Hexed

My anger makes it easy to find the heat, and for a second I think that maybe it’s working this time—going down instead of up—but then the heat sucks back in at the sight of the sand, so very close.

 

Seconds before I splat to the ground, Bishop swoops under me and plucks me up in a smooth reverse swan dive, rising high into the sky again, holding me tight against him so that we’re nearly nose to nose. The crazy noise of the wind falls away, and it becomes deathly quiet.

 

I want to scream at him. Tell him he’s a jerk for waiting so long to catch me, but then I become hyperaware that we’re face to face, that the length of our bodies are pressed together, and I don’t say any of those things. His chest rises and falls against mine, and I imagine I can feel the drum of his heart between the two thin layers of clothing separating our skin. I risk a glance at his eyes. This close I notice that, though dark as earth wet with rain, they’re flecked with gold, like a fire burns behind them. Like he’s hungry. The thought makes my breath turn so hard and ragged it can’t be healthy. His eyes fall to my lips, and he swallows.

 

He inclines his head so that the tip of his nose nearly grazes mine, so that our lips would touch if a strong wind should arise. I’ve never wanted to be kissed so badly, so of course this would be the time Mom pops into my head—the Mom from the theater with the knife in her temple. The guilt from the car ride comes crashing over me like a tidal wave. How can I be doing this?

 

I draw away from Bishop, as much as I can with him still holding my arms in his iron grip. “Oh God, please put me down, I don’t want to do this.” I’m hyperventilating now, but for a different reason entirely.

 

Bishop senses the moment’s over and floats us to the ground. His expression is blank and unreadable, and that somehow makes everything worse.

 

“I’m sorry,” I say, digging my fingers into my scalp. I turn around and start walking.

 

I make it only a few steps before Bishop catches my wrist and whirls me around. “You can be happy, you know. It’s okay for you to be happy again.”

 

Tears well in my eyes.

 

He sighs and slackens his grip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

 

I don’t say anything, but it’s not because I’m mad at him. I just don’t know how to tell him how grateful I am that he understood me, that he knew how I was feeling—torn up that I could feel anything but anguish when the memory of Mom dying is still a heavy weight on my heart—all without me having to say a single word. So I show him the only way I know how. I snake my arms around his neck and crush my lips against his. They’re soft, much softer than I expected, and for a moment, they’re motionless against mine. And then he moans into my mouth. His hands sink into my hair and he kisses me back, hard and fast and passionate, like it’s both the first and last kiss of his life. His lips find my jaw, my throat, the spot behind my earlobe, sending a thrilling ache into my belly. I claw at his clothing, tugging his shirt up, and pull him to the sand. He falls on top of me, pressing his full weight onto me. His greedy hands move up my body, and I yank at the sides of his pants, my heart racing in my desperation to get rid of those two layers between us, because I need this, because I need the way it feels to not think of anything else but what I’m doing. Bishop slides his warm hand up my shirt, and my back arches in response.

 

And then his lips stop moving. He lets out a frustrated groan and becomes as motionless as a statue on top of me.

 

“What?” I ask, breathless.

 

He groans again, like he’s in actual physical pain, before rolling off me into the sand, white-knuckled fists braced over his stomach.

 

“What? What is it? Why’d you stop?” I push up on my elbows, catching my breath and watching Bishop splayed in the sand, squinting into the fading sun.

 

“I don’t want it to be like this,” he says.

 

I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

 

“When you’re sad. It was stupid of me. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

 

“Stupid of you?” I exhale and push to sitting. “I kissed you, remember? What happened to all the ‘it’s okay to be happy’ bullcrap?”

 

“I’m sorry, okay? It’s my fault.”

 

Fault. Like he did something wrong. Tears sting my eyes. I can’t believe what’s happening. Nowhere along the line did I think he’d humiliate me, that he’d make me feel like a sexual predator. I stand up so suddenly pockets of sand go flying onto Bishop. “Forget it, let’s go back.”

 

He groans once more, loudly, without getting up, then chases after me. “Come on, Ind. Don’t be mad. Can’t you understand? It’s not that I don’t want to.”