Where We Left Off

The last three weeks with Heath had been phenomenal. I knew people said puppy love wasn’t authentic, how we fell desperately fast and hard, and rebounded just as quickly. I saw it happen all over school. One day there would be a power couple that appeared so solid, so perfect for one another, and then next moment they’d be broken up, their eyes already fixed on someone new.

That must’ve been the game Nana spoke of. Like pinballs, they’d crash into one relationship, then bounce over to the next. I figured their only real wish was to hope to score in the process.

It wasn’t so with Heath. The more time we spent together, the more I became aware of all the hours in the day when we weren’t together—all the minutes where I wasn’t learning more about him, wasn’t falling for the mere sound of his voice or the way he’d bite the pad of his thumb when lost in thought. How he’d flick his hair from his eyes with a subtle toss of his head. I’d discovered these adorable inflections and rises in tone.

I wanted to know everything there was to know about Heath.

It was the stage where he was new and exciting. When you met someone for the first time, it was like one of those presents wrapped in layers and layers of paper. Every layer taken off left another gift to uncover.

It seemed like there was no end to Heath’s layers.

Like the fact that he was able to make me feel like I’d had my first kiss without even kissing me. Part of me wanted to be angry, worried that once we finally did kiss, that it wouldn’t live up. How could it? What he’d described was so impossibly perfect that I was certain it couldn’t be recreated. I’d fumble, I was sure of it. It would be slobbery and clumsy and unnatural. There was no way to do what he described without it being second rate.

But then I thought about my dad’s paintings. When he’d first started, he’d used other artist’s work for inspiration. His physical therapist had suggested he try his hand at painting shortly after the first stroke that happened when I was just ten. He said it would help with his movement. The way the brush would glide over the canvas would help him learn control again. It would be good for his muscles, and it would be good for his mind.

Nana had set up a place for him to paint in the den. She’d purchased three easels, and twice as many canvases. One day she’d been gone all afternoon and when she returned, she had at least a dozen books in her possession. I’d watched as she tore them apart, not in anger, but with excitement to her motions. Rip, rip, rip. Then she spread them across the floor like a quilt made of other artists’ work. There was Starry Night and Ophelia and The Persistence of Memory. Finally, she’d taken a step back, one arm across her chest, the other propped up and held to her chin.

She’d studied him. When his gaze lingered on one painting for any length of time, she’d nod her head excitedly. “Yes! Yes! I agree.” Then she’d slap it on the blank white wall.

There were at least twenty taped up. The rest she’d shoved aside.

And then she left him to do his work.

Not one turned out quite like the original. In fact, had you been asked to match them up with the pieces that influenced them, I doubted you’d be able to. But they were beautiful nonetheless. Dad had put his own spin on them, his signature. It didn’t need to be exactly like the original for it to be beautiful.

Heath and I didn’t need to be exactly like our expectations for us to be beautiful, either. Some things were best when you didn’t expect anything to begin with.

I’d put myself to bed that night with that lingering thought and it was like I was opening up and entirely new door. One Heath and I could walk through together.

Or maybe a window.

Because at two in the morning, I jolted awake to the tinny sound of a rock hitting the gutter. His aim was off, which was a good thing, because had he been more accurate, my window would be sporting a fresh crack in it, fractured from the stone. That I would have to explain to Nana. But a dented rain gutter? That was probably a nonissue. No one paid any attention to gutters.

My feet flew over the cold and worn hardwood. I was at the window before I had time to think about what I was wearing or what I looked like or how it was the dead of night and boys most definitely weren’t allowed in my house—much less my room—at this hour.

I just couldn’t wait to get to him.

The window took a bit of jiggling to pry open. When I finally managed it free, I was met with darkness, not even the moon’s glow to greet me. Cloud cover draped across the stars like a film. I scanned the yard, but my eyes wouldn’t adjust. Blinking did nothing and squinting helped, but minimally. I’d hoped I wasn’t dreaming it, some Romeo and Juliet inspired wish. Of course I’d wanted to find him outside my window. Every girl wanted that.

The night air blasted into my room. The curtains billowed around me like sheer cotton waves and I leaned my upper body out the window. Goosebumps rose over my flesh, pebbling every inch, eliciting a shudder from deep within me.

“Mallory.” It was one of those shouts masked as a whisper. The same intensity, just not the volume. “Mal, you awake?”

“Heath?”

“I’m coming up.”

I had no idea how he’d manage it, but I backed away from the window to allow him the room to make his grand entrance. Like he was Spiderman, Heath scaled the outside wall, pulling himself up the rusted drainpipe and using the gutter to grip onto with his hands hooked over it. With a crazy amount of upper body strength, he hoisted himself onto the slope of the second story roof. His boots slid against the frosty shingles. I threw a hand out to grab him, and he righted himself before spilling unceremoniously into my room.

“Heath.” I tiptoed back to the window and lowered it shut. “Heath, what are you doing here?”

I had to ask it, but I knew. He was here for me. The thought that someone couldn’t wait another minute—couldn’t use the escape of sleep to fast-forward them to morning—was incredible. To be wanted in that way. Sure I had people in my life who were excited to see me. Nana always greeted me each morning with a kiss pressed to my temple. Dad would smile with his eyes in the way that only he could. I had friends at school who genuinely seemed to care about me. But this with Heath? This need that almost bordered on desperation made me feel like I served a purpose other than just being someone’s granddaughter or daughter or friend.

I felt desired. He was the first boy to ever make me feel that way.

What I knew of love led me to believe I would never be able to forget him because of it.

