When We Break

by Piper Lennox

  “So how’d you end up at Walt’s aunt’s house?”

  “Walt,” he says, laughing. It’s quiet, but genuine. “He started bringing me food at school, because I never had any. When his Mom noticed all these boxes of cereal and snack cakes missing she yelled at him, then he told her it was for his friend who never had anything. They called the principal, who called my dad, and he decided it was better for me to go somewhere else.”

  “That must have been really hard.” I squeeze his hand, the way he did to mine under the pier. “Having both your parents give you up.”

  “It was. But I knew Dad didn’t want to do it. He had to. Makes it a little better.” Orion runs his hand through his hair and sighs, like the story’s exhausting him. “Anyway, word got to Walt’s aunt, who’d been fostering kids for, like, over a decade, so she took me in. I kept in touch with my dad the whole time, so he knew about my kidneys as soon as I did. Finally moved back for good, got himself in AA, and I lived with him until I turned eighteen.”

  “Were things better between you guys, after that?”

  “Kind of. We felt more like roommates, by that point. But we got along all right.”

  “Is he still around?”

  Orion sighs again and leans back on his elbows, his entire body draping down the hood. I let go of his hand and lie down against him. “Somewhere. He’s gone in and out of sobriety a few times. I only talk to him and let him see London when I know he’s got it together.”

  He puts his free hand behind his head and shuts his eyes. I follow the line of his jaw with my eyes and try to figure out if he’s still tense, or if he now feels that aftereffect that I did: the weightless feeling, right after the pain.

  “You’re an amazing parent,” I tell him. “Especially knowing what you came from, not having any example of what a parent should be like.”

  “Thank you,” he whispers, giving me another surprised look. This one is softer than before.

  Back in the car, I can tell he’s still in the vulnerable stage of sharing, instead of the good part when it’s over, and you feel the burden lifting—when you feel closer to the person you told. He keeps drawing his lips in to wet them and adjusting the mirrors, even before he starts the engine.

  “I’m glad you told me.” My voice fills up the space like a weather balloon. “It makes me feel less embarrassed about all the stuff I told you.”

  “What? You shouldn’t be embarrassed.”

  “Neither should you.”

  He pauses, no response at the ready.

  “Anyway,” I go on, taking another look at the washed-out sky, “I know this isn’t what either of us expected from a first date, but it is kind of fitting. Think about it: first dates are usually all surface stuff, little superficial things, that playful banter kind of talking.”

  “Are you insulting my banter?”

  I swat his arm while he buckles his seatbelt. “My point is, we already knew most of those little surface things about each other.”

  He looks off past my head, considering this. “Yeah, I guess I could see that. So we’re starting out on Date Ten or Twenty or something, is what you’re saying.”

  I shrug. Close enough. I wouldn’t have picked a number quite so far ahead; there are a few elements about tonight that fall under the First Date category. Like the fireworks still buzzing around my head whenever I think of that kiss on the beach, or the giddy flips my stomach does every time he looks at me, now. But there is a familiarity here there wasn’t before, and I have no idea how many dates it would usually take to reach it. I’ve never gotten that far.

  “Date Twenty,” he repeats, pretending to be lost in thought. “I’ve never waited nineteen dates to kiss a girl. You’re a difficult catch, Miss Harlowe.”

  “You just weren’t trying hard enough,” I smirk under my breath, as the car crawls back to the highway.

  He seems nervous again, more so the closer we get to the Grove.

  “You good?”

  “Yeah.” In the passing lights of the other cars going by, I catch him studying me from his periphery. “Just realizing I’m not ready to take you home.”

  I look at the clock. It’s only ten, and I know the twins will be out at a bloggers’ bar crawl until two, at the earliest.

  “You can take me home,” I tell him, placing my hand on his arm as it rests on the console. Now it’s my turn to trace shapes there, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt. Yet again, he pulls at his tie. “As long as you come up with me.”

