And he scoops me up, dropping me into his lap. I yelp with laughter and shush myself just as quickly.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-yell. “We’re going to get caught before I do what needs to be done!”
But it doesn’t matter. My arms drape around his neck, the warm air of our breath the only thing hanging between us.
“Then I better shut you up and seal the deal.”
We close the space of our breaths, and I taste him again. But instead of getting lost in the feel of the kiss, this time it’s in the intimacy of his arms, of letting someone hold me, something I haven’t felt in so long. I sink into his chest, the warmth of his body mingling with the growing heat of mine. We stay that way until the sound of a car driving by jolts me back to reality. I need to do what I came here to do and then get as far from here as possible.
…
Griffin
I’m not even surprised when I see her take a can of spray paint out of her bag. She had witch hazel for my face. Why wouldn’t she be more than prepared for a little early-morning graffiti? What does surprise me, though, is what she does with merely a can of paint.
Yes. The latte foam shit was impressive, but I never would have guessed she could do this. I want to ask her how or how long or why? But all I can do is watch as she, according to the law, defaces public property. I don’t see it like that, though. What I see is beauty. Grace. A fucking ballet of words and emotion spilling from her hand.
It’s only words. Two. What if? But the depth, shadow, illusion of color change when she only uses the one can of blue paint—it’s stunning. She’s stunning. And when she turns to face me, cheeks red with the cold and eyes shining with the threat of tears, she smiles.
My first instinct is to run, to get the hell out of Dodge and do anything but remember the stagger in my pulse at the sight of this girl. And if I could run, if it didn’t mean abandoning her in an alley before dawn, I’d be gone already because this isn’t what I signed on for, this…this…need.
“Are you…okay?” She clears her throat after croaking out the words, somehow swallowing whatever it is that powered her through what she just did, taking care of me when I should step in to take care of her.
When I don’t answer, she holds out the can to me, the corners of her mouth turning up in encouragement.
“You wanna try?”
The tips of her fingers match her cheeks, but when I reach for the can, my skin brushing hers, I feel nothing but warmth.
“Anything I write,” I start, instinctively shaking the can, “will ruin what you have up there. I can’t do… Maggie, you’re a fucking artist. The latte, this? I mean, who are you?”
A flash of something streaks across her eyes, but she covers it with a smile.
“Just a girl whose two little words don’t want to spend eternity alone.”
I grin. “Eternity?”
She shrugs. “Okay, fine. The owner may repaint the wall two days from now, but don’t hang me out to dry, not even for two days.”
Her voice teases, but I hear the plea she’s trying to hide.
“Tell me what it means?” I ask. “What can I write that will fit?”
She wraps her arms around her torso in a lonely embrace, her eyes focusing on her shoe as it toes the pavement in front of her.
“Anything,” she says, facing me again. “As long as it helps me remember tonight.”
“Okay.” I shake the can again, approach the wall, and write.
Souvenir.
Memoria.
Cuimhne.
My penmanship is no match for her art, but my words scattered around hers don’t look half bad. Somehow they fit.
I set the can down on the ground and attempt to brush the already dried flecks of paint from my jeans. Maggie moves to my side, but her eyes stay trained on the wall.
“I know the French one, souvenir, because we use that one, too. It means memory, right?”
I nod. “The second is Spanish. And Italian. I kind of cheated there. And the third is Gaelic.”
She pivots to face me now, her eyes widening as she interprets the meaning.
“I wanted your words to have some memories.” I nudge her shoulder with mine. “So they won’t be all alone for eternity.” I skim my fingers along her hairline. “I want you to remember tonight.”
She bites her lip as tears well, and I don’t know if I’ve said the right thing—or the wrong. She opens her mouth to say something, and that’s when we see the approaching headlights.
Fuck.
“Fuck!” Maggie yells. I reach for her bag, not forgetting to throw the paint back in it. And then I reach for her hand already extended and waiting for mine.
And then…we run.
“This alley dead-ends at another one, but I think it leads away from the car!”