3
T H E F I R S T T A S T E
Time carves holes in my heart.
Fill them, fill them up.
I SHOULD HAVE SAID SOMETHING.
She was standing right there, and all I’d managed was a wave.
But damn if she didn’t take my breath away. She was everything I remembered. Five years only added to her beauty, but there were subtle differences.
Her freckles weren’t as obvious as they used to be. Gone was the sun-kissed bronze I used to imagine running my fingers over while she scribbled in her notebook. And there was a dullness in her autumn-touched eyes. Like a candle on the verge of burning out, muddying the blues, golds, and deep greens.
There was also a new tattoo on the back of her neck—a butterfly emerging from a shredding cocoon surrounded by the words: What’s past is prologue. A quote I’d pegged from one of the great pieces of literature written by Shakespeare—The Tempest.
One more reason she’d stayed within my heart all those years—our mutual love of words.
I scratched at the stubble on my face. Was she still waiting for her past to become the prologue? Would she ever see I could help her write that story?
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, picturing her in my mind. The way the lace top stretched across her chest just right. The way her widened hips swung without her even trying. She was the kind of sexy that couldn’t be taught. The wholesome rawness men lusted after.
And I’d had a taste.
Once was all it took. Lips like silk. Her scent and heat warm and inviting. The way her face tilted and how her eyes pleaded with me to make her feel something other than an endless cycle of pain. To set fire to the mistakes and disappointments, and replace them with heated touches and whispered words.
Had she not pumped the brakes, I’d have taken her that night. She would have been my first, and probably my last. But when her eyes filled with shame and her swollen lips pulled from mine, I’d known there was no going back.
I was too young, she’d said. That because she had Charlie, she couldn’t put her baggage on me. Not when I was about to leave for college. But I knew she felt it too.
Our souls may have swum in different oceans, but the tide would always bring us back together.
I reached for my wallet, eyes landing on the well-worn piece of paper I kept tucked away. After wiping my hands on the roughness of my jeans, I pulled it out, heart banging against my ribs. I’d touched it so many times it was beginning to wear into nothing. The graphite words were blended and smudged, but I didn’t have to look at the paper to read them. They were tattooed to my soul.
I found you in between heart beats,
inside a caught breath,
hiding behind a cage of bone.
Dance with me, you said.
Find our rhythm home.
Her words pulsed through my mind. They eased the ache in my soul. The longing I’d felt for so long. It was dangerous for me to feel that way. To entertain thoughts I knew would never be reciprocated, but I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to.
She was there—always. Throughout my childhood and on into adulthood. Her words were a secret I wasn’t supposed to know. Truths and pain I found hidden away within a tree. Words that shredded my innocence. That carved a hole in my heart only she could fill. Her words were my first kiss. They were the uneven breaths I took when I spotted her across a room. They were my hands between her thighs inside the dreams she filled night after night.
But she’d never know this.
How could she? She was my best friend’s older sister.
But she’d kissed me… once.
I still remembered her taste—desire and sweet heat. She felt like home inside my hands. I understood her pain. We’d spent many years taking care of each other, each seeking approval from our parents. Her mother disapproved of her just as my father did of me. It was in their shadows where we found each other.
Especially after that night.
I could still hear the girl’s screams.
I reached for my beer and pressed the chilled bottle to my lips, desperate to wash the memories down. For eight years, I’d been haunted by the ghost of a scream. Of a night that changed the way my father looked at me. That made the town talk in whispers every time I walked by them, none of them knowing the truth.
And I’d never tell it, because I never go back on my word.
But no matter the truth only a few knew, the rumors would always be bigger. I was the son from a golden family who harbored a mean streak. The one who lost my father an important client by beating up said client’s son. I’d brought shame to our family. Fear to my town.
But my father and I knew the truth of what happened whether he accepted it or not.
I left the small town of Senoia, Georgia behind when it came time to pick a college. New York called to my blood. City life. Experience. Culture.
I could have taken the free ride my parents offered by sticking close to home, but I wanted to be outside the whispers. I could handle the odd looks. Could even take the taunts from the guys on the football team before they removed me to save face.
But I couldn’t handle Andy looking at me differently, despite swearing she knew the whispers weren’t true.
Severing myself from that town was the only option I’d had. The dust would settle and the whispers would fade. And the secret of that day would remain safely buried.
At least, I hoped.
When I completed my degree and began the search for work, an internship I couldn’t resist had opened in Knoxville. It was a new branch for one of the largest editing agencies in the nation in a town that held similar roots to where I grew up.
I missed home. I couldn’t get away from that fact.
I’d known Andy lived somewhere in Nashville, but it had been a little over four years since I’d last seen her, and I’d sworn to myself I’d stay clear of Nashville. A promise I’d stuck to for the past year.
Until Josh called.
I polished off my beer and tossed the glass in the bin by my bed, the bottles clanging together. Warmth filled my stomach and limbs. Pulling my phone out, I stared at my reflection in the black screen as it shifted between the boy I was then and the man I’d become. Would she ever see that?
Could she give up her number fixation and come back home to words?
Fragments of that night five years ago resurfaced. “We can’t do this, Dean. I have a child to think about. You’re going away to college. It won’t work.”
I swore if I closed my eyes, I could still recall the way her tears slid down the hills of her cheeks. Still feel the pain in my gut as I watched her run to the house, leaving what we’d only just started in the dust.