  Orion

  My head spins in the best way when Colby grabs my tie in both hands, pulling me down on top of her into her bed.

  I brace one arm and catch myself just an inch above her. Our stares lock and we’re breathing hard, trying to silence it and just listen to the other’s. As soon as I kiss her, she slides her hands up my shoulders and presses her thumbs behind my ears, directly on the softest skin where my nerves suddenly feel raw.

  There’s a scent to her bedroom that’s got me feeling drugged. I can’t pinpoint it as we take turns undressing each other—her hands fumbling with the knot of my tie, but steadying as she slips it over my head; me pushing the straps of her dress down her arms like a present wrapped so well, you have to save the paper.

  It’s when she’s down to her bra and panties in front of me, skin like milk in the light from the window, that it hits me. It’s her smell, the cloud she brings into my apartment every morning, the trail she leaves of her shampoo and perfume and detergent and this, the warm soap smell of this skin I suddenly, finally have my mouth on.

  I’m high on it, flying, consumed by Colby Harlowe in a way I’ve wanted since that afternoon in Kona. Until tonight, I never really believed it would happen. I swore I wouldn’t let it.

  Now, in that way we look back on stupid mistakes, I can’t understand why.

  “There,” she sighs, when I lay her back against the pillows and press my hand between her thighs. I don’t remove her underwear yet. It’s too addictive, watching her lip tremble with every new stage of teasing.

  The taste of her skin is even more of a head-rush than the scent. I draw small circles with my tongue, from her earlobe down to her chest, and savor the faint salt and warm sand taste of the beach. I pretend we’re back in Kona, on the night I could have kissed her and didn’t.

  “What took us so long?” she whispers. I shake my head and tell her I have no idea.

  Eighteen

  Colby

  Orion unhooks my bra with one hand, a feat I’d find impressive, especially since my back is pressed against the mattress, if I weren’t a brick of electric nerves right now. Every touch he grants me doubles the tension inside. I have no idea how he can stand it, but I’m glad he can.

  As intensely as I want him right now, I revel in every trick he uses to prolong the moment: those invisible shapes on my skin, now drawn by his tongue; the sigh muted in his throat whenever I get enough clarity to touch him back through the fabric of his boxers.

  “Can I take your shirt off?” I ask, after he’s spent five torturous minutes trailing his mouth along the top line of my bra, without pulling it down.

  For the first time since we got here, he looks unsure of himself. It’s a very specific expression I’ve seen once before.

  When I caught him coming out of the shower that day, he shifted his towel in a panic—not to the place I expected, but around his stomach. I see his hands migrate there again.

  “I won’t look at the scar if you don’t want me to.” The bra falls to my elbows as I sit up; he barely glances at my bare chest, too focused on my face while I move close. My fingers slip the first button through the hole. He lets me. “Promise.”

  “You can look.” His voice is gravelly and weighted with acceptance; we both knew, as soon as this night took this turn, I’d see it.

  I undo the rest of the buttons and look at him, keeping the stare intact as I gather the fabric at the collar, open his shirt wider, and slip it down his arms.

&nbs
p; “Cuffs,” he reminds me, both of laughing at the tangle near his wrists. I undo them and set his shirt aside, the exact opposite of the way he threw my dress over his shoulder.

  Orion stays perfectly still as I tilt my head and look at his side, just over his hip.

  I reach for the scar without thinking; he flinches.

  But when my fingers make contact with the smooth, marred skin, he relaxes.

  I’m surprised by the tears that reappear in my eyes, even if he isn’t. The feeling blooming in my chest isn’t at all like that panic I felt when I met Amanda, the no-longer-blind woman from Virginia, and looked Eden in the eyes.

  There’s no panic here. Just a strange, still peace as I touch the scar that saved him.

  I used to think I’d give anything to undo that party. Anything to get her back. But as I slide my arms up his chest, his hands holding one of mine over his heart, I thank the universe for making its choice. Not because I don’t miss Eden, or even because I’d do things the same way, if it were up to me. I wouldn’t. I’m just grateful for the fact that, if I had to lose her, I could still find something in the ashes.

