His phone goes off and he excuses himself. “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”
Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m enjoying hanging out with him and it feels nice. I smile at him and he leaves. I return my attention back to my research about the living conditions of the south when the war first broke out. My story starts unfolding in my head. I can hardly write fast enough to keep up with the idea as it plays in my thoughts like a movie.
Dear Grayson,
I have started this letter so many times, and every time I start writing—my words don’t sound quite right, and I wad the paper up and toss it in the bin. If Dad saw how much paper I have wasted he’d wallop me good with a switch off the weeping willow out back by the creek. The one we used to grab hold of and swing into the creek from to swim in as kids. You know the one. Some days I walk down to the creekbank and stick my toes in the water, missing the way things were before. Before the war. Before you left and before Momma died. I miss you and wonder often if you are missing me too. I think about that kiss we shared last summer. The way you looked deeply in my eyes with the weight of the world balancing on your shoulders. Torn between your duty to your country and worrying about saving your family farm. All I could
think was I hated how sad you were and wanted to give you a sliver of happiness if only for that brief moment when your lips touched mine. Some nights when I look out my bedroom window, I pretend the lit candle across the way in your bedroom window is you telling me that you are thinking about me too. Did it mean anything to you? Do I mean anything to you? I go over to see your Pa when I can and help him around the house. His sight has deteriorated. He’s hateful as he ever was. He refuses my help, but I ignore him. He’s a proud man you know.
I get carried away in the world of Camille and Grayson. Imagining them as children playing in the creek on a hot summer day, barefoot and maybe eating watermelon straight from the garden when they were done splashing around.
The door to the room opens up and Killian returns.
“We should get going. The library will be closing soon.” He steps up behind me, looking over my shoulder. “You paint, you draw, and you write. Is there anything you can’t do?” he teases.
“It’s a rough start anyway.” I hurry to tuck it away feeling self-conscious of him reading my rough draft.
“It’s good. Don’t change it.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” He moves the stack of books to the end of the table. “Someone else will put these away later.” His thumb moves under my chin and those stupid butterflies start fluttering in my stomach.
“Have you heard from Hayley and Liam?” I break away and push my chair back.
“No. Why would I?”
“I thought maybe you’d have to pick him up or something.” I stand up and pull my bag across my chest. Killian starts to open the door then closes it and turns into me. His fingers touch my jaw. “What are you—” I don’t get to finish my sentence. I was going to ask him what his dinner plans were. His mouth comes down on mine this time more forceful and hungrier than the last.
I part my lips when his tongue prods at the seam. I don’t stop to overthink what’s happening I go with what comes naturally and kiss him back hoping this time I appear to know what I am doing. His tongue glides along the length of mine, and I get lost in the moment. His mouth tastes like grape bubblegum and not like cigarettes luckily. No one wants to kiss an ashtray.
Kissing.
Dang. I’m kissing Killian again. I pull away from him. “Friends don’t kiss like that,” I whisper.
“Maybe they should start,” he tells me.
I suck in a breath and grip the strap on my bag. “Killian.” I close my eyes. “You can’t just go around kissing me like that whenever you want to. I’m not that kind of girl.”
“I never said you were. Maybe I don’t…” He gets quiet, and I wait for him to finish his sentence. My phone starts ringing. “You should get that.” He jerks the door open and stomps out.
I let out a breath and pull my phone out. Glancing at the screen I see Woodrow’s name flashing. I look for Killian as I debate answering but he’s gone. His hot and cold is really getting old fast.
I slide my finger across the screen. “Hey.”
“What are you up to?”
“I’m on my way back to my room. I just got finished studying at the library. What’s up?”
“I was about to grab some dinner and thought you might want to join me.”
I look around again for Killian and don’t see him. Figures.
“Liri? You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” My stomach rumbles. “What’d you have in mind?”
“Do you like Italian? I know a place.”