Page 25 of The Significance of Moving On

Poor Tally is probably going out of her mind. Despite wanting to speed the rest of the way, I keep my foot light on the gas, but damn well throw open my door and sprint from the car up into the house to get to her, busting through the front door like some roided-out madman.

She looks worse than I’ve seen her in over a month.

“Tally” I drop down at her side. “Talk to me.” I can feel the crushing sadness radiating off her in waves, which causes the panic to kick up in me, talking faster, voice rising in pitch.

She points in the direction of Tom’s house using the hand that has his obituary crumpled in her fist. I recognize the writing across the top.

“T-t-tom’s birthday,” she whispers. “They m-m-move in on Tom’s birthday.” Then she sniffs and wipes her nose on her shirt.

I’m frozen. No matter how much I try to help, some new shitty situation springs up that I just don’t know how to deal with. Why, for the love of God, can’t something be easy for us? Just once. One fucking time.

But no—Tal lies there again, a weepy pile of shit-on hurt. Tom’s birthday? There was no possible way for me to know it’s Tom’s birthday, but it feels like I should have—like I’ve let her down. Fucking Tom’s birthday.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” The name slips out before I have the chance to catch hold and suck it back down to a place where it can’t do any harm. There’s no time for regrets, not when Tally needs me.

The feel of her molded perfectly against my arms almost makes me wonder why I put the brakes on us in the first place. But I had to. She’ll understand one day. When she’s happy with how her life turned out, she’ll understand. I destroy lives and hers is already such shit.

“Able Mackey asked me to homecoming.” Her words teeter on the lower decibel of a whisper, yet simultaneously feel like a French kiss and a punch in the gut.

“I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

“I don’t want to go with Able,” she says.

“Then who, who do you want to go with?”

Tally shudders out a breath, sinking deeper onto my lap. Her nose and eyes press against my shirt now balled in her hand against the obituary. And she dampens it, me, raising the humidity in the air from her tears I’m once again unable to protect her from.

“Shhh… you know I’ve got you.” I pull her onto my lap and she cries harder into my shirt.

Then out of nowhere she begins shaking her head. “No. No. I’m not going back there.”

Christ, I’m proud. Her eyes are red and puffy, her nose is running, but she pulls herself together. I offer her the hem of my shirt to wipe her face on because I don’t give a shit if she gets snot on it. It’ll wash.

She wipes her face and stares off for a moment like she’s far off somewhere else and then, she pushes up to kiss me. Tally’s lips on mine is heaven. How am I supposed to stay away from her, to give her the best chance for a future, with heaven on my damn lips? One hand grips the back of my collar and the other fists into my hair to pull me closer. My heart pounds in my chest. There’s no space left between us.

This woman—she’s ruining my plan. And I should push her away but I physically can’t let her go. Every instinct in me says I need to make her mine.

My hand comes to rest on her hip, the feel of her too good. I have to touch more before it’s time to set her free. My fingers dance along her smooth stomach dipping just below the waist of her faded-out blue jeans, taking extra time to slowly, methodically circle her navel.

“Is this okay?” I ask. I’m lucky to have a voice at all, she takes my breath away.

She shudders. I swear to god, she shudders and I all but come undone right here. On her shudder her mouth opens, allowing me access to taste her more fully, her tongue and the green apple Chapstick brushed along that plump, bottom lip.

Tally pulls me forward as she lowers herself down until I shift my hips enough to lie on top of her. This is happening. I can’t believe this is happening, but I physically can’t stop myself. Jesus Christ, I don’t want to stop myself. Tal, she’s beautiful and I just want to drink in the essence that’s her.

And then I feel the vibration in my pants pocket a split second before the silence is shredded by the shrillness of my ringtone.

The spell is broken—thank the god of luck—before we got to something she would regret.

The pounding ache in my chest reaches down to my dick and we’re both still panting when I catch her eyes. She looks confused and I can’t blame her, all the mixed signals I keep sending her.

It takes me a couple extra seconds to swallow back the lump of lust about ready to choke the life out of me and every ounce of strength I didn’t know I have to push her away. In reality, before I push myself up off her, we both know what this means.

“I’m sorry,” I say, raking my fingernails back and forth over my hair. We’ve got to go somewhere—now—I’m only human and she’s sexy as hell, I want her bad—I can’t get her out fast enough, the look of sadness in her eyes, the taste of sin on those beautiful lips. God, what I wouldn’t give to taste that sin again. Grabbing ahold of her hand, I bring her standing along with me. “C’mon.”

She doesn’t protest but a thin line of tears rolls down over her cheeks, which makes me want to crack my skull against the wall. At the same time, I see her smile the for briefest moment as she stares down at our linked fingers, which let’s face it, strokes my ego. At least something’s getting stroked tonight.

We don’t grab jackets because I hardly give her time to slip into her black ballerina flats—and it kills me that Iknowthey’re called ballerina flats—before I pull her back outside toward my car.

---