Page 81 of Warmer, Colder

“In our forgiveness, in our trust, in our love, we are stronger together. You hold no claim to us anymore. We banish you.”

She repeats after me and I focus on creating a small gash on her inner thigh. Interrupting her just briefly, I hold my hand to her mouth. She makes a face but puts her mouth to it reluctantly. Smearing it across her lips, I turn my attention back to her leg while she works the verbal part of the spell. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.” Pressing my lips to the cut, I suck at the blood, letting the taste of her fill my mouth, the final piece of her that was missing from my possession—I’ve never felt more whole.

The power of it fills me, completeness swelling within me as she confidently chants the words louder and louder in the face of the final challenge we have yet to overcome.

Glancing into the mirror, I watch proudly as light scatters through the void, threatening its form and loosening its hold. The voices it emulates, now barely a breeze on the wind, unable to touch us or play with our minds. Assured that Becca has this handled; I’m determined to amplify the spell in my own way.

Returning my lips to the cut on her leg, I suck and lick at the blood that flows, then work my way up. Pulling her panties to theside, I tease my tongue between her lips. A small gasp escapes her, but she doesn’t falter in her recitation.

“In our forgiveness, in our trust, in our love, we are stronger together. You hold no claim to us anymore. We banish you,” she repeats again and again as her hands sink into my hair.

Tilting her hips forward, she leans back against the mirror, opening herself up to me—trusting me—even in the face of what terrifies her. Rewarding her for her bravery, I slip a finger inside her and lavish my attention on her swollen clit.

“In our forgiveness, in our trust, in our love, we are stronger together.” The last word drags its nails across my back in a moan. The voices coming from above warp and crackle, fizzling out with every roll of her hips.

“You hold no claim to us anymore.” She clutches at me tighter but still manages to remain focused, the air at my back becoming lighter and cooler. “We banish you, ah—” Shaking legs clench around my head as she barrels into an orgasm that has her writhing and gasping and grinding against my open mouth. I greedily collect every drop of her, inhaling like it’s the only thing that can sustain me.

A silent calm falls over us as we both come down from the influx of energy flowing between us.

“You did it, Becca.” I claim her lips with mine, tender and slow. “I’m so proud of you for facing your fears.” Gathering her in my arms, I take her back to her room and tuck us into her bed. She turns to me, curling into my chest, then wraps one of my arms around her. The simplicity of it isn’t lost on me, but her allowing me to hold her with such ease, is monumental and I promise myself to never take one of these moments for granted.

My entire life, I’ve been starved for affection, cursed with an unyielding thirst for devotion. Having Becca’s adoration, her trust, and her heart, it’s like I’ve finally been brought in from the cold and offered a lavish feast. This new dynamic between us—where we’re not both constantly on guard, protecting our secrets—nourishes me to the point of feeling full for the first time. It assures me that there was never any ‘getting her out of my system’ or ‘letting her go’, she was always meant to be mine.

Mine to protect, mine to lean on, mine to possess in every way.

Curling my arm around her, I tug her closer so I can press my lips to her throat, enjoying the way she struggles to swallow.

“Wait, I have something I want to show you first.”

Sighing my protest, I bite at her collarbone like I did on Halloween. “I never did fulfill my promise of claiming you as mine.”

Pushing me off, she rolls out from under me. “I promise it will be worth it.”

“Fine, but it’s going to have to be something big to compete with what I have planned for you.”

I watch with curiosity as Becca’s calves flex as she presses up onto her tiptoes and retrieves something from the top of her closet, freeing it from the weight of the sweaters she had stacked on it. For several moments she remains still, just staring down at it. Restlessness begins to gnaw at my gut, but I force myself to stay where I wait on the floor. Finally, she turns around with glassy eyes. Her long fingers curl around a small rectangular box that’s clutched against her stomach protectively.

When she sets theSketchersshoebox in front of me, we both stare at it like it might detonate. As someone with an aversion to patience, I have to fold my hands in my lap to avoid tearing the lid off.

“You know,” she mumbles and sets a hand on top of it. “I thought locking up the memories of you and putting them out of sight would make me forget about everything.” She shakes her head and huffs a humorless laugh. “But you were always there, beneath all the layers of protection I’d built against the world. I could never hide from the brand your friendship—yourunconditional love—put on my soul. For long bouts of time, I forgot about it under all that scar tissue, but then, some days, I could still feel the burn of it.” Her hand rubs across her chest like she’s trying to soothe heartburn, and then she grips the edges of the lid, revealing a time capsule trapped inside.

It’s bursting with little notes folded into triangles with colorful writing on them, keychains, and discolored photos of two smiling girls who had no idea what the world had in store for them. With eager hands, I sift through the contents, a pile of ticket stubs catching my eye. Thumbing through them I’m drawn down memory lane—to the time Becca’s mom took us to the Dream Within a Dream tour up in Sac—I was more of a Christina girl but it was still iconic. There’s one of those instant photo strips stuck to the back of it featuring me with pigtails sporting pink pom-poms and Becca in the red track pants and yellow tank she loved.

“We look so cute,” she chimes in, hovering over the box.

“We look happy.”

Beneath the concert tickets is a mood ring—which I discreetly pocket—and movie tickets, most notably Blue Crush, an instant-favorite of mine, for what are now very obvious reasons.

“I mean, the way I obsessed over Michelle Rodriguez . . . I feel like there was really never any question,” I laugh holding up the ticket stub for her to see.

“Is that your type?”

“You’remy type.” Taking the opportunity, I lean in and kiss her. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a childhood crush?”

“Of course not,” she dismisses a little too quickly.

“Good. You know you’re my only girl. But if you need me to remind you—” She cuts me off with a stack of CDs that thud against my chest. I don’t need to read the writing on them to know they’re the ones we used to exchange for any and everyoccasion—birthdays, holidays, trips, whatever. Turning overSlumber Party Mix, the scratches prove it lived a good life.

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