“What’s the latest?”
She snapped off the TV. “They’re in pursuit. They’re hinting that you may have kidnapped me.”
I ignored that last part. “They won’t catch us.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I won’t let them.”
Jo let it go. For now. I knew the further north we went, the more questions she’d have. I prayed that by the time we reached the Center, she’d trust me enough to accept the answers. I prayed I’d have the answers at all. So far, much of what drove us lurked just outside my reckoning.
I went out to bring us back some Chinese takeout dinner then Jo took a turn in the shower while I half-watched some ancient Bonanza rerun on the TV. I tried not to imagine Jo in there, naked, the water streaming over her skin as she ran her hands over her body that was slippery with soap…
I groaned and adjusted my groin. Jesus, not now. Not until she was ready and rested. Maybe never. Maybe after she’d been through so much horrible shit in these last four years, sex was the last thing on her mind. I couldn’t blame her.
But God, I wanted her. When the bathroom door opened and Jo emerged in a cloud of steam, I wanted to grab her and throw her down on the bed and fuck her senseless. Or make love to her, slow and gentle. Whatever she wanted. Anything she wanted.
She was wrapped in a towel, covered from her small, perfect breasts to her upper thighs. Her wet hair spilled down her pale shoulders like black silk. From my perch on our lone bed, I looked away, shifting my legs to hide the erection straining against my jeans.
Jo rummaged in her small bag. She fished out some panties, a pair of shorts and a shirt. My shirt. The old blue and black plaid flannel I’d given her in high school.
Holy shit, she still has that?
I remember she asked me to sleep in it so that it would smell like me when I gave it back. That had been one of the biggest moments of my life, that little request. And now here…I knew she packed hardly more than three items of clothing when she left Dolores. My shirt was one of them.
Clothes in hand, Jo retreated back to the bathroom. I heard running water, the sound of teeth being brushed. Somehow, being in her personal space, listening to all the private, before-bed rituals, was a turn-on.
When she came out of the bathroom, she smelled like some sweet lotion and she was wearing my shirt and…
Goddammit, Jo…
I kept my eyes on the TV as she opened the bedside table drawer, fumbled around and came up with the motel notepad and pen. She folded back the covers and settled onto her side of the bed. Only a foot of white space between us that felt roughly the size of Texas. She tapped the pen against her lips—unaware of what that did to me—then began to write. In fits and starts at first, then with some continuity. Then a break. A word crossed out. Then more writing. Bonanza blared on the TV.
“Poem?” I said during a commercial break.
“Maybe,” she said. “It’s been so long. I’m rusty as hell.”
I remembered she said she hadn’t written anything in a year. Today was racking up victory after victory.
“What’s it about?” I asked. She hesitated and I quickly added, “You don’t have to tell me.”
“It’s about the pool. Our pool. In Planerville. I think about it a lot.”
So did I. The pool, where we swam and got to know each other. Where we kissed and touched and she let me put my mouth between her legs. My life happened in that pool. Every memory of every minute spent in its waters was precious to me. Including the time she thought I’d been drowning.
Jo studied the scribbled words on the pad. “Timing you underwater today brought it back. How it used to freak me out when you’d stay under for so long. I guess it still freaks me out.”
I struggled to find something to say that wasn’t a hoarse request to touch her. Or that she would touch me. End this torture already.
Give her time, give her space…
It was a monk’s mantra and I was no monk. A virgin, yes, but if I was supposed to be nervous or anxious about that, I wasn’t. I just wanted her.
Her head bowed under the silence. A little sigh made her shoulders slump. She set the pen and paper aside and turned off the lamp. She lay on her side, her back to me, and pulled the covers up over her shoulders.
I clicked off the TV. The only light came from the street outside, filtering wan and yellow through the curtains. I slid off my jeans. In t-shirt and boxers, I crawled under the sheet on my side.
Minutes passed.
“Evan?” Jo’s voice frail in the dark. “Do you ever…” I heard her swallow hard. “Do you think about us? What we had?”
My chest ached at the longing in her voice. The fearful tentative reaching across the space between us.
“Every minute,” I said. “I think about us every minute of my life. All I do is think about us.”