Page 39 of Kismet

Emotion tightens my chest as I watch him walk away. The feelings swirling around inside me make no sense. I care deeply for Cash, despite knowing I shouldn’t. Knowing that nothing good could come from these feelings. It’s as if we’ve known each other our whole lives, like we were destined to end up here. And these feelings only solidify my need for a divorce.

Chapter Twelve

Cash DeMarco

It’s another clear night. Stone and I just got to the fields and set up the blankets and pillows. He held my hand the entire drive here, and I tried so fucking hard to not read too much into it. His hand in mine feelssoright. I can’t explain it. It’s wrong… all of it. He’s my professor, he’s married, we’re in different areas of our lives. Yet, despite it all, it feelsright.

“You want something to drink?” he asks quietly from behind me. I’m sitting between his open legs, my back to his chest, and his arms around me.

“Uh, sure. Thanks.”

He cracks open two beer bottles, handing one to me. I bring it up to my lips, taking a long pull. The crisp, cold liquid feels good going down my throat. He has music playing softly on his phone—we have the same taste in music, which is nice.

We sit in comfortable silence, basking in the warmth from each other for a while. There’re so many questions I want to ask, so many things I want to know about him. I want to know it all—where he came from, what makes him tick, what his hopes and dreams are, what he wants from me.

“Twenty questions?” I ask, taking another swig from my beer, nerves bubbling in my gut.

He chuckles. “Okay, you first.”

“What were you like as a child?”

“Happy. Adventurous. I loved to play in the mud, but I also really enjoyed playing Barbies with Molly. I loved to fix things with my dad—cars, stuff around the house, anything. I also wanted to be the next Kurt Cobain, you know, minus the death.”

“No shit? Do you sing?”

“Not well.” He laughs. “I mean, you’ve heard me sing in the car. Okay, my turn. Has teaching always been your goal?”

“No, not really. I’ve always enjoyed writing. I’ve written short stories and poems for as long as I can remember, writing my thoughts down in journals, stuff like that. It wasn’t until my junior year of high school where I considered teaching. I had an English teacher, Mr. Franklin, who helped so many kids. It was a struggling class, to say the least. There were only a few of us who were doing well, and he worked so hard, and turned almost the entire class around. Almost the entire class ended up passing with an A. I don’t know… I just want to make a difference in people’s lives like that. Show them they can do it, despite what they think.”

“If anyone could do it, Cash, it’d be you. You’re a natural.”

His compliment, no matter how many times I’ve heard it from him, warms my cheeks and makes my heart thump harder behind my ribcage. His praise and approval do things to me—embarrassing, childhood crush things—like a hit of dopamine every single time. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” he whispers, his face right beside my ear, sending chills throughout my body. “You’re up.”

There’s one question I’m so curious about, for whatever reason, but I don’t know how he’ll take it. “What were your parents like?”

I glance back at him. He’s got this pure, genuine smile on his face as he gazes into the dark field, remembering them. “They were… the best. Everyone probably says that about their folks, but I mean it. They were strict on Molly and me, but it came from a place of caring. They were so in love with one another, anyone even in the same room as them could tell. Their love is the type people write epic songs about or what the movies and books are made of. Their love is what I always wanted to have. My mother was a stay-at-home mom. She loved baking with us, teaching us how to cook, showing us how to take care of a garden, and grow your own vegetables.

“And my dad, well, he’s the reason I got into teaching at all. He was a professor too. Taught English Lit and creative writing classes at the college in Spokane. I have vivid memories of being a boy, snooping around in his office at the house. Finding all his great novels and getting lost in them for hours at a time. The Great Gatsby, Moby Dick, 1984, even Jane Eyre. My love for reading and great literature is all thanks to him.”

I can’t help but beam, listening to him talk about them the way he does, with so much love and adoration. “They sound like incredible people,” I reply softly.

Nuzzling into the side of my neck, he presses his lips to my skin. “They very much were.”

One thing—one statement—stands out to me.“Their love is what I always wanted to have.”This question is probably inappropriate, but I have to know. “If you’re not happy, why do you stay married to your wife?”

He tenses behind me, and for a moment, I think I’ve crossed a line. But then he blows out a deep breath, relaxing. “I’m starting to learn that this game is a front for you to ask me the tough stuff.”

Laughing, I look back at him. “You caught me.”

He leans down, pressing his lips down on mine. The kiss is quick, but makes my head light, nonetheless. “Complacency, I think. Her and I are really all the other knows. We were each other’s firsts, and we got married right out of high school. We fell into a comfortable situation, and the thought of leaving all you’ve ever known to start over is scary.”

“Even though you’re unhappy?”

“Well, that’s the thing about becoming comfortable. You don’t always notice you’re not happy until it’s too late. I didn’t realize I was truly unhappy until recently.”

“What do you think made you finally see you weren’t happy?” A selfish, and probably unrealistic, part of me is hoping he’ll say it was me.

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