Beth
I won’t say that kissing Noah is a mistake. It is a breath of something beautiful in the dark fatigue of my life. I love the feel of his mouth on mine, his taste. He’s spicy, like cinnamon mixed with citrus. Warm and clean and fresh and a thousand other things that are pure and good.
The kiss ends after a moment. It could have been me, maybe him. I can’t tell. He rests his forehead against mine, and we sit there silently, simply trying to catch our breath.
“I’m not sure what to say,” I finally manage, giving voice to the thoughts swirling inside me.
There are darker thoughts. Ones that involve the slide of skin against skin, the fantasy of having time only to myself.
“Me, either.” A gentle brush of his lips against mine. “Still hungry?”
“Starved.” Not only for food, but I’m sure he’s already figured that out. I want to kiss him again already.
I wish I were more creative. I might suggest some wild double entendre. Make him laugh. But I’m not that good.
He releases me, and I sink back into my seat. He drives us out of the parking garage and heads off campus, checking his phone for directions. I want to ask where he’s taking us, but I’m willing to let him surprise me. Because I’m living dangerously, right? Being selfish for one fleeting moment.
“So what’s wrong with your dad?” He’s heading into the nice part of town. The really nice part of town that has all the great local restaurants that I’ve heard my classmates talk about. There’s a social aspect of business school that I know is hurting my chances of getting into graduate school. It’s part of why I’m not even sure about applying. The social scene is something I have neither the time nor the resources to participate in. I’m counting on a recommendation from Professor Blake because I damn sure haven’t made the contacts that I should have been making. And I don ‘t think we can afford it.
Which isn ‘t to say I don ‘t have friends. I do. But I shelter my life from them. The clothes I wear are from the secondhand shops in the wealthier parts of town. I look like I belong, or at least I try to convince myself that I look like I fit. I have Abby to thank for teaching me how to pass here.
I have no idea what’s being said behind my back, and if I spend too much time thinking about it, I’ll go crazy. I focus on my grades and my work. Everything else can’t matter.
“He got hurt in the army. He’s got two herniated discs in his mid-back.”
“My first platoon sergeant had something similar. Screwed it up on a jump.” He pulls into a parking spot in front of a brightly colored Mexican restaurant. “Do you like Mexican?”
“It’s my favorite.” The truth. It isn ‘t expensive to make at home, and usually at the first of the month when Dad’s check comes in, I buy and freeze fresh ingredients to use throughout the month. Some months, depending on the medications my dad is running low on, are better than others.
My stomach is clearly in the mood for Mexican. I still have time before Dad will be sober. It’s kind of pathetic that I know how long it takes. Part of me feels like I’m enabling him but what else are we supposed to do?
I’ll drive him to the ER and they’ll give him some medication that will make him okay until the follow-up appointment. Sometimes, there’s a steroid injection they can do that works miracles but it isn ‘t often. Some docs disagree about whether or not they’re necessary or if they’re making things worse. It’s not the real injection he needs anyway. Just a temporary fix, but so long as he’s sober, the ER will treat him, as opposed to diagnose him as an addict and refuse to prescribe. It’s another medical bill to add to the pile, but he won ‘t be in pain for a little while and that’s what matters.
It’s a sad state of affairs but that’s my life, right?
Noah holds the door for me as we step inside. His hand drifts to the small of my back. It’s warm and solid and comforting. He asks for a small table away from the high traffic areas. I’ve noticed that about him: he always sits with his back to the wall. Part of me wants to ask about it; part of me doesn ‘t want to put him on the spot.
I figure if he wants to talk about it, he will.
Right now, I am going to enjoy lunch. Lunch with Noah. A completely impractical escape from reality. Lunch can ‘t hurt anything, right?
The echo of his mouth on mine, the warmth of his touch tingles on my lips.
Heat crawls across my skin as I lower my hand. He’s watching me. His eyes darken as he watches me. Warmth slides through my veins. His gaze drops to my lips then slips back over my face. I’92ve never felt caressed by a simple look before but there’s something about the way he watches me.
“I would really like to kiss you again, sometime,” he murmurs after our waiter leaves.
I sip my water, desperate for a distraction. Not because I don’t want to kiss him again, but because I do. Because the man sitting across from me with the rough, gentle hands is such a complex variation from the guys I deal with every day. He’s been out in the world. He’s really lived; he’s gone to war. He’s done so much more than just being a college student.
And while I want to pretend that this might be something different, I’m wary. I’ve been burned before. My hormones might be all hurray for penis but my brain knows better than to jump into bed with the first guy in a long time who gets me a little stirred up.
Then again, he’s only said he wants to kiss me again. That doesn ‘t automatically mean we’re going to be getting hot and sweaty any time soon.
“You know you could say something,” he says. “Your silence is