I stretch my arms wide, hoping my towel stays in place. It does, and for a moment, Lindy does look. And look and look. Her eyes take a quick perusal of my abs and chest, a nice, little gazing tour of Patrick Graham.
Take your time, Lindybird. Make a map if you need too. All of this is yours, wife.
A little too soon for my taste, she slips inside her room and slams the door. “Put some clothes on!” she yells.
“You first!” I call back, just as thunder rumbles through the sky.
I noticed the dark clouds on the drive back from the elementary school, but I was too distracted by the pain in my eyes, and the reality that my truck will now be covered in glitter forever to pay much attention to the weather.
As I pull on jeans and a clean shirt, wind howls over the eaves. The whole house seems to creak and shudder. Thunder crashes again, this time followed by a flash of lightning and the sound of the first raindrops hitting the roof.
I hear Lindy’s door slam open, and she yells, “Pat! The laundry!”
Her feet are already pounding down the stairs by the time I get with the program. We washed clothes yesterday and it’s all hanging across the line to dry. Most notably, all the bed sheets. I’ve ordered a dryer Lindy doesn’t know about, but the only model that will fit in the tiny laundry space is on back order.
By the time I make it out of the back door, the rain is falling in earnest. Big, fat, stinging drops pelt my bare arms and feet. The dogs, clearly not scared of storms, push outside with me and run in circles, barking at the sky before taking shelter in the barn.
“It’s already soaked! Let’s just leave it!” I yell over the storm, but Lindy only shakes her head.
I’m not about to leave her out here alone, so I join Lindy at the line, unable to miss the way her T-shirt is plastered to her, clinging to every curve. I know I just saw her in a towel, but there’s something even more alluring about the wet shirt and the hints it gives.
Focus, Patty. I start tearing at the clothespins, keeping my eyes to the task at hand. But with the thunder crashing and lightning seeming to be all around us, the process is difficult. The wind whips the wet fabric around us. Have the sheets gotten bigger? It feels like acres of material, unwieldy and stubborn in the wind and rain.
The temperature is falling fast. Apparently, this is one of those fronts bringing a sudden temperature drop. Texas never does things small, including seasonal changes. Nope. At least in our area of the state, the weather prefers extreme change. A storm blows through and—BOOM! Twenty minutes later, it’s forty degrees colder.
Lindy and I end up at the same spot, trying to wrangle the very last sheet. The wind tears through the backyard, and it’s like we’re on a stormy sea, trying to batten down the hatches or whatever you do with the sails.
The weight of the soaked cloth pulls at the line. The sheet smacks wetly against me, twisting around my legs and tripping me up. I stumble forward into Lindy, grabbing her waist. A wind gust whips the rest of the sheet around Lindy, and now we’re plastered together like a soaked human burrito.
Rain drips steadily into my eyes, and my hair is plastered over my face. Lindy wraps her arms around me and shivers. Then she begins to laugh.
“This is ridiculous!” she yells.
Thunder booms so loud she jumps, and I wrap my arms tighter around her, seeking her warmth, seeking connection, wanting to keep her protected.
She says something I can’t hear over the wind and rain, so I bend down, my forehead pressing to hers. “What’d you say?”
Her eyes meet mine, but we’re so close, they’re out of focus. “I said, ‘Kiss me!’”
It shouldn’t shock me, not after our kiss last night and the almost-kiss at the school. And yet, shocked I am.
I don’t even move, just blinking as cold rain runs down my face as I stare at her. “Kiss you?”
“KISS ME!”
When she yells the words at me this time, I don’t hesitate. I don’t question the wisdom of standing outside in the middle of a storm, or the fact that Lindy’s whole body is shivering. I don’t wonder if I should press pause on all forward motion until after the hearing or at least until after we’re not in danger of being struck by lightning.
I simply haul Lindy against me and do as the woman says.
A flashing yellow light warns me to proceed slowly and with caution, but my self-control is a fraying piece of rope. The moment my lips touch hers, it snaps.
There is no stadium around us, no classroom full of elementary kids about to walk in on us. We are two married adults in our own backyard and there is no good reason to hold back.
This kiss is the explosion at the end of a mile-long fuse. Or maybe the fuse is measured in years not miles, and a tiny spark has been steadily traveling minute by minute, month by month, year by year toward this inevitable conclusion.
Her mouth is wet and hot in the now-cool air, her body pliant against me. The kiss feels like a battle, but it’s really a surrender. We are laying our weapons down and throwing ourselves across the battle lines we’ve drawn.
I pick Lindy up, fumbling a little with the sheet still plastered to our bodies. My hands feel huge as they grasp her thighs. I’ve never felt so powerful. Kissing someone strong like Lindy, having this wild force of a woman in my arms makes me feel like the most powerful man in the world.
Her fingernails scrape lightly up the back of my neck and find their way into my wet hair. My senses are heightened, making me fully cognizant of each point of contact between us: each brush of her lips, the pad of every fingertip, the press of her torso inch by delicious inch against mine.
I kiss her like a man coming up to the surface after a dive, gasping for air. She is all I need, and I do need her. I was drowning without her, dark and cold and alone, not sure which way in my life was up.
I have no question. This is my life. She is my life. She and Jo and whatever else might come our way.