I’m totally sixteen again.
Then when I feel I’m too spent, too dazed, he thrusts inside me, bringing me back to life. I’m half off the bed and he’s standing, my legs in his capable hands, and the necklace jostles slightly while he drives himself in and out. It’s not long before I’m coming again, louder this time, caught up in the connection, in the sight of his long, hard body, of the gift I gave him, of the want and lust in his hooded eyes.
He collapses on top of me and then sinks into my bed, pulling me back into him, his legs and arms wrapping around me, much like they did on the top of Key Summit. I give in to his warmth, to the intimacy. I can’t imagine anyone else ever holding me this way, and it’s one more stab to the gut that I can’t bear.
Every moment we’re together now I’m so conscious that we’re teetering toward the end. Tomorrow we leave for the East Cape, for that sunrise I always wanted to see, the first in the world. Then we skirt the Bay of Plenty, maybe popping down to Rotorua or Taupo, and then back up toward the Northland and New Year’s Eve at my grandpa’s. After that, we’ll head back to Auckland, and then the real world begins. He’ll go back home. I’ll look for a job.
And try to forget him.
But the thought of him leaving me scares me more than anything, more than trying to figure out jobs and figure out my future. I don’t know how I’ll go back to living with Nyla and Chairman Meow again, just existing on fumes, succumbing to the emptiness inside, the sadness. I guess I’ll have no choice but to harden myself once more and build my armor.
But my armor has chinks. If it didn’t, Josh wouldn’t be in my bed right now, holding me like he’ll never let go, and I wouldn’t be loving every sweet second of it.
If I was smart, I would do it now. I wouldn’t lie here with Josh, I wouldn’t let him hold me and make me feel like I’m so fucking important to him. But I’m not smart. Not anymore, not now. Maybe I never was. I want to enjoy him while I can, even though I can see the Gemma of the future and she’s lonely and cold.
I tried to tell Josh the other day, when Grant pulled that drunken bullshit at the dinner table. I tried to warn him, that I can’t do what he thinks I can. I can’t be that person he wants me to become. I can’t hold on to myself and let go at the same time.
He kisses the rim of my ear, his favorite place, and murmurs a heavy good night.
He’s burying the ache as well.
The next day we’re up bright and early to keep our tight schedule. I know the drive up to the East Cape will take longer than it looks, thanks to Mr. Orange’s composition and the Cape’s remote and twisting roads.
After we have another hearty breakfast and I’m convinced I’ve gained another two pounds, Josh asks, a little too innocently, if I have any art supplies around.
I know we do. My father’s studio, under Auntie Jolinda’s room in the guest cottage, has been largely untouched since his death. I go in there from time to time when I’m back home, just to feel a piece of him, something tangible and real that he’s left behind. But other than that, no one moves his stuff around. It’s still his room and we like to pay respects.
But I know that my father would have loved Josh, would have loved his talent, and wherever he is, I know he wouldn’t mind a little tour, even if it’s to see if there are any leftover pencils or canvas or whatever Josh has his eye on.
Together we stroll down the gravel path, the morning sun high and strong. He grabs my hand and squeezes it hard just as I take out the keys. There are valuables in there, paintings that we could never bear to lose.
“Is this difficult for you?” he asks, eyes searching mine.
I manage a smile. “It’s not easy but it’s good. It’s a good kind of pain.”
He nods and waits as I unlock the door and push it open.
Dust rushes to meet our faces and floats in the air like mist, caught in the sun streaming through the back windows.
Most things in the studio, particularly easels with paintings my dad was still completing at the time of the accident, are covered with white linen, giving the room a ghostly look. I flick on the light but the bulb seems to have burned out. It doesn’t matter; the natural light that floods in from the south-facing windows is more than enough.
Josh is silent as he takes it all in, and there’s a wash of reverence in his expression. He’s being respectful and I love him for it.
Finally, he looks at me. “This is a good space.”
I nod. “He was in here all the time. Could hardly get him out. I used to sit right over there,” I point to a stool in the corner, “and spin around and watch him paint.”
“Where did you paint?” he asks.
He’s getting closer to a question I don’t want to answer. I clear my throat, feeling like the dust is getting lodged in there. I point at a spot in the corner, behind a shelving unit. “Over there.”
He eyes it, frowning. “Where are your paintings?”
I feel the hot cloak of shame come over me. “I destroyed them all.”
He stares at me blankly for a few long beats. “You what?” he whispers.
I look away, unable to handle this. I’ve never brought it up with anyone. After it happened and my mother found out, we had a horrible fight, but that was the end of it and it was never mentioned again. Now I can feel Josh’s eyes on me, trying to understand.
He thinks I’m crazy. I think he’s right.