  Orion lifts my wrist to kiss it, whispering against my skin, “I need you to know...I’m not happy that she died. I’m happy that it meant I could live, but it—it isn’t like I’d wish for anything like that.” His breath quickens, trying to phrase this just right. “If it was up to me....”

  “I know.” I press my face into his neck and close my eyes. I know exactly what he’s saying, even if neither of us knows the way to say it.

  He lets go when I get up and move back to the pillows. His mouth is cautious for a moment, hovering near mine before making contact, as though he’s worried the mood is gone. I admit, it’s not the intensely erotic, filthy-as-sin night I’ve envisioned the last four weeks, but there is passion, here. A high flame, so strong it’s invisible as it passes between us, that only these strange moments of silence and scars can stoke.

  His tongue draws a straight line this time, no shapes. I feel it flutter across my breasts before his breath bathes one in the full, heavy heat of his desire. Neither of us wants to prolong this, anymore.

  He draws my nipple into his mouth and presses the flat of his tongue there, a slow back-and-forth that triples the tautness of my muscles. When he moves to the other, kissing his path there, I have to grab his head with both hands to bring him up.

  “Orion,” I whimper, “please.”

  He takes his time rising from the bed, basking in the energy. I’m desperate for release—truly, painfully ready, in a way I’ve never been.

  While he gets a condom from his wallet on the floor and rolls it on, he says nothing. He doesn’t have to. That smirk says it all.

  I make it a point to eye his erection as I discard my underwear, one eyebrow raised. It’s clear he’s just as ready as I am. This fact is proven all the more when, as he kisses me, his breath hitches.

  “Hold on,” he says, pushing my hand away. “Let me make sure you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready.” My teeth are gritted. “Now you’re just being cruel.”

  He ignores me. The muscles in my thighs shiver when I feel his hand there again, this time brushing my bare sex.

  Now it’s my breath that hitches. He slips one finger into me.

  “More?” he whispers.

  God, yes, more. So much more. Everything Orion can give me.

  He pushes deeper when I nod.

  Yes.

  A second finger. A third.

  Yes, yes, yes.

  Orion

  Colby moans into my neck; I flex my fingers until I can find her swelling, hot G-spot. I push against it harder the louder she gets.

  “Orion...Orion, please.” Her begging dissolves to a whisper. The wetness spilling down her thighs and into the sheets makes it easy to slip out one finger at a time, unnoticed, and replace it with the tip of my erection.

  “Now?” I kiss my way from her neck to her mouth.

  “Now,” she agrees, breathless, almost angry. “Ten minutes ago. Yesterday.”

  I laugh and rock my hips towards her, sinking inside.

  For all my bravado, I’ve wanted this just as much as her, maybe more, and feel my arms starting to give as soon as I fill her. The clutch of her muscles, tight from waiting, would bring me to my knees if I weren’t already on them.

  She grabs my head and forces my mouth to hers as soon as I lower myself to one elbow. I take it as permission to go faster.

  Her eyes flutter shut when she tells me she’s close. I watch the tremble of her chest, quickening at the same pace of my hips.

  “Go ahead,” I tell her. “I’ll get you there again.”

  My promise puts her on the edge. I feel her sex tighten and hold. Her nails scratch the skin at the base of my neck, and her mouth moves with a frozen attempt to say my name.

  I take the hand that was toying with her breasts and ease it down her stomach, over her rising hipbones, and touch her.

  She comes instantly. The quake of her sex and the small cry she gives shorts out my impulse control; I can’t stop myself from thrusting to the hilt, meeting her halfway as she lifts herself from the bed.

  “Colby,” I sigh, releasing her name like the tidal wave tearing through me.

  “Oh, my God.” She looks like she might cry but laughs, instead, when it ends. I watch the twitch of her muscles and feel my own exhaustion touch down. First a hint, then a crash.

