by Amy Harmon
“How do you do that?”
“What? Paint them?”
“Yeah.”
“Practice.”
“So did you match the shorts and the toes on purpose?” I looked up at her to see her response.
“Of course.” She smiled, but her voice remained a whisper, almost as if she too was afraid to disturb the charged air that buzzed around us. I rose from my haunches, leaving only a few inches between our bodies.
“Why?” It seemed so unimportant, so insignificant for something that must take a lot of effort. And she couldn’t even see the results.
“It’s all about the little things . . . haven’t you learned that, big guy?” She said big guy the way I said sweetheart.
“When did your mom die, Millie?” My voice was soft, even softer than my hands had been on her body.
“When I was eighteen. She’d been sick for about two years. She shouldn’t have made it that long. But she knew she had to make it until then. I had to be a legal adult in order to be Henry’s guardian.”
“So who takes care of Millie?” I whispered.
“I don’t need to be taken care of, Tag,” she whispered back. “I’ve been trying to tell you that.”
“Need and want are two different things.” I swallowed once, trying to convince myself that I didn’t want what I wanted very, very much. When I made no move to take it, Millie stepped into me and carefully slid her arms around my waist. My heart was pounding in my chest and she laid her cheek against it, listening. I couldn’t hide from her. She was blind yet she saw every damn thing. Almost as carefully, I wrapped my arms around her too, loosely, gently, my big hands resting on her slim back.
“Can I ask you something, Tag?” Her voice was plaintive and small as if she were speaking to my heart which lay directly beneath her lips. Its galloping response should have been enough. Maybe it was, because she didn’t wait for my lips to answer. “Are you afraid to kiss me?”
“Why would I be afraid?” I was so damn afraid.
“Because kissing a blind girl is like stealing from a beggar or lying to a priest, don’t you know? Like hitting a child or drowning a kitten? It’s one of those unpardonable sins.”
I swore beneath my breath, half-tempted to laugh at her audacity, half-angry that she was so astute.
“Or maybe you think it’s like pulling on that loose string only to unravel an entire sweater. One of those things that is innocent but has dire consequences.”
“That’s not it, Millie,” I lied.
“That is it, Tag. And don’t insult me by assuming that I need some sort of guarantee just because I can’t see. If I were any other girl, you would have had my clothes on the floor by now. It’s a kiss, Tag. Not a promise signed in blood. A kiss.”
When I gently pushed her away from me, forcing her to lift her head from my chest, I could see the hurt slam across her face, and her eyelids fluttered closed as if to protect what was already lost. But she misunderstood. I was creating space to move, not distance. I slid my fingers along the sides of her face, cradled her head in my hands, and laid my lips across hers. She clutched at my wrists, a small gasp escaping from her mouth before I swallowed it up, adding it to the fear that still hummed in my chest.
Her lips were soft and her mouth was slightly sweet, and for a few seconds I was hyper-aware of the smallest details, the rasp of my whiskered chin against her smooth cheek as my mouth whispered over hers, the silky heat of her breath hitching in anticipation, a strand of her hair tickling my face as I applied the gentlest of pressures to her lips. And then she leaned into me hungrily, demanding more, and the details blurred into the heady experience of wanting and being wanted.
My stomach dipped and my hands slid from her face to her waist before my arms wrapped around her slim form, gripping her tightly, trying desperately not to lose control, trying valiantly to maintain emotional indifference as my body waved the white flag. Then my thoughts were overpowered by sensation, and I didn’t think at all.
Millie didn’t just kiss me, she traced me, holding my face to her mouth as her fingertips curled into my skin, the brush of her fingers and her mouth peeling away my resistance, sinking into my flesh until I was panting against her lips, my tongue tangling with hers, her feet dangling above the floor as I lifted her off her feet. I urged her legs around me in an attempt to get closer than we already were, and she acquiesced, her legs encircling me as tightly as my arms embraced her. Then I was stumbling out of the bathroom, gripping her to me, cradling her like a child I was desperate to protect, kissing her like a woman I was suddenly hell-bent on having, and falling across her bed like my legs had been shot out from beneath me.
