Higher Ground

by Nan Lowe

  Once that was settled, she started talking out the list of people I should send graduation announcements to. Neither of us took notes, but the sound of her voice and her full attention kept me talking. For a few moments there with her, Oliver and my recent mistakes were the last things on my mind.

  After that, I stopped arguing about the terms of my punishment. I stopped asking to do things and making them tell me no. My afternoons were spent at rehab, the zoo, or with Miss Verity. She tried to show me how to cook my favorite dinners and desserts, but I was hopeless in the kitchen. Dad continued to ignore me, but Mom talked to me every night, even if it was only a quick hello or to ask how my day was. Sometimes, a simple answer would encourage her to come into my room and sit for a while. Other nights, she sensed my need to be alone.

  As much as I wanted to hate Oliver, I didn’t.

  And that was hard.

  It hurt to see him at school, aloof and shady as ever. He didn’t bother to hide he’d long moved on, many times over with many different partners in crime. The only good thing was that no one looked at me in the halls anymore. To everyone but Van, Penn, Troya, Celeste, and Sonny, I was invisible.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wade reaches for my hand and pulls me close. His lips rest on my hair for a moment, and then he tucks me under his arm and walks toward home instead of the movie theater.

  “How ’bout a raincheck on the movie?” he asks.

  “Okay.” Talk of an almost-baby and my STI history killed my good mood, anyway.

  He’s quiet as we walk—too quiet, considering his eagerness to discuss the other things I’ve shared with him the last few days. Beneath the street lights, I glance down and wonder if Wade sees Oliver on my skin when he looks at me now.

  He leads me to Piedmont Park and stops at the entrance. For weeks, we’ve been saying it would be fun to walk through the Botanical Garden’s holiday light show in the park.

  “We can walk and talk for a while, maybe get some hot chocolate,” he says. “A movie isn’t how I want to spend my last night with you.” Despite the warmth in his tone, his words bring back the unease and unexplained dread.

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  He pays and holds my hand as we walk into a wonderland full of bright, funky displays.

  “How long were Van and George together?” Wade asks as we wait in line for cocoa. His hands slide into my jacket pockets, and he hugs me close with his cheek against mine.

  “They were friends—only friends—until Van turned seventeen,” I say. “Then they were together for two years. It was a good breakup, though. They’re still close after all this time.”

  Some people are lucky enough to end things well. My brother still loves George in the muted, different-life way that Wade probably still cares about Hillary. Not all relationships have to end in wreckage and burned bridges, even if all of mine do.

  “That’s good.” Wade takes the steaming cups while I drop the change into my purse. He waits, watching me fasten it and then tuck it under my arm.

  I warm both hands by clutching the hot cup and follow the crowd toward a lane of blue-and-green-lit crape myrtles. Wade keeps pace next to me, leaning over every now and then to point at his favorite hues. Slowly, we make our way through the exhibits until we get to the Great Lawn.

  It’s covered with hundreds of fiberglass orbs that move and change color according to the beat of the accompanying music, and we find an empty bench to sit on and enjoy the show. Laughing kids and Christmas songs echo around us, but Wade angles his body toward me to tell me about the Christmas he spent with his parents and grandparents at Dollywood in Tennessee.

  By the time we leave the park at closing, my worries have faded. They’re erased by small touches, smiles, and the easy way Wade’s arm wraps around my waist to keep me close during the walk through Midtown Atlanta, back to our life in the sky.

  At our building, he holds open the door for me, like always, but looks nervous as we make our way over to the elevator. I’ve never seen him watch the numbers descend the way he does tonight, and the sigh that escapes him is an audible one after the doors have closed behind us and he’s pushed the button for our floor.

  He notices my stare and grins, a small blush creeping across his cheeks. He shrugs and jumps when we suddenly stop and the doors slide open.

