read them.”

  My eyes slightly mist over. Brad kept a notebook in his room where he wrote his feelings down. He was creative and artistic at an age when I couldn’t appreciate just how special his talents were.

  “Why is that quote there?” I ask, pointing to the wood.

  “Every house is inscribed with something he wrote. Tomorrow, when the paint dries, I’ll go over the letters with a darker paint.”

  “All three of these homes have Brad’s words on them?”

  “Yes,” Adam says, “and every other home ever built by Homes for All Souls.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “How many is that?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  My mouth drops down. “You mean, there are twenty-eight homes with his quotes written on them? The same quote or different ones?”

  “All different.” Adam puts his hands in his pockets and nudges his head. “Come on, I’ll show you the other two that are here.”

  He walks down the stairs as I blink, still amazed. When Adam gets to the bottom of the stairs, he looks back at me, asking with his eyes if I’m coming.

  I walk down the steps, and when I get to him, we walk side by side to the second home.

  Don’t fear the unknown of tomorrow when you can live the joy of today.

  I blow out a deep breath of air from my lips. I remember when he wrote that one. “Your dad was diagnosed with cancer. Everyone was devastated. Except for your dad.” I let out a laugh at the odd memory. “He had this lawn sign that said, I’m telling cancer to fuck off. Honk if you love cold beer.”

  It was the strangest thing, but it worked. Every day, you could hear cars honking in front of their house. And each honk would make Mr. Reingold smile.

  “Brad said your dad was the bravest man he ever knew. He wrote that quote in an essay for school. Got an A-plus.” I smile wide, and when I look over at Adam, I see he’s not sharing my joy.

  I continue, “There’s a Matthew McConaughey quote. ‘I’m gonna keep on keepin’ on and let my soul fly. If even for just the day.’ It reminds me of your dad. Reminds me of Brad. Reminds me of you.” I fidget with my arms. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m saying something wrong.” I cross my arms in front of my body. “You look at me like every word out of my mouth is the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard.”

  His brows tilt in. “I do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s not what I think,” he says calmly.

  “Really? Because your actions speak volumes.” My voice rises at the end.

  “That’s not what I think at all.”

  I look down and shuffle my foot a bit. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think that those nights in my driveway are some of the best memories of my life.”

  My hand runs over my collarbone as I take in his confession. I bite my lip, wondering how two people as close as we were became the emotional strangers we are today.

  “For years, I’ve watched you walk into the bar and shake your head in disapproval,” I say, my eyes fixed on the wood planks of the porch floor. “I know when you crinkle your brows, it means you’re thinking the worst of the person you’re looking at. I know that when you are annoyed, you clench your fists and hold them tight to your sides. I know that when you’re angry, you pull at the ends of your hair. I know this because that’s how you look when you’re around me.”

  I take a breath. Those words came flying out of nowhere. I hadn’t been prepared to say them.

  Adam runs his hand through his hair and looks out to the field. His back now to me, he places both hands on the railing, bowing his head down.

  “I was more preoccupied with helping you than seeing the obvious signs that Brad was in trouble. I knew he was running with the wrong crowd, but…” He pauses, sounding almost afraid to make the admission. “I was the best friend. I knew he was spending too much time alone. He stopped writing, stopped hanging out with his friends, and ignored his girl. He stopped living.”

  “It all happened so fast—”

  “I ignored the signs because I was more concerned with…” His chest is rising up and down, his eyes looking at me with a plea. “Other things.” The words are out of his mouth so fast that I almost miss them.

  I place a hand on top of his. I know I shouldn’t, but I need to. And I think he needs to be touched as well.

  Slowly, his eyes travel from staring at the ground to moving up until they are locked with mine. A haze is cast over his eyes. They look like glass, and all I see inside of them is me.

  “There was nothing you could have done. Nothing any of us could have done. We were young. Drugs weren’t something we were familiar with. We didn’t know the signs. No one did. Especially not you.” I squeeze his hand tighter, letting him know I’m here for him. From now on, this is the way I want to be.

