I’m locking up the gallery the following night, struggling not to drop my purse or the bags of trash I’m holding, when I get a text from Kit. His text tone is set to a train whistle. Every time I hear the whistle I look around in alarm for its source. It makes me laugh, though I’m always mildly embarrassed at myself. Kit has sent a picture. I let everything drop to the sidewalk, suddenly unconcerned. The picture is of his building, the creams and blues outlined in front of a malevolent gray sky. Did he just take this? It feels like a booty call, even though I’ve never given him booty. What does it make me if I go?
I take my time walking down Main Street, stopping to glance in store windows while carefully examining the quality of my heart. My heart is in deep conflict with my mind. I feel weak and foolish. Selfish. Disloyal. I feel like the kind of girl other girls talk about. I stop at the corner, a choice to make. I can continue on to the cannery, or I can cross the street and visit with Kit Isley.
He is waiting downstairs to let me into the building. We exchange only a look as I step inside. I can smell him right away—gasoline and pine. He’s wearing a dark blue athletic shirt with yellow trim around the collar.
“How did you know I’d come?”
“I didn’t. I was hoping.”
Hoping. I spend most days fighting my feelings for him, making up my mind to never see him again. By evening, I fold like wet paper. My will is soggy, and my morals smudged.
Upstairs, he has a fire going, and I can smell something delicious.
“You cooked!” I exclaim.
“Something I caught with my own hands.”
“Mmmhmmm. I’ve heard that before.” I stand outside the kitchen to check out his setup, but he grabs the tops of my arms and steers me away.
“Give me a minute,” he says. “It’s almost ready.”
“How do you know I’m even hungry?” I ask, because it seems like the thing to ask now.
“You’re always hungry.”
He’s right.
A few minutes later he carries out two plates and sets them on TV trays that still have price tags hanging on them. He goes back to the kitchen for the wine.
“You have skills,” I tell him. He grins as he pours my wine and hands it to me.
“That’s from Marrowstone Vineyards,” I say. “Demise of your relationship. Thanks for telling me about that, by the way. She almost had a mental breakdown when we went.”
Kit shrugs. “You can remember the bad things about a place, or you can remember the good. Sometimes they’re tied together. That makes it even more interesting.”
“Word,” I say, as we clink glasses.
He won’t let me clean up the mess. He stacks the plates in the kitchen and comes to stand at the window with me. Port Townsend is covered in fog. It’s rolling down the streets, eating up the visibility. I can feel him next to me. It’s corny to think you can feel a person, especially if it’s clear across the country like we were before. But I felt him. And now that he’s next to me, I am overpowered by how intense it is to be next to him.
“This feels wrong,” I say quietly.
“Why?”
“You know why.” I turn to look at him.
“It doesn’t feel wrong to me,” he says. “It feels right.” He mimics my action and turns to me, so we’re facing each other.
“What does it feel like?”
Kit Isley is a full foot taller than me, so when I look at him, and we’re this close, I have to tilt my head back.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asks.
Yeah, I sort of do. Don’t I? A couple months back, before they became serious. I remember waiting outside of Della’s apartment. They were late. Everyone was supposed to meet at her place for pizza and the game. She was introducing us to her new boyfriend. He came up the stairs before her, carrying the pizza boxes, wearing a Seahawks cap. He immediately made my hair feel frizzy. Just by existing. Because he was beautiful.
He’d said my name right away, like he knew me.
How’d you know?
You’re just like Della described you.
How had I forgotten that? All these months of obsession, and I’d forgotten that he knew me right away.
“Yeah, I remember,” I say, softly. “The night we watched the Seahawks play … at her apartment.”
Kit’s eyes are soft and sleepy as he looks at me. “No,” he says. “No, that wasn’t it. Think again.”
My head jerks back. “No, that was it. I remember.”
The corners of his lips turn up slowly. “We’d already met. You just don’t remember.”
“Before that night?”
