Page 36 of The Seven Year Slip

The way he kissed me, so thoroughly I felt it in my toes, the wayI pulled him to me, my hand wrapped around his tie, the way I thought about if he was so good with his tongue now, how much better would he be in a few years—

No, this wasn’tlove.

After all, I didn’t know what love—romantic love, toe-curling love—felt like. So how could I fall for it?

This wasn’t it. It couldn’t be.

“You kiss like you dance,” he murmured against my mouth.

I broke away, suddenly appalled. “Terribly?”

He laughed, but it was low and deep in his throat, half a growl, as he stole another kiss again. “Like someone waiting to be asked. You can just dance, Lemon. You can take the lead.”

“And you’ll follow?”

“To the moon and back,” he replied, and I leaned forward, my hands pressed against his hard chest, and kissed him again. Harder. Over the lemon pie. My insides felt like Pop Rocks, fizzy and bright. He made a noise against my mouth, a growl that rumbled through his chest as his long, long fingers curled further into my hair, his teeth nibbling on my bottom lip—

Suddenly, he pushed the lemon pie aside, wineglasses clattering as they bumped against the wall, and I put a knee on the table, halfway onto it, just to get a little closer. Just a little more. I wanted to press myself into him. I wanted to lose myself in his smell, in his calloused touch, in the way he painted words like poetry.

Romance wasn’t inchocolate, it was in the gasp of breath as we came up for air. It was in the way he cradled my face, the way I traced my finger over the crescent-shaped birthmark on his collarbone. It was in the way he muttered how beautiful I was, the way it made my heart soar. It was in the way I wanted to know everything about him—his favorite songs, finally guess his favoritecolor. His mouth migrated toward my neck, feeling my pulse quick and loud at my throat. Pressing a kiss under my ear—

He will never stay, my darling Clementine, I heard my aunt say, crystal clear in my head. I could see her sitting in her wingback chair, remembering Vera.No one stays.

“Wait,” I gasped, breaking myself away from him. My heart was quick and loud in my head. “Wait—is this smart?Shouldwe? This might be a bad idea.”

He froze. “What?”

“This—this might be a bad idea,” I repeated, letting my hand unwind from his tie. My lips felt tender, my cheeks flushed.

He blinked, tonguing his bottom lip, his gaze still drunk on our kisses. “You could never be a bad idea, Lemon.”

But what if you are?I thought, biting the inside of my lip. Because there I was, teetering on the precipice of something. I could tip over and never see the top again, or I could remain perfectly balanced where I was.

And then I looked into his grayish-blue eyes, and I knew exactly how I’d paint them—I’d paint them like the moon. Layers of white, gradually growing darker, with shadows of blue. Now, though, they were like storm clouds out at sea in the golden evening light—

And I was a fool.

“...Lemon? You have that look again,” he said in concern. I snapped out of my thoughts, embarrassment flooding my cheeks. He had come around the table, and knelt down in front of me, his hand on my knee, his thumb gently rubbing circles there. “Lemon?”

“Sorry.” I pressed my hands against my face. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Gently, he tugged my hands away from my face, looking up at me with nothing but concern. What a lovely man. I sank down against him, my face buried into his shoulder,where I—awfully—fit so perfectly. He was so warm and comfortable, and I hated that I loved it. “I’m sorry,” I repeated again, because I wasn’t sure how else to voice it—how much I wanted this, wanted him, but there were things my heart couldn’t handle anymore, still brittle and small, broken from something else that couldn’t stay.

I was broken, and I was alone, and I wished he had foundmeseven years ago, instead.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry...”

“Hey—hey, don’t apologize, don’t be sorry, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” he said, gently dislodging me from his shoulder so he could look at my face, pushing my hair behind my ear. He cradled my cheek in his warm hand. “It’s okay. It’s okay, really.”

This is where normal girls would have cried, because his voice was so gentle, so comforting. This is where they would have let their heart overflow, and bring down their walls, but my eyes didn’t even sting with tears. I think I had cried them all out in the last six months. I think I had run dry. Because as I looked down into his face and his lovely pale eyes, all I could feel was a hollow pit in the center of my stomach.

I wish I could tell you a story, I thought,and I wish you would believe it.

But he wouldn’t. I was old enough to know that for a fact. Because while he believed in romance, in chocolates, and love over lemon pies, the story of a girl seven years out of time sounded a bit too abstract, even for his ears, and I couldn’t bear the thought of the way he’d look at me once I told my story, half pitying, halfdisappointed, that I had to make up a lie about a time slip instead of telling him the truth.

Instead, I leaned my face against his hand and kissed his palm. “Can we finish our dessert? And talk some more?”

He stood and kissed my forehead. “Of course, Lemon. I would love nothing more.”

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