Reckless Kiss

“You did, and it was passionate and moving.”

“You’re thinking of something else.” I look over my shoulder and give him a sly wink.

“No distractions. You have to get this in tonight.”

“Okay… ugh… I hate when they make me write.” Scrubbing my fingers on my forehead, I try to put the words together, but it feels like a jumble. “Why can’t I just paint my philosophy?”

Again, I’m dressed in his boxer shorts and sweatshirt, belly full of mac and cheese. I was finally able to show him Spirit in real life, which he insisted on hanging on his living room wall.

The portrait I painted of him is in the bedroom.

“Here.” He puts his hands around me on the keyboard. “Tell me your philosophy, and I’ll type it.”

Turning my face, I kiss his cheek. “Let me stand up and walk.”

For the next several minutes I talk through my feelings about art. “It gives me a voice… I find ways of expressing myself in color and shape that I’m not able to do with my mouth and hands… It’s a way of touching people, making them think, making them change their way of thinking… Art can take the mundane and make it magical.”

Deacon’s fingers fly over the keys, and I wrinkle my nose. “Does that sound dumb?”

“Not at all.” His eyes are fixed on the screen, and he’s typing quickly, finishing with a sharp little tap. “You sound like someone I’d give a twenty-thousand-dollar scholarship.”

Leaning down, I kiss his lips. “It’s a residency.”

“I’d give it to you.”

“You’re biased.” Sitting on his lap again, I cross my legs and read the words he’s written, and my chest tightens. “You made me sound really good.”

He kisses my cheek, right beside my ear. “I just wrote what you said.”

I spend the next several minutes uploading my photos of Spirit, of Winnie’s portrait, of Deacon’s portrait, and a few sunsets and figure drawings. My final is the sketch I did of him while he slept.

“Hey, I’ve never seen that one.”

“I did it while you were sleeping.” I hold my finger over the mouse, hesitating as my stomach trembles before clicking submit.

Exhaling heavily, I turn in Deacon’s lap and put my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. “I did it.”

“You did it.” He scoops me under the butt, carrying me to the bedroom. “Now it’s time to get some rest. I have to be in the office all day tomorrow, then I’ve got to follow up with Winnie about my grandmother.”

“I can’t believe you found that old deed.” He showed me the yellowed paper with my grandfather’s signature on it over dinner.

Carefully touching the signature, I tried to imagine the man who held onto his land, who made an agreement with his best friend to carve out a section for his family, and who according to my brother had it stolen away.

“You think it’s all connected?” Lying on my side in the bed, I wait as Deacon climbs in beside me in only his boxer briefs.

“I think it’s very possible my grandfather found out what happened and set out to destroy the man who stole his wife.” He reaches for me, and I turn, spooning my back against his firm chest. “I think I can understand his motivation.”

Deacon’s nose is in the back of my hair, and I thread our fingers. “Didn’t you say your grandfather was gone all the time, leaving her alone with a five-year-old?”

“That’s what her letter said.” His voice grows sleepy.

“I think you know better than to do something like that.” Threading our fingers, I place our hands over my stomach, thinking about the little life growing there.

Closing my eyes, I drift to sleep on a dream of us in the desert, in the shadow of the Sierra Madre mountains, our baby in my arms.

“Don’t look at the price tag.” Lourdes sits across from me in the plush dressing room at Nieman’s.

“I can’t help it,” I whisper, dropping the small white square hanging from the sleeve. “And that’s on sale!”