He nods. I search my mind, flipping through memories. My eyes are fixated on the dip in his throat that sits above his clavicle. Had I run into them somewhere before I officially met him as her boyfriend? On a date perhaps? I come up with nothing. I lift my eyes back to his face and shake my head.
“It was at a bar,” he said. “You were drunk.”
“When?” Being in a bar as a college student was pretty common. It was also common to be drunk and not remember half the events of the night.
“Six months before we were officially introduced.”
“And you remembered me?”
He nods, and I want to stretch up on my tiptoes and taste his mouth.
“What bar?”
“Mandarin Hide.”
Mandarin Hide. Did I remember going there? The bartenders wore suspenders and waistcoats, like what Kit wore at—
“Your suspenders,” I say.
He nods. “I had them from Mandarin. I just carried them over to the new place.”
I’d ordered Tito’s Blind Pig because I liked the name. Della drank sidecars next to me. But she wasn’t talking to me. No, she was talking to some guy who approached her, which wasn’t unusual at all. Whenever we went out together, I expected to spend half the night amusing myself while Della amused herself with boys. On that night, a fresh-faced man in a suit approached her. She’d turned her back on me to flirt with him, and all of a sudden I was alone at a bar. I remember ordering another drink. The bartender was nice. He made me another Pig and then brought me a Redbull and set it down in front of me.
What’s that for? I’d asked.
He’d smiled and pointed at Della’s back. It’s going to be a long night. I drank it, grateful and felt a weird connection with him.
“That was you. The bartender who gave me the Redbull.”
“You remembered?”
“I wasn’t that drunk,” I tell him. “And you were nice. But you had a—”
“Beard,” he finishes.
“Yeah. Holy shit.” I turn away from him and look out the window. I swore to myself that I’d never forget that night. In my alcohol haze, I’d seen Della so clearly, how willing she was to turn her back on me for a stranger. How a stranger who gave me a Redbull saw it too and showed compassion. I’d felt seen.
What’s your name? he’d asked me. And then he’d repeated it. Helena, that’s beautiful.
“So, that’s the bar where you met Della?”
He looks away. “Yeah,” he says. “She came back a few times after that. We started talking.”
“That’s why you remembered my name. That day outside of Della’s apartment.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
I lick my lips. My mouth is dry. I suddenly wish I had a Tito’s Blind Pig to wash out my nerves.
“Do you have any alcohol?” I ask. “Like something hard. To shoot.”
“I have a bottle of tequila,” he says.
“Perfect. Bring the whole thing.”
He leaves for the kitchen, and I contemplate slipping out the front door. How long would it take for the elevator? Would he come after me? Of course he would. And I’d get all wet for nothing while trying to run away. I decide to stay dry.
Kit carries out a bowl of limes with the bottle, and a little shaker of salt. We sit in front of the fireplace and do three shots apiece,
the bottle of tequila and bowl of limes between us. Passing the salt back and forth, there is more eye contact than I’d normally be comfortable with. I have the urge to look away, change the subject, laugh hysterically. But the tequila gives me courage, and I don’t break eye contact with him. We sit in the light of the fire since the kitchen light cannot reach us, and Kit has yet to buy lamps. Outside, the rain and wind have picked up, a soft susurration of the Pacific Northwest. It’s a night of fire and water, metaphorically and physically. The shush-ah shush-ah of tires cutting through puddles in the street below. The fire flicking light across Kit’s forehead and lips, warming his skin. I want to touch him so much my hands are shaking. I’m in emotional purgatory, the up and the down, the right and the wrong. I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying not to…
touch
him
Kit touches me. He reaches out with a tanned finger and runs it along my cheekbone. I shiver involuntarily.
“When the light hits you right here, you look…”
“What?” I ask. I’m all coiled up on the inside. Waiting for him to give me permission to spring.
He sighs and looks away.
“Do you really want me to say it? When I try to tell you things you get upset.”