My hands slid beneath her tank top, palming the satiny skin of her abdomen before pushing her bloodied shirt past the swell of her breasts and over her head, tearing my mouth from hers to yank it free, pulling the pins from her hair as I went so that it fell in dark waves across her shoulders and around her head, an inky pool against the white comforter. And my breath caught in my chest. My hands stilled and my heart tripped, thudding heavily against my ribs.
I pushed myself up and off her, bracing myself above her so I could stare down at the girl beneath me. Dark hair, smooth skin, full breasts. I swallowed, throat closing with an emotion that felt more like love than lust. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, waiting for me to come back. She didn’t cover herself or reach for me. She just waited.
A door slammed downstairs.
“Tag!” Axel bellowed. Millie jerked, and I was across the room, yanking open drawers, looking for a clean shirt to cover what I’d just unwrapped. She was suddenly there beside me, gently pushing me aside as she found what I was looking for and slid it over her head without missing a beat.
“Tag!” Axel sounded desperate, and I wondered if he was trying to hold back a panicked Henry.
“Henry needs to see that you’re okay, Millie.” But she was already headed for the door, moving with such surety and purpose that I marveled for a moment before I shook myself awake and followed her out of the room.
Axel and Henry stood at the base of the stairs, Axel holding on to Henry, trying to comfort and contain him. When they saw me and Millie above them, Axel let Henry go, cursing in relieved Swedish. Henry raced up the stairs, barreling into his sister, who heard his flight and braced herself, wrapping her thin arms around him as he flung himself against her.
“I’m okay, Henry. I’m okay. I just cut my finger. You should have talked to me, Henry, before running out of the house so late at night! I didn’t even know you were awake. You should have let me explain.”
“A baseball has exactly 108 stitches,” Henry whispered and buried his head in his sister’s shoulder.
“I don’t need stitches, Henry. I’m fine. I promise.” She smoothed her hand over his messy hair and held him tightly.
“Everything okay then?” Axel shifted his weight and reached for the door handle, as if Henry’s distress had worn him out. I descended the stairs and extended my hand to my friend.
“Yeah, Axel. Thanks. I owe you one, man.”
Axel nodded and grasped my hand, the relief still evident in his quick smile. “I couldn’t convince him everything was all right.”
“It’s okay. He’s had it tough. He had no reason to expect good news, poor kid,” I said, my voice low, meant only for his ears. Axel nodded again, and releasing my hand, slid out the door into the night, calling his goodbye to Henry, who lifted his hand but didn’t lift his head from Millie’s shoulder.
I left Henry in Millie’s consoling hands and went in search of rags and disinfectant, determined to rid the house of blood stains and bad memories. I threw myself into wiping down the kitchen, unloading and reloading the dishwasher while I was at it. Then I followed the blood trail up the stairs, through Millie’s room, and into the bathroom, trying not to think about what would have happened had Axel not arrived with Henry when he did. I could hear the sounds of Millie’s voice mixed with ESPN commentar
y, seeping out from beneath Henry’s door and sorted through my jumbled emotions by scrubbing the sink and taking an old toothbrush to the tiles on the bathroom floor. I removed the contents from the medicine cabinet, making careful note of how it was organized so I could return it to the same place, enabling Millie to locate everything when I was done. I finished up by cleaning the toilet and the shower for good measure.
“It smells like pine sol and sap in here.” Millie stood in the door, smiling softly.
“Ah. My signature fragrance,” I joked, though it fell flat. I’d left my good humor back at the bar, abandoned it when Henry staggered through the door in his pajamas, and I hadn’t had a chance to retrieve it. I stood washing my hands, but I didn’t turn around. My hands were red from cleaning, but my nerves were raw, and I didn’t really trust myself with Millie right now.
“Henry okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Henry’s okay. Are you?” Her voice was timid. I didn’t answer immediately, and she waited me out, listening to me wash my hands and turn off the water before I finally spoke.