  Real. True. The way we used to be.

  “Why didn’t you go away to school like you’d planned? What changed?” I ask.

  Adam looks down at our hands. I am holding his, but he is not holding mine. He slides it away and then takes a deep breath of air. Stepping back, he looks around at the house, then the field, and then back to me.

  “When Brad was lowered into the ground, I couldn’t stop looking at his mom. Couldn’t stop wondering how many other mothers had buried their children. I wanted to make a difference. Being an architect? Designing buildings? That wasn’t going to keep kids out of the ground. Going after pieces of shit like Nico Martinez, that makes a difference.”

  I look about the land where the homes are being built. “And this? These homes? What is this for?”

  “It’s a way to keep his memory alive.”

  A wave of nostalgia penetrates my heart. I have a memory of Brad and me on a porch swing with a notebook in his hand, his gentle voice reading the words he had written down.

  “For when the day ends and evening’s bleak, may there be a home for all souls to find peace in the long dark of night.”

  Everything Adam has done from the moment Brad died has been in his memory. His career, the way he lives his life, the time he spends building homes. He’s not the monster I thought he’d become. He’s a saint.

  An angel to my devil.

  Seven years of ignoring each other. Seven years of his callous attitude toward me, of me tormenting him with my antics that I knew drove him crazy. Seven years of wasted time all because I just didn’t understand him.

  I walk a few steps toward him but stop so as not to get too close. Being close to him is not what I need.

  “Adam.” His name comes out as a whisper. My words catch in my throat. “I don’t want to hate each other anymore.”

  When I look up at him, those eyes of glass are shining with hope and despair and want and denial, all in one. I was so lost in the boy he once was when in front of me is a spectacular man who is so angry at the world for all the right reasons.

  “Then, let’s not,” he says with a voice so low that I’m glad I’m standing close enough to hear. “And, for the record, it was never you I was angry with.”

  I shake my head in disagreement.

  Adam bites down on his lower lip, his eyes roaming around my face. “You’re better than this town. You were supposed to leave here and make something of yourself.”

  I step back, a sick feeling taking over my stomach. What he’s saying is exactly what everyone thinks. I’m a nobody, a worthless bar rat who doesn’t know better. That is why I keep my passions to myself.

  He reaches out and grabs my arms, pulling m
e back toward him. His chin dips down to mine, his piercing gaze steadfast into my soul. “I know now that I was wrong. That night in the station, you proved me wrong. Last week, you proved me wrong. Today, you shattered me with my ignorance. You’re still the same smart, savvy, crazy girl I did everything I could to see all those years ago.”

  “I thought you were just being a good friend.”

  “Nothing about what I was doing back then was being a good friend.”

  My mouth falls open, and my heart literally stops beating. Okay, not literally, but whatever.

  “What about now?” I ask tentatively. “Can we be friends?”

  I watch as his body stiffens. Apparently, it was the wrong question to ask. He releases me and turns around. I lift my thumb and bite my nail. It’s not like I need more friends. I have plenty. Never have I ever had someone who didn’t want to be my friend. I’m pretty amazing, fun, extraordinary. There are people practically lined around the corner to—

  “Do you want to get something to eat?” he asks.

  I drop my thumb and look up to him. His back is still to me, but his chin is turned into his shoulder.

  “Yes,” I answer too quickly. “I mean, yeah. Sure.”

  He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking down the stairs. I look down at my paint-splattered yoga pants and tank top.

  I gather my things and make my way toward his truck. “I just have to stop home and freshen up.”

  He opens his door. “Don’t worry. Where I’m taking you, no one will see you for miles.”

  Eleven

  We drive down Old West Highway, past the park where Victoria slammed my car into a tree and past the school where my dad teaches English Literature. Ahead, there’s an airfield that was once a military base but is now used for limited commercial flights.

  The fast-food bag is warm on my thighs. We stopped and grabbed two cheeseburgers—his a double bacon, both with fries.

  “Are we going to the airport?” I sip my chocolate shake up the straw.