  “Give me a minute,” I mumble, my face making contact with a pillow as soon as I pull out. I gather enough energy to remove the condom. She surprises me, taking it carefully from my hand and getting up to drop it in the wastebasket. “Thanks.”

  “You looked too cute to wake.”

  “I am not asleep.” Maybe I’d be more convincing if I didn’t yawn in the middle of my damn sentence.

  She smiles, kissing me. Her fingers push through my hair. “Sleep. I don’t mind.”

  “I told you I’d get you there again,” I remind her, “and that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  “In the morning.” She holds out her hand. I refuse to shake it.

  Then she gets up again, pulls the blanket I threw from her bed across me, and climbs in. The hand appears in front of my face once more.

  “Morning,” I agree, reluctantly making the deal. “But I get to tease you as long as I want.”

  “I accept the terms and conditions.” She kisses my forehead before burrowing down into the sheets with me and fitting herself against my body as best she can.

  That’s the last thing I think about, before I fall asleep: how she doesn’t fit there perfectly, exactly. But closer than I would have expected.

  Nineteen

  Colby

  I wake up to an empty bed.

  Before I can get upset, I see the text in my phone: GETTING BREAKFAST. DEAL STILL STANDS. Orion’s message starts that humming tension in my muscles again.

  It’s still early; the twins aren’t awake, if they came home at all, and I can hear the air conditioner echo through the apartment before the vent in my room rattles to life. I debate getting dressed—is there any point, with a deal like that on the table?—and instead stand in front of my closet mirror, looking for any outward signs of the difference I feel. Other than a stupid smile I can’t restrain, there aren’t any.

  My phone rings. I literally dive for it across the bed, but it’s not Orion’s name flashing on the screen. It’s Walt’s.

  “Hello?”

  “Colby, thank God. Can you come over?”

  “Oh.” I look at the clock again. “Um...I’m kind of waiting—”

  “I know. I just talked to him.” There’s a buzz in the background I recognize: the television on max volume. Which means London is wide-awake, ready to start her day with a montage of princess songs. “I’ve gotta run up the road for a bit.”

  I haven’t known Walt long, but I’ve spent enough time around him to notice when he’s talking in code for London’s sake. All three
of us do it, actually. Never in my life have I spelled the words “chocolate” or “nap” more times than in the last four weeks.

  “What happened?” I set the phone to speaker, already rummaging through my dresser for some clothes.

  Walt hesitates. The screech of music fades; he’s probably moved to his room or the bathroom. “He said he got in a fender bender, but he’s fine—just doesn’t want London to know yet, because she’ll freak. He asked me to come get him.”

  “Where is he? He could’ve.... I mean, I can go get him. If you want.” I hate the possessiveness in my voice, like it isn’t right for me to feel that, yet. So what if Orion called Walt, instead of me? Does it matter?

  Still. I can’t help but wonder why he didn’t.

  “No, I’ll go. I know the neighborhood he’s at, it’s right near Mark’s.” He closes with the announcement he’ll bring London to me, instead. Two minutes. Tops.

  Nine minutes later (another thing I’ve learned about Walt in a short time: he thinks he’s much faster at everything than he really is), they’re on my doormat, London still in her pajamas, feet stuffed into the rainboots that don’t fit her anymore. She put on quite the show when Orion tried to sneak them out in a donation box.

  We wave Walt off and flop onto the couch. I pry her feet out of her shoes. “Did you eat breakfast already?”

  “No. I’m not hungry.” She pokes at the Bart Simpson bobblehead Clara keeps on her side of the makeup table. “Where’d Uncle Walt go?”

  I hesitate. “To get your dad. Sure you don’t want any cereal? I’ve got the kind with marshmallows in it.”

  London shakes her head, but takes the bowl I pour her, anyway. “Where’s my dad? Why doesn’t he drive home in his car?” Her tiny fingers pick the marshmallows out like a game of Operation.