“When my sister disappeared, I kept thinking I’d come home one day, and she’d be there. Just a misunderstanding. A bad dream.” I found her reflection in the little oval mirror, my eyes clinging to her face before forcing myself to look away. Tonight had made me feel like the old Tag. The sixteen-year-old Tag who lost his sister and couldn’t save her.
“I’m glad Henry’s okay.” I was glad Henry’s sister was okay too. I was so glad. So ridiculously, tearfully, gratefully glad.
I felt Millie’s hand brush my back tentatively, finding me, and then she slid her arms around my waist and laid her head against me.
“Thank you, David. I don’t know why you are so good to us. But you are. And I’m not going to question it. I’m just going to be grateful.” I felt the press of her body against my back as her arms tightened briefly. Then she stepped back, releasing me, and I bore down on the desire that whooshed through me like a blow torch, only to curse at the heat, turn on her, slam the door, and back Millie up against it.
“Damn it, Millie!” I groaned into her hair. “Why do you have to be so damn sweet?” My lips were on her forehead, on her cheeks, nuzzling her neck before I found her mouth and forgot to be gentle.
She matched my fervor, biting at my lower lip before I licked into her mouth and felt a tremor run down her body. I wanted to feel her naked skin on mine, to pull her to the floor and shove our clothes aside, but I braced my hands above her head instead, gripping the door so I wouldn’t touch her, so I wouldn’t start something I had no business finishing. And I would finish if I started. If I saw her laying beneath me again, her hair spread around her, her hands pulling me to her, I would finish. And I couldn’t go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because regardless of what Millie said, insult or not, Amelie Anderson—beautiful, brave, and freaking BLIND—wasn’t the kind of girl you played. She wasn’t the kind of girl you played around with. I’d flirted. I had. But I hadn’t harmed. She said she didn’t need guarantees, but she sure as hell did. She sure as hell deserved them. And I wasn’t there yet. My body was. My body had been there and back multiple times. My body was running circles around my heart, raging at me, mocking me, begging me to get with the program.
But as ridiculously, gratefully, tearfully glad as I was that she was okay, I wasn’t there yet.
I wrenched my mouth away and buried my face in her hair.
“Are you a virgin, Millie?” I asked, my voice hoarse, my hands still braced above her head.
She froze, the hands that were curled against my chest, suddenly falling to her sides.
“Are you?” she asked primly.
I half-laughed, half-groaned at her sass and kissed the top of her head. The laughter burst the ball of tension in my gut, and I exhaled the residue in a long sigh.
“No, Millie. I’m not. Not by a long shot. Are you?” I repeated the question.
“No.”
“You’re lying. You have a little groove between your eyebrows and you’re biting your lip. Those are your tells.”
“My tells?”
“Yep. Don’t ever play poker, sweetheart.” I stepped back, my arms falling to my sides, mimicking her posture. I pulled Millie forward so I could open the bathroom door she still leaned against. “It’s got to be close to two a.m. I need to go before I get careless. I’ll say goodnight to Henry and be on my way.”
Millie’s back stiffened and her chin lifted slightly, another tell, but she followed me out without a word. I’d embarrassed her, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, so I held my tongue and kept my hands to myself. I stuck my head into Henry’s room, only to discover him asleep, sprawled across his narrow bed, the highlight reel flickering across his face from the TV on the opposite wall.
“The San Francisco Giants have won the 2012 World Series! The Giants have taken it all!” the announcer crowed, and I realized he’d been watching a replay. Baseball season was long over. I wondered if Henry hoped to catch a glimpse of his dad, Giants alumni, one of baseball’s brightest lights. Too bad he was an asshole. Too bad Henry still cared.
I closed the door softly and made my way down the stairs, suddenly weary, my muscles achy, my neck stiff, my mind troubled. “He’s never called, never contacted you? Not even since your mom passed away?”
