. I clear my throat. "You don't have a moral objection to soldiers or anything, do you?"
I don’t advertise that I’m a soldier. I don’t hide it, either, but some supposedly educated people have strong moral objections to the Army. Oh, everyone will smile and say “thank you for your service” and all the while be thinking we’re just poor dumb bastards who should have gone to college in the first place.
Please don’t be one of them.
"No," she says quietly. "My dad used to drink his coffee black or with some of that fake creamer. It was so gross."
I hesitate, unsure how we went from coffee to her father but I'm sure there's a connection. "Used to?"
She pauses where she's stirring her drink. "He died in the war."
I'm not sure what shocks me more: the fact that Abby has a connection to the Army I've been running away from and back to at the same time, or the news that her dad died in the war.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. Because there is nothing appropriate to say. Nothing that will make it okay or ease the pain.
And the pain never goes away. Ever.
Her throat moves and she intently finishes stirring her coffee. "I was little. It's funny. I can remember the sound of his laugh. And I remember the coffee. But I have a hard time remembering what he looks like if I don't have a picture of him."
"Do you have one?" I'm suddenly insanely curious about her parents.
She turns her computer toward me. A pretty young white woman who looks exactly like Abby stands looking up at a powerful-looking black man in a uniform similar to Army uniforms but definitely not Army. Between them is a beautiful little girl with shiny bronze skin and a brilliant smile and curly brown hair in two poofs on the top of her head: Abby. "He was a Marine." Not Army like I'd assumed.
"A sergeant major?"
She smiles. "He was."
"How old were you in that picture?"
"Seven."
"Shit, Abby."
"Like I said, I don't remember much about him."
She's being way too nonchalant about this but I can't push her right then without being an ass*ole
. "You look like you were happy."
"We were." She pauses. "You're not going to comment on my parents?"
"What's to comment on?"
She lifts an eyebrow. "Really?"
"It's not 1968 anymore."
"You're not going to give me any of that ‘I don't see color’ bullshit, are you?" She's trying to make light of it but I can feel the tension radiating off her now. The teasing mood from earlier is gone, and I did that by asking stupid questions.
I do the only thing I can think of. I cup her cheek gently, sliding my thumb over her beautiful dark skin. "I see you, Abby. I see everything about you."
Her lips part. A quiet gasp. I've never been very good with words but at that moment, I feel like I hit a home f*ck
ing run. I can feel the shift in her. The strange transfer of energy from one tension to another.
One that draws me closer to her until her mouth is a breath from mine. I want so badly to brush my lips against hers. To taste her and see if she'll lean a little bit closer.
I hesitate because, with Abby, I feel like I'm always one step away from f*ck
ing up royally. I lean in, slowly, so slowly, never breaking my gaze away from hers. Her pulse scatters beneath my fingertips.
I brush my lips against hers. Give her time to pull away. Time to react if this is not something she wants.
She's fully in charge here. Fully able to rip my heart out of my chest and grind it into the ground.
But she doesn't. For a moment, only a moment, she leans into me. Her lips brush against mine, a ghost of a sensation, the barest caress. Her breath is warm on my mouth. I want to breathe her in. Taste her.
Take her somewhere where it's just her and just me, and I can spend all afternoon just kissing her.
Her touch is the faintest glimpse of heaven after a lifetime in hell.
Abby
I lean into him. It is all at once the stupidest thing I've done in a long time and the most compelling. I cannot move away. I'm not sure I want to. His hand is rough against my skin. Rough but infinitely gentle. And before I can think about what I'm doing, I open beneath his mouth and close that final distance between us.
His lips are full and smooth. I can almost feel him exhale. It's a physical change in him, where he relaxes into me. I can't say how I know it, but I feel it in everything that I am. I brace one hand on his thigh to keep from crashing into him and open a little more, inviting his touch, his taste.
Inviting disaster because that's what this is.
But he's far too tempting to walk away from. My tongue slides against his, and a tremble runs through him and into me. My breath hitches as he deepens the kiss, and I open until he is surrounding me, consuming me, and all I want to do is crawl into his lap and let the world stop around us.
He makes a warm noise in his throat, and his hand slides over my cheek and down my throat to cradle my neck. I feel cherished and such a keening sense of want that it physically burns inside me, reminding me of things I can't have.
I gently, so gently, ease back.