“Because I’m not sure what you’re doing or what you want,” I tell him.
“We’re hanging out and getting to know each other.”
“Like pals?” I ask.
“Absolutely.”
“Really? No funny business.”
“I don’t know what funny business is. I can ask my grandma; she says that sometimes.”
I sniff. Kit shakes his head. “I’m okay with just being near you for now.”
How can words like that not exercise your heart? I breathe through my nose. All the things I’m feeling are so wrong, but I don’t know how to stop them. Maybe I shouldn’t be beige.
“Because you’re such a disciplined person?” I ask quickly. “And you can keep things strictly buddy-buddy?”
Kit cocks his head and looks at me through narrowed eyes.
“Yes, yes I can.”
“Would you like to put that to the test?” My throat is dry, but I say it anyway.
Kit’s light eyes are watching me carefully. The beauty of them gives me courage—the desire to own those eyes.
“What did you have in mind?” he asks.
“Go sit on the couch and close your eyes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Kit,” I say, pointing to my face. “This is my serious face. Now, do you want to do this or not?”
He does what I ask, walking over to the couch, and then closing his eyes. Now that he’s not looking at me I can freak out a little. I fill my cheeks with air, bulge my eyes out, and mouth the word fuck, before I take a step forward.
Hey, hey Helena, gotta finish what you started.
I climb onto his lap until I’m straddling him. He doesn’t open his eyes, but they stretch in surprise behind his eyelids.
“Don’t open,” I say. “Or you lose.”
His hands immediately come up to my waist. “I’m not sure if there’s a way to lose when there’s a woman straddling you,” he says.
“Shh,” I tell him. My cheeks are so hot you could probably fry an egg on them.
I look at his hair, then his eyes, then his lips. His hands are holding my hips; this is probably the most physical contact I’ve ever had with him. If he were to open his eyes and see my face, this would all fall apart. Correction: I would fall apart. I’m barely able to concentrate. God, what is he? A human oven? I clear my throat and lean toward his ear.
“Whatever you do, Kit Isley,” I say softly, “do not kiss me.”
I want to laugh at the way his Adam’s apple suddenly bobs in his throat. This is crazy.
You’re such a fucking badass, Helena, I tell myself. You could fucking house small rodents in your topknot. Besides the point.
I focus and lean toward his face. The luxury is that I don’t have to close my eyes, and I can look at him all I want. I can touch him if I want, to; these are my rules. Bringing my hand up, I trace the line from his ear to the slight cleft in his chin. He gets goosebumps; they scatter across his tanned forearms. Encouraged, I lean forward more and kiss the corner of his mouth. Very softly. Very slowly. I breathe him in as I do it, and his body stiffens. “Be disciplined, Kit,” I whisper. “You cannot kiss me.” My eyes flutter when I pull away slightly to move to the other side of his mouth. This is harder than I thought. It’s making me dizzy. I kiss him again, and I can feel him swallow. I move to his lower lip next, taking it between my lips and tugging a little. Then I pull back and look at him. The crease between his eyebrows is deep. A slash of concentration. He’s working hard. I wrap my hands around the back of his head and tilt his head up as I come up on my knees. His hands are on the back of my thighs--hot, hot, hot. Then I lower my mouth to his, brushing my open mouth against his, pulling away, brushing, nip, pull back. I use my tongue to taunt him, licking just along the inside of his lips.
This is my first real experience with sexual tension, and I can barely catch my breath. God, he tastes like he looks. I kiss him full on, just press my mouth against his. The deep sigh just slips out.
I suddenly feel his hand on the back of my neck. Fucking oven hands!
And that’s my last thought. He traps me at his mouth, pulls me flat onto his lap, and kisses me so deeply that I whimper into his mouth. Lank, drunk, dizzy, glassy-eyed: my body is so ready for anything he wants to do to it that I feel ashamed. I pull away from his mouth and his hands, and stumble off his lap. I back up as far as the room will let me go, bumping into the wall. I want to hug the wall, or for the wall to hug me.