I should call Josh and tell him I couldn’t go. She didn’t want me there. She’d spend the time trying to avoid me, and I didn’t know if I could take it.
Because I knew her better than I knew myself.
She wanted me just as much as I wanted her. Needed me to remind her of who she thought she’d lost when she dropped out of college. I’d been there for every moment… every memory… and I’d be damned if I sat back and watched her let her life pass by. She might not have admitted it, but I recognized the passion dying to break free in her eyes. I felt it, even when she wasn’t looking. I wondered if she still wrote about it. If more words from her mind existed that my eyes hadn’t had the pleasure of devouring yet.
She didn’t know I’d read through her thoughts long before she kissed me. When I was thirteen, I found them stored inside a hole in the tree that held up her tree house. Little pieces of paper folded up and kept inside a small, plastic container covered in faded stickers.
I knew I shouldn’t have read them from the first line.
Spill into me, until all the holes are filled.
But I couldn’t stop myself. I’d always been drawn to words… to her… and reading her words was a high I couldn’t escape. She spoke to my soul. Woke it from its slumber. From that point on, I was a goner. I looked for more words from her. When I couldn’t find them, I’d distracted myself with the words of others. The addiction grew until I’d read just about every book in the small library at our school. I was labeled a nerd, but I was never made an outcast purely because of who my father was—Samuel Thurston—prestigious lawyer and partner to Andrea’s father—John Hale.
And because of Josh.
I had a name to live up to. A line to follow. Dean Harley Thurston… third of three brothers and the only one who had veered off course. My father and older brothers had all been captains of the football team; therefore, I needed to be one. They attended the same college; therefore, I had been expected to attend the same college. But it had never fit right. I never felt at home the way I did when I lost myself inside words. They were always there when I needed them. They didn’t let me down.
But most importantly, they woke me up.
She woke me up.
Andy was the one who taught me bravery. Who taught me taking chances was the only way to live. I stopped following the line when I decided to switch majors from law to English. When I decided my desires were more important than the desires of others.
Just like her words had said…
Tape my dreams to the backs of butterfly wings,
And watch them fly, fly away.
My phone buzzed with a message from my boss, Manny. He’d taken me under his wing from day one at the editing agency, sharing his coveted secrets with me. I swiped open the message.
Check your email.
Pushing the covers back, I headed to my computer, already knowing this meant there was work for me.
He knew I was hungry for it. All I needed was a foot in the door.
My inbox was full of emails from the office. Grunt work. Proofing copies of non-fiction. Proofing ads. Sorting through emails for Manny and sending him only what he needed to see. I knew when I accepted the internship it would be hell, but I’d had to do it. I had to prove to myself and to my family this was a career worth being proud of, and the only way to do it was to take this highly coveted internship.
With over a year already under my belt, and a full salary, all I had to do was grit through a little more bullshit, and then I’d be banking on all the beautiful words my eyes could devour. I wanted to be the one who found the diamond in the rough and polished it up for the world. Who took the intimate words of another and buffed away the rough edges.
Andy could be that diamond.
Her words moved me like no others. When she chose to go to college, majoring in English, I couldn’t have been happier. It made me even more sure that she was the words to my red pen. But when Charlie came and she chose to take a step back from writing, I watched the light in her eyes dim. Watched her fingers swirling in the air as the words she was meant to write fought to be set free.
My phone buzzed with another message from my boss, asking me to finish everything he’d sent before I took my vacation. I scrolled. Sixty-two emails. Nearly half were labeled as proof work for ads; the rest were his personal emails I needed to filter through.
I had to get it done. Had to see it through, because even though my brain told me seeing Andy again was a bad idea, my heart felt otherwise.
Guess I should put on a pot of coffee.
MY EYES WERE RAW.
They felt like they had been rubbed with acid, or maybe leftover hot sauce. I glanced at the red stains on my shirt and pants from the hot wings I ate last night and shook my head. The computer had dimmed, and I found the missing letter O from the keyboard stuck to my cheek. It might have taken nearly nineteen hours straight, but I’d done it. I finished every email my boss sent.
I skimmed my fingers over the binds of my favorite pieces of literature, which were stacked on my desk. White Fang. Of Time and the River. The Waves. Hamlet. Wuthering Heights. Words that had shaped my view on the world. That had dipped me inside the brains of others so I could see the world in different colors.
One day, I’d attach my name to a work as great as those. I’d sit back and witness an author fly, secretly reveling in the fact that I’d read them first.
I stood from my desk and glanced around my loft. At the bathroom closed off by a makeshift wall built out of stocked bookshelves. At the living room furthering my collection of spined treasures. Even the TV stand had been used to hold my ever-growing collection.
It was a mess. I shouldn’t leave it in this state, but if I wanted to be on the road by nightfall, I needed to get some shut-eye.
Wandering to my bed, I fell face-first, too tired to bother with the covers.
This time tomorrow, I’d see her again, because there was an invisible hand pushing me in her direction. Even after all this time, she hadn’t disappeared from my thoughts. She wouldn’t stop haunting my dreams. But maybe if I got her alone again… if I told her the truth about how I felt… then maybe I could finally let her go.
Her poem pulsed through my mind.
Find our rhythm home.
Or maybe… just maybe… I could finally find my rhythm home.