I sniff, even as I think I may pass out from joy. “Don’t judge me. I’m not usually a baby.”
I hear the smile in his voice, even as his fingers stroke my cheek. “I’d never judge you, Evie.”
I feel his hand leave my face, feel him move, and then his arm is trying to get around my shoulders. I lean up, and he scoots closer, so we’re sitting right by each other—so close, I can feel him exhale.
“Tell me something,” I whisper, as I look around the dark room, then at our legs under the covers.
“Something good?”
I shake my head. “Just something true.”
I feel his rib cage press against mine as he inhales, feel his shoulders sink as he exhales—right beside me, so close I think I can even feel his heartbeat. For a long time, he just breathes, and I can feel it in the ether: something devastating, rolling quietly out in front of us.
“After I was left here,” he says softly, “DHS ran ads in the newspaper. Every Sunday, for an entire year. The year of 1992. The Citizen-Times gave out free copies on Sundays sometimes…”
I hear him swallow.
“Asking if someone had…lost a two-year-old.” His voice goes hoarse on the word lost. “There was this fucking number.” I can feel him draw a deep breath. “If they called, they had to describe…me. Hair, eye color. Birthmarks.” He rubs his eyes with the hand that’s not around my shoulders, his hand covering his face. “I’ve got a birth mark on my shoulder blade,” he says into his palm. I feel him shake his head. “No one who called knew.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his pain bleeding out into the ether. Up against me, his body feels so still. Then he takes a giant, deep breath, and I can feel him struggle as he rasps, “I saw this little kid today…when I was waiting on you. Little red-headed kid. Ev…he had his arms around his mother’s legs. She was sitting with her hand wrapped in a towel. He was standing right beside her.”
Another deep, laborious breath, and when he lowers his hand, I can see his eyes are damp.
His lips press together, and for a second, he just blinks ahead.
I feel my own tears sting my eyes. “She couldn’t stay, Landon. Something was the matter with her. There’s no other reason.”
“I asked for her.” He inhales again. “I asked for her for a few months. That’s what my papers say. I wouldn’t know. I can’t remember.”
“I’m so sorry, Landon.” I draw closer to him as I whisper, “That must be the worst thing in the world.”
“I have this fucking dream…” He puts his forehead in his hand. “It’s this long, white hall, and people are walking by. But they won’t look down.”
At him, I think he means. People are walking by him, but they won’t look down. They won’t acknowledge him.
He lets a rough breath out, then gently moves his arm out from behind me. Landon puts his face in both his hands.
I wrap my arms around him from the side and feel him inhale deeply.
“I’m so sorry…”
I can feel him holding in his tears, can feel the tension gather in his body. Instead of sobbing, though, he just breathes…and breathes, a little heavier with every passing second, till he brings his hands up to his mouth, and I realize belatedly: he’s kind of hyperventilating.
The trick for that is breathing into a paper bag—it forces you to inhale your own carbon dioxide—but I don’t think there’s one of those around.
When his breaths get shallower and louder, more frantic, I glance down at the nurse call button. Then I turn more toward him, pull his hands off his mouth, cup my own hands around his mouth, and lean in close, so I can breathe into the dome of my fingers.
I see his eyes shut as my warm breath fills my hands and then his lungs. It’s not airtight, but I guess it’s something, because after a few breaths, I can feel his torso moving less. I shut my eyes and keep breathing into his mouth. His hands come up and cover mine.
It’s working.
I can feel the tension start to leave his arms and shoulders. Unexpectedly, his head dips down, so our foreheads are touching. His hands leave mine and come down on my shoulders, holding onto me.
I keep on breathing.
Never have I felt so full of power. Not the forceful, gaudy kind, but real and pure—a kind of love. I’m heady with it. Underneath my hands, I feel his face. I’m touching Landon.
When he pulls me closer, I don’t think at all. When his lips touch mine, I’m still focused on breathing. Then his mouth rubs gently over mine, and I shiver. His tongue explores the corner of my lips. I open for him, and his mouth and mine collide.
Gravity releases me, and I AM KISSING LANDON.
Landon’s hands around my head. Landon’s mouth so hard and hot. Landon’s tongue and my tongue. A shudder ripples through him, and through me, too. I freeze, only my hands moving; they touch his shoulders. His mouth moves again on mine.
Nothing, not the closeness of our hugging nor the feel of his face underneath my hands, nothing has prepared me for his greedy mouth. My pulse races as I try to take what I need, too. I give back what I get and open deeper for him. Then I have to pull away—to breathe.
Landon’s hand around my head pulls me back close. His mouth consumes mine. One kiss…two…then three. Time slides by until he breaks our rhythm. I can feel him panting. He laughs. He comes in again, and then, before his mouth can find mine in the dark, his head leans down. His hands come to his face.
“Oh my God.” It’s moaned.
And then he’s off the bed.
I’m reeling, my mouth throbbing from our violent kisses. I can barely see him in the dark. I think he’s over by the window.
“Fuck.”
The word is harsh and cold—a slap. His shoulders rise and fall a few times. “Fuck.”
“Don’t say that.” My voice quivers.
“Evie—fucking shit.” He whirls on me. “Are you okay?”
“Of course.”
I feel breathless as I watch him pace around the window. I can hear him murmuring—I think it’s curses.
He comes closer, hands in his hair, chest pumping. “Evie. Fuck, I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry. I was— Christ, I’m fucking stupid.” He drops down into the chair beside my bed and covers his face with his hands.
“Hey—it’s okay. Landon…” I reach for him, catching one wrist. I take his hand in both of mine, and he looks up into my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell him. “Look—you’re better.”
He laughs darkly. “I’m not better.”
“You’re not breathing hard.”
“Believe me, I’m breathing hard.” He says it like he’s trying to prove something, but I’m right: he isn’t. “What I— That wasn’t okay. I can’t be doing shit like that.”
“Kissing?” I manage. My body still feels like a sparkler at the Fourth of July. My head may never stop spinning.
“Yes. Christ.” He gets up and starts to pace the room. “This is how I fuck things up! I can’t afford to fuck things up.” He sounds desperate. Almost scared.