“Fuck that,” I say in his general direction. “You have no discipline.” My shirt is hanging off my shoulder, and my topknot is sloping left. He leans over, still sitting on the couch, and puts his face in his hands.
“That’s not true. I’d like a do-over.”
I cackle, and reach up to cover my mouth, trapping the rest of my laugh behind my hand. Kit leans back when he hears my laugh, and smiles.
“Come here, Helena,” he says. He reaches his hand toward me. I go to him. Maybe I run. Probably not, though, because that’s not cool.
I spring onto his lap as he’s standing up, and he catches me, hands around my butt. Then he lays me down very gently on the couch, before lowering himself on top of me. We kiss like that for a long time. Slow kisses with my hands in his silky, black hair. It feels like my dream—so familiar—but neither of us pushes forward. It’s enough to feel his weight, and taste his mouth, and know that he’s ready, pressed between my thighs. I never knew that I was capable of kissing someone for that long. I didn’t even know I liked kissing. Maybe I didn’t like things enough because I was doing them with the wrong person. The only reason we stop kissing is because someone is knocking on Kit’s door. He rolls off me, and then pulls me to my feet. We both stand in the middle of his living room, completely disoriented.
“You should answer that,” I say.
“Okay, so you hear it too? I wasn’t sure if it was my heart.”
So cheesy, but I can’t help but love it. I point him to the door. “I’ll um … go to the bathroom.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Because. I don’t know. I feel like I shouldn’t be here.”
Kit scratches the back of his head. “Okay. We can talk about that later. Do you think they’re denting my door knocking that hard?”
I laugh and shove him forward. “Go!” I say.
I rinse my face in the sink and try to straighten my hair. I’m not really thinking about the person at the door until her voice catches me. Greer. I immediately look for a window to climb out of. I’m willing to fall to my death to not be here right now. Kit’s bathroom windows are sealed. I sit in the bathtub and try to cover my ears. It’s not my business, it’s not my business, it’s not my business.
But it is. A little bi
t at least.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?” she asks. Yeah, I want to know that too. I pick up his green soap and smell it.
“I didn’t know I had to,” I hear Kit say. “Listen, can we do this another time?”
Greer’s voice gets snippy. I’ve never heard her be that snippy with anyone.
“I’m dismissed, huh?”
“Greer, it’s not like that. You just came charging up here and put a dent in my door with your fist.”
“Fine,” I hear her say. “I just wanted to tell you that while you were gone, Roberta died. I didn’t want to text it.”
“For real? You could have told me.”
I can’t stop sniffing the soap. Like, I’m just holding it below my nose, and I’m sitting in a bathtub, and I’m a psycho.
“Well, now I did.”
“How?” Kit asks.
“She was run over.”
Oh God, I hope they’re talking about a dog. If I had my wine cork, this thing with the soap wouldn’t be happening. They talk for another minute, and then I hear the door close. Kit calls to me from the living room. When I don’t come out right away he knocks on the door.
“You okay?”
“Who’s Roberta?”
He tries the knob.
“She was our dog. Wanna talk about it?
“What kind of dog was she?”
“A poodle.”
I put down the soap. “You had a poodle named Roberta?”
“I’m a cool guy.” I climb out of Kit’s bath and open the door.
“I feel weird about being here. You have a girlfriend who happens to be my friend, and I live with your old girlfriend, and I’m way too saturated in this situation to be making out with you.”
“I’m sorry I’ve put you in a difficult position,” he says. “But I’m not sorry I kissed you. Or you kissed me. I’m not sorry.”
“You said that.” I try to bite my lip to keep from smiling.
“I’m not sorry. I just need you to know,” he says, again. “I’m no—”
I jump at him and press my hand over his mouth. He laughs and kisses the inside of my palm.
“I have to go,” I say. “It was nice kissing you.”