Page 99 of How to Walk Away

“I thought we were making s’mores,” I said.

“We’ve made a million s’mores,” Kit said. “Time for something new.”

I’d cooked many meals in this fire pit before, and I’d celebrated many birthdays here, but I confess, as familiar as it all was, I’d never done it quite like this. Everything felt a little bit new.

I found myself wanting to stay and stay—or, at least, not wanting to go inside.

Ian kept checking with me to see if I was ready, and I kept shaking my head. I got cold, in my sundress, but I still didn’t want to leave the fire. Kit and Benjamin cleaned up the stew, and took the pots and pans inside to wash, and then disappeared to get up to who-knows-what kind of mischief, but I didn’t care. I loved looking at the fire. I loved feeling cold. I loved being out in the world. I loved calling out songs for Ian toplay. He sang, and I sang, and I loved listening to our voices twist and wind around each other.

Tomorrow, it would all be over. We’d wake up and drive back to real life in an ugly hospital with fluorescent lights and mauve curtains. The sooner I fell asleep, the sooner this would all be gone. And I just didn’t want to let that happen.

Finally, Ian said, “You’ve got to be cold. I’m freezing my arse off.”

“I don’t care.”

He peered in. “Your lips look a little blue.”

He set down his uke and came closer, and when he took my hands, he said, “Good God, Maggie. You’re frozen solid.”

In one swoop, he picked me up—this time, not piggyback, but cradling me in his arms. He tucked my good side against his chest, and I did my best to be easy to carry by hooking my arm around his shoulder and resting my head down against the crook of his neck. That intoxicating Ian smell. I let myself breathe it in and savor it. Then I wondered if I could just brush my lips across the nape without him noticing.

He marched us across the yard and then into the warm, bright house, through the kitchen, and up the stairs.

Inside was quiet, like it was empty, and I wondered if Kit and Benjamin had gone for a walk. Ian nudged lights on as he went. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated. I could feel the pulse in his neck beating.

“Which room?” he asked.

“At the end of the hall,” I said.

Ian felt around for the hall light with his elbow, but he didn’t find it, so he just moved on ahead through the dark. It wasn’t impossible to see. There were shadows and outlines. He stepped carefully, but without too much hesitation. The door to my room was open, and the bed was just beyond it. It was lit by blue moonlight reflected off the lake.

He moved toward it, stepped through the doorway—and then he tripped on a little rag rug at the threshold.

He pitched forward, and then dropped to his knees. He clutched me tight to him as it happened, and then, intent on not falling forward and landing on top of me, he managed to fall backward.

Which meant I landed on top of him.

Fully on top. Smack-dab on top, you could even say.

At first, after impact, we were all about figuring out if anyone was injured. Had he hit his head or twisted anything?No. Was my graft okay?Yes. My back?All fine. Was anybody in any pain? Apparently not.

That’s when we took stock of our situation: alone, in a moonlit room by a tranquil lake, on the floor, a little breathless.

My face was just inches from his, and we held there, frozen, for a few very long seconds, breaths churning, eyes alert. His were so dark blue, they looked black.

So I did a crazy thing that seemed like, really, the only thing to do: I leaned down, pressed my mouth against his, and kissed him.

Boom. I wasn’t cold anymore.

I pulled back then, to check his expression and see what he thought—but he reached his hand up just as quick behind my head to bring me back. Another kiss. This one deeper and warmer and slower. I’d eyed those lips so much in the past weeks—and longed to touch them, even just with my fingers, to see if they were as soft as they looked. To see if they tasted as good as he smelled. And now I knew. Yes.

“You taste like brownies,” I said, through the kiss, my mouth still touching his.

“You taste like marshmallows,” he said back, and then he dove back in, brushing his tongue past mine.

“I love your accent,” I said, a minute later, pulling back a little.

“I love yours,” he said, leaning forward to catch my mouth with his.

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