Page 55 of Sawyer

“Cut!”

Through a haze of lust, I hear someone yelling something.

“Cut! Cut! Cut! Heathcliff! Catherine! CUT!”

My lips are suddenly abandoned, left exposed to the cool air of the theater. I open my eyes to find Sawyer jerking away from me, his own eyes wide and dark, his lips red and slick. My chest heaves with choppy, shallow breaths, and I stare at him, amazed, astonished…and terribly in love.

“Good Lord!” cries Bruce, fanning his face. “Is it hot in here or is it me? Does anyone else need a frosty beverage to put out these flames? Whew!” He rises from his seat and steps onto the stage. “Catherine, darling, you’re dying.Dying.I love the passion, but you can’t be moaning and raking your hands through his hair.” He turns to Sawyer. “Heathcliff, I like the intensity, but again, she’sdying. You can’t look like you’re about to jump on her and make babies, no matter how much you love her. Okay?” Bruce leaves the stage and resumes his seat in thefront row. “We’re just going to have to keep running it until we get it right. Start from Heathcliff’s entrance and…action!”

***

When I walk home from rehearsal an hour later, my lips are tender, but there’s a bounce in my step that hasn’t been there for a long, long time.

(Fifteen months, to be exact.)

I just spent an hour kissing the man I love—the person I have likely loved since childhood—and I don’t know how to carry on with my life if kissing Sawyer Stewart isn’t a part of it. I’m pretty sure a life that doesn’t include him isn’t a life I want.

His tenderness.

His intensity.

Hislove.

My god, how did I turn my back on him? How did I ever find the strength to leave him?

Fear.

The word slides through my brain, at once the perfect and only reason.

Fear.

I was afraid.

But I’m not afraid anymore.

I unlock the kitchen door and step into the warm house, surprised to find my aunt and uncle sitting at the kitchen table together. They’ve been spending most of their evenings in their bedroom so Aunt P. can rest.

“Hey!” I say. “Look at you two!”

“How was rehearsal?” asks Uncle Alan, getting up to pour me a cup of decaf.

I take off my boots and mittens and hang my coat and scarf on the hooks by the door.

“Intense,” I answer, joining them at the table.

“Good intense or not-good intense?” asks Aunt P.

“Good intense,” I say, plopping down in the seat beside her and warming my hands on the mug my uncle places in front of me. “Kissing scenes.”

“Kissing scenes,” says Aunt P., raising her eyebrows. “Heathcliff and Catherine?”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling my cheeks grow warm.

My uncle glances at my engagement ring. “How’s Clark going to feel about that?”

“Stage kissing in a community theater production doesn’t count as real kissing,” I say quickly, even though I know that’s a lie. The kisses that Sawyer and I shared on stage tonight had nothing to do with the play we’re in. And even though we didn’t talk after rehearsal, I’m pretty sure we both know it.

“Well, speaking of Clark, we have some good news to share with you,” says Uncle Alan, taking my aunt’s hand and grinning at her. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

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