Millie knew who I was referring to, though I had asked the question without clarifying. She shrugged as if it meant very little to her. “No. His lawyer called once, verifying that Henry and I were still here. Verifying that I was Henry’s guardian. After that, the money doubled. He just sends money. Month after month, we get a check. I’m sure it makes him feel better about himself. Some people can’t handle it, you know. The disappointment, the baggage, the responsibility that comes with having children with disabilities. He couldn’t.” Millie’s voice was cool and her posture was straight as a board.
“Huh.” I leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, Millie.” I let myself out, and was halfway down the street before I realized Millie probably thought I was one of those people—the people who couldn’t handle it.
Moses
I NEVER KNEW my dad. I never knew my mom, for that matter. I knew who she was though. I knew her name, her life, her family, her weaknesses. Her name was Jennifer Wright, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, white girl with a crack habit. She had me, she left me, and she died. We had a three day relationship that didn’t include exchanging important information, and she was the only one who knew who my dad was. He was dark-skinned—I’d inherited that much—and that was all I had to go on.
I wondered about him sometimes. Where he was, who he was, how he was. I wondered if he had any clue he had a son. Wondered if he would like to be a grandfather. Wondered if he liked to paint. Wondered if he looked like me. I wondered. I guess it’s just human nature.
Millie knew who her dad was. He knew who she was. He knew where she was. But he’d chosen to distance himself from her and from his son, and I wondered if that wasn’t worse. Odds are, my father hadn’t had a clue. Odds are, he hadn’t chosen to abandon me. I could give him the benefit of the doubt. Henry and Millie didn’t have that luxury.
I’d stepped out of the room when Tag had described running through the house, following a trail of blood. It made my palms itch and my neck hot, his descriptions and feelings too reminiscent of the time I’d walked through my own house to find tragedy had struck. Plus, I’d noticed the heat on Millie’s skin and the way her finger hovered over the buttons on the tape recorder, as if readying herself to push stop when things got too personal. Georgia had followed me from the room, and though Millie must have heard us go, she didn’t stop us.
Even Henry vacated the living room with us, trailing us into the kitchen. He hadn’t said anything about Tag’s absence, hadn’t asked questions, and I wondered how much Millie was telling him. He wasn’t listening to Tag’s tapes. When he wasn’t at school, he sat with earphones on his head, listening to podcasts, watching You
Tube videos, or he was up in his room playing the Xbox, cocooning himself in his own activities.
“Researchers have found that saturated fat intake increases sixteen percent among sports fans after their team loses a big game,” Henry said matter-of-factly, as he opened the freezer and eyed a huge tub of rocky road ice cream. I wasn’t sure if he was just making conversation, making a larger statement about loss, or if he was just hungry.
“Do you need dinner? We could order a pizza or something,” I volunteered.
Henry inclined his head toward the crock pot on the counter top, and I noticed belatedly that the kitchen smelled warm and spicy.
“Amelie made chili. Lots of chili. Major League Baseball fans consume approximately ten million chili dogs per year.”
“Well, Kathleen is hungry, and chili dogs aren’t on her menu,” Georgia replied, putting Kathleen’s seat on the counter and digging in the overflowing bag she lugged everywhere, looking for something to feed her. Kathleen let out a yowl of impatience.
Henry shut the freezer on the ice cream temptation and pulled a stack of bowls from the cupboard. We were clearly invited for dinner. He took crackers and sour cream and cheese from the fridge, setting things out, stealing looks at Kathleen as her complaining gained momentum.
“Kathleen doesn’t look like you,” Henry said suddenly, staring at me.
“Uh, no. She doesn’t. Not really,” I stammered, not knowing what else to say. Without another word, Henry turned and left the kitchen. I heard him run up the stairs and looked at Georgia who met my gaze with bafflement.
“Did you hear that, woman?” I asked Georgia. “Henry doesn’t think Kathleen looks like me. You got something to tell me?”
Kathleen shrieked again. Georgia wasn’t moving fast enough with the jar of bananas she’d produced.
Georgia smirked and stuck out her tongue at me, and Kathleen bellowed. Georgia hastily dipped the tiny spoon into the yellow goo and proceeded to feed our little beast, who wailed as she inhaled.