It took a moment for Heath to regain his composure once he’d landed inside my room. He dusted off his pants, swatting his thighs with his hands to shake off the remnants of snow. Then that beanie came off his head with a jerk and he shoved it into his back pocket. He had a navy sweatshirt on and he pulled on the drawstrings of the hood, tugging them back and forth until they matched in length. This was him being nervous, I figured. Some people stammered. Other’s paced. Heath fidgeted.

“Hey.” His shoulders sunk in relaxation with the word.

“Hey.”

Even though I hadn’t paid any attention to my wardrobe—or lack of—that didn’t mean Heath didn’t notice. His gaze dropped to my bare legs, to the oversized t-shirt that I wore like a dress. I could feel his gaze on me like it was physical.

“Wow.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I didn’t want to be that girl who just stood there blushing, but there was no way around it. My cheeks were red and hot.

“You lied to me.”

“Lied?”

“Those most certainly are not footsie pajamas.”

“Well, I’m thinking you’re not actually wearing Superman skivvies, either.”

He gave me a lopsided smirk with a wink to accentuate it. “You will never know, now, will you?”

Flirting was not an art form I was adept in. I’m sure I’d had the opportunity, but it went unnoticed if it was ever there. Over the years, there had been a few guys I’d had crushes on. It never got past the puffy hearts drawn on binders with plus signs between names. Only a few close friends knew about the boys I’d liked. But now I was standing in front of a boy I liked very much, and I had a feeling he was well aware just how much.

I went to the nightstand to flip on the bedside lamp. Sharp white illuminated the room, and it cast long, jagged shadows like the light struggled and clawed to reach across the walls. Heath took one step toward me, out from the dark.

“So,” he murmured in a hushed tone. He dragged his hand over his scalp. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Snuck into a girl’s room?”

“Liked someone as much as I like you. This quickly.” One more step. “It kinda scares me.”

“I’m scared, too.”

Another step and we were standing right in front of each other. If I wanted to, I could reach out and press my hands to his chest or his hips or slip the errant curl that fell across his cheekbone back behind his ear. I didn’t do those things. I stood still, unmoving. My choppy breath shook out of me and my fingers trembled as if I’d had ten cups of coffee. It couldn’t have been noticeable to anyone else, but to me if felt like I was flailing. It made remaining still difficult.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me, Mallory.”

“I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of being this young and feeling this much. I’m scared that if I’m experiencing all of this now, I’ll never experience it again, you know?”

“Not sure I do.”

“You’re setting the standard, Heath. Any other guy to come into my life from this moment forward will never live up.”

Taking me by surprise, he grabbed on to my hand. “I don’t want any other guys to come into your life.” He lifted my hand to his lips and moved his mouth onto my knuckles. It was warm and his lips were soft and full. “I know that’s selfish and probably unrealistic, but I’m not looking at this as some high school romance. What’s the point of being in a relationship if you’re not hopeful it will last?”

“To have fun, I guess. Be kids.”

He brought my hand down from his lips but kept our fingers woven. His thumb traced circles over my skin. “I’m all for having fun,” he said. “Believe me. Fun is good. But this is our beginning, Mallory. Why think about an end?”

That’s when I kissed him.

Reactions came in all different forms. You jumped out of your skin when watching a horror movie. You burst out laughing at something funny. You cried when emotion overtook you.

And you kissed someone when you were absolutely falling for them.

At first he startled, drawing back when my mouth slammed boldly onto his. It wasn’t the play-by-play like he’d described, and that was fine. I didn’t take my time or move in cautiously. I was past that. My feelings were so far past that. I had to make the physical side of things catch up, and the only way I knew to do that was to forget my fear, forget my hesitation, and give in to what I really wanted. Just give in.

“Mallory.”

My hands flew to his hair, my fingers winding around each tendril. I could feel his hand on the low slope of my back, and he pulled my body completely flush with his. My back arched and Heath moved over me. It all happened so quickly that I hadn’t thought much past the initial my-lips-on-his-lips part of the kiss. I’d seen enough movies to know there was more involved than that. There was movement and rhythm, but I struggled to find the right pace.

Frustration filled me. Heath sensed it.

“Hey,” he said near my ear. “It’s okay.”

I dropped my head to his shoulder. I wanted to hide, to curl up and close my eyes and pretend I hadn’t completely butchered my hasty attempt at our first kiss, the one that should’ve been utterly phenomenal.

“I’m doing this all wrong.”

“I can assure you, there is no wrong way to do this.”

“This feels wrong,” I said.

“Ask any guy, Mallory. There is no wrong way to kiss. It’s sorta one of our favorite things to do in life.”

“But it could be better.”

“It could be different.”

I’m sure he didn’t mean it in the same way I felt it, but Heath only knew it could be different because he’d kissed different girls. I didn’t have differents. He was my only.

His shoulder nudged me and he took my chin between his finger and thumb, tilting my face to his. “Hey, you.”

I smiled, but couldn’t look directly at him.

“Hey.” He forced my gaze up. “By different I mean you can trust me more, and you can trust yourself and your instincts, too. Just go with it, Mallory. I promise you’ll do great.”

He was right. I tried again.

I found my confidence, and with that, my rhythm, but not before Nana found us both.

It was less humiliating than if a parent had discovered a boy breaking into their under-aged daughter’s room, I supposed. Nana was one-step removed from the responsibility of raising me. She wasn’t the type to scold or admonish, but there was an unspoken duty she had to fulfill, the one that didn’t allow certain things to happen under her roof, on her watch.

So that first kiss never really happened.

We’d stuttered and stopped and stuttered and stopped once more.

All I could think as my head lowered to the pillow after Heath left that night—through the front door rather than the window—was that I hoped this wasn’t some foreshadowing of things to come, of the way our story would unfold.

I doubted life was that tragically poetic.

At least I prayed it couldn’t be.