  He reaches for my hand, and we exit together. “I can’t bring your gift with me to New Orleans,” he says. “It’s way too heavy. But I can’t stand the thought of not giving it to you before Christmas, so I had to speed things up.” He stops at the door of our apartment and looks at me. “I lied to you last night, and I know you could tell.”

  I nod but stay silent.

  “Scott met me here this afternoon and helped me move it.” At my blank look, he continues. “Your present, I mean. I needed some help.”

  The relief that floods through me is immediate, but it’s then followed closely by guilt. Wade’s never done anything to earn my distrust. All this talk of Oliver has left me unsettled and doubting truths.

  “Okay.” I smile. “Are you going to let me see it?”

  Excitement lights his face, and he turns to unlock the door. We walk in together, and the soft glow of tree lights fills the room. Next to the tree sits an old, but clearly refurbished, card catalogue cabinet.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, remembering a conversation we had about books and libraries one hot summer night years ago.

  “I can only take credit for finding it,” he says. “Scott’s brother stripped and stained it.”

  “I love it.” I step forward to kiss his chin and hold him. “Thank you.”

  “If you’d rather have it in your office, I’ll help you move it before classes start. Scott said we could use his truck anytime.”

  “I think I like it here.”

  “Good.” His lips graze my temple as he helps me out of my jacket.

  “I want to give you your presents now, too,” I say.

  “Mom tucked a bottle of wine away in my bag when I wasn’t looking.”

  “That would be perfect.”

  I follow him into the kitchen and watch him unbutton and roll his sleeves twice, like always. He opens the bottle, fills a glass for me, and catches me staring. “What?” he asks.

  My fingers stroke his, shift, and take the glass he offers. “I’m allowed to stare.”

  He smiles and leans forward to brush his lips over mine. “I’m glad you wanted to skip the movie.”

  “Me, too.” I slide my palm against his, twist our fingers together, and tug. He reaches for a beer with his free hand and follows me out of the kitchen and over to the Christmas tree. There aren’t many gifts left, but we sit next to the tree, anyway.

  Wade stacks the presents going with me to New Orleans in a neat little pile on the couch, while the ones from him to Nick and a couple of other friends are pushed to the back. He smiles when he reads the tag on a small square package wrapped in candy-cane-striped paper. His name’s on it and the larger one next to it that’s wrapped in brown packing paper with green and red ribbons curled and knotted on top. I find two more gifts and push them across the floor so he can reach them.

  “Start with these,” I say. Saving the best for last is my favorite way to give.

  Year after year, a bottle of his favorite cologne is an easy choice. It’s not something he thinks to get for himself but is still something he likes, so it’s a gimme. The next one is playful: a Star Wars auto shade for his car. Next, I give him the large flat one and hold my breath as he rips the brown paper away.

  He stares at the matted and framed blueprints of Turner Field and smiles. “This is perfect,” he says. The print falls into his lap when he reaches for me. “Thank you.”

  “Wait,” I say. “You’re not done.” The last gift is the smallest but carries the biggest bang. He looks surprised at a hardcover copy of his favorite horror novel. “Open it.”

  Inside the front cover, there’s a scribbled message and an autogr
aph. “Holy shit.” His fingers trace the ink as he reads. “How…?”

  “Van and Corey went to a signing in Chicago over the summer. I’ve had it for months.”

  He sets his loot on the couch and pulls me against him. “I’m going to miss you,” he says. His lips tickle the skin below my ear, setting off goosebumps and making me shiver.

  “I’ll miss you, too. I already do.”

  He drops sweet kisses along my cheek until our lips touch. He presses softly, shifts, and slides his tongue against mine. My hands fiddle with his tie, tugging the knot to loosen it, and he helps me by pulling it over his head. He laughs, and I shift onto my knees and straddle his lap.

  His hands cup my ass, and he lifts his hips to give me some much-needed friction while I unbutton his shirt. I push it off and toss it away. Not to be outdone, he lifts my sweater to help me out of it and unhooks my bra as a swift follow-up.

  He stares for a moment and then slowly leans forward. His lips cover my nipple before they part to suck and nibble. My fingers search for hair to tug but come up empty, so I press my nails into the skin at the base of his neck instead. It earns a moan as he lowers me to the ground with his hand supporting the small of my back. His eyes land on my navel first and move slowly to inspect every inch of me. His gaze lingers on my breasts… my neck…

  In the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, he can see everything, and for a moment, I’m scared to look up. I’m worried he’ll feel differently knowing what he knows now. I’ve unloaded a lot of truth over the last few days.

  Uncertainty disappears with the curve of his smile, the way his eyes shine, and the tenderness in his touch. “I love you,” he says.

  He does, and I know it. I feel it. I’ve always felt it.

  “I love you, too.”

  We kiss, long and slow, and my fingers work to unbutton and unzip his pants. He groans when my hand slides over his cock and I squeeze. His hips dig into mine in response. My hand is caught between us, giving him the friction he craves. His eyes close, and he stills.

  “Stop,” he says. “I’m not going to come on your hand. You’re leaving me tomorrow morning, and I want to give you something to think about while you’re gone.”

  He leans back on his heels, underwear tented with his pants shoved down to his thighs. There isn’t much time to enjoy the view, though, since he’s focused on my jeans and getting me out of them. He takes my underwear with them when he pulls the last pieces of clothing away from my body.

  Impatient, he leans forward to kiss me again. Both of us work to push away his pants, and he kicks until he’s free, dragging the head of his cock across my thigh and leaving a sticky trail of want. My legs part in invitation, and he uses his hand to drag the tip up and down over my aching pussy but not inside.

  Determined not to let him tease me for long, I keep my lips on his body—his lips, his neck, the skin of his shoulder. He stills when he notices my ring on the chain.

  “Thank God you said yes,” he says.

  “Of course I said yes.”

  He lowers his body to mine and guides his cock slowly. There’s a slight push followed by retreat, and then he goes deeper. He takes his time, giving me more with each stroke, until he’s grounded, and then there’s a sweet pause before he moves again. My knees lift to cradle his sides as his body slides against mine. I shift to take him deeper, and he rewards me with harder and faster.

  The smile on his face is wicked when I come. It spurs him on, and he keeps going long after I’ve calmed. When he finally stalls, he rolls us until he’s on his back and I’m above him. I start slowly, circling my hips and watching him watch me. One of his hands settles on my thigh, and the other brushes the skin beneath my navel. His thumb glides down until it settles on my clit.

  I falter, but he keeps guiding me, pushing and pulling with the rhythm I’ve set, thumb pressing and circling. He thrusts and stills as he comes, so I take over and move my fingers with his to follow.

  “Holy shit,” he says, smiling and out of breath.

  I lean down to rest my head on his sweat-dampened chest. “I’m definitely going to think about that.”

  He laughs and reaches for his discarded t-shirt. “Good,” he says, shifting me off him and gently placing the fabric between my legs.

  Wrapped up in each other and the glow of twinkle lights, we stay on the floor longer than we should. I don’t want to, but after a while, I’m forced to break the spell.

  “I still have to pack,” I say.

  “Don’t get up.” His arm tightens around me. “Not yet.”

  “I have to. I have to call for a ride by 7:00.”

  He rolls over onto his side and gazes down at me. “I’m sorry I can’t go with you. Still no takers for Christmas Eve.” The obvious disappointment in his eyes makes my throat close.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I like this,” he says, lifting my ring to inspect the chain. “I’m glad you want to wear it.”

  “We can tell everyone right now, if you want to,” I say. “I wanted to tell Wren at least three times today. I don’t know how I’m going to keep it from Van. He can read me like a book. And let’s be real; Miss Verity probably knew before I did.”

  He laughs. “My family knows already. We’ll do whatever you want.” He drops a sweet kiss on the tip of my nose before rising onto his knees. His palm sits outstretched in front of me, and I slide my fingers over the smooth skin of his hand and let him help me up.

  “I think I need a quick shower,” I say. “You should join me.”

  “I should,” he agrees.

  He’s quicker than I am, so he washes first while I watch. Trails of soap on his broad shoulders and toned abs make me pause in appreciation. I’m here because Wade hooked me with words and patience. His physique is a bonus.

  I sigh at the thought of being away from him. He switches places with me and pulls the shower curtain enough to step out. It takes a few extra minutes for me to shave my legs and wash my hair, and by the time I make it out of the bathroom, he’s curled on his side, breathing heavy and sound asleep.

  My suitcase is still packed with clothes from the weekend, so I empty it and toss the laundry into a basket in the closet. Wade will wash it with his stuff, and if I get to New Orleans and realize I missed something, he can bring it when he comes in a few days. I tuck the few gifts I’m travelling with between sweaters and pajama pants.

  Once everything is packed, I make my way through the apartment to lock up for the night. Wrapping paper and clothes litter the living room floor. My new cabinet shines in the light from the tree, and my hand automatically grips the ring Wade put on my finger this weekend. My hands shake when I release it to reach back to unfasten the necklace. It feels good to slide the cool metal over my knuckle and into place.

  This is the best Christmas.

  A rare burst of bravery shoots through me, and I reach for my phone and open the camera. I rest my hand on the corner of the wood and make sure both of my presents and the lit tree are in view. One of the three pictures I take is good, and before I can talk myself out of it, I open the Facebook app, tag Wade in the photo, and post it.

  The notifications start immediately, but instead of reading or responding to them, I turn off the phone and take care of the mess. It feels like I’m forgetting something, so I check my suitcase, do a final walkthrough of my closet, and find my old backpack to use as a carry-on.

  The book Wade bought for me in Savannah is on the dresser across the room. It reminds me of another book to take: Oliver’s. I’ll give it to Van to give to Troya. If he won’t, then my parents can add it to their collection.

  I want it out of my apartment.

  For now, I leave it, the ghost book, and my backpack on the chair in the corner. I’ll pack them up with my makeup and other necessities in the morning.

  Wade rolls over to wrap an arm around my waist once I’m in the bed.

  “Sorry if I woke you,” I whisper.

  “Don’t be.�
� He kisses me softly without ever opening his eyes and then drifts off to sleep again.

  This time, I follow easily, surrounded by his warmth and the smell of his skin, and sleep soundly through the night.

  A shift of the mattress wakes me before my alarm goes off. After blinking and throwing an arm out to search for Wade next to me, it registers that he’s already up and sitting on the end of the bed, freshly showered with damp hair. I push the covers away and shift forward onto my knees to press my chest against the back of his white dress shirt. My lips graze his cheek, but he’s staring down at something in his lap.

  An open book. The dedication from Oliver.

  Wade stands and steps away from me. My hands fall into my lap as I watch him, still and silent with my book—Oliver’s book—in his hands.

  “This was published right before the five-year anniversary of Katrina in 2010,” he says.

  “It was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  He turns to face me, pale and wary, and the stirring in my gut explodes into chaos. “When was the last time you saw Oliver?” he asks.

  I swallow, close my eyes, and then take a deep breath. I’ve been unfair to the man standing in front of me. I let him fall in love with parts of me and never offered him the whole.

  Because I didn’t trust him. Not really.

  I’ve never trusted him to love me, the real me.

  I’m no better than Oliver, twisting and hiding transgressions. And now the impossible choice: truth or lie? Wade might not ever know the difference.

  But I would.

  “Four years ago,” I answer. “He came to Atlanta four years ago.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Then

  A month passed, and my parents finally allowed Troya to come over after school a few days a week. They also gave me back my phone. Both of them stood and watched as I deleted Oliver’s contact information at their instruction. Dad still hadn’t spoken to me away from the dinner table since the night he picked me up from juvy. I thought about apologizing once or twice, but I chickened out. He seemed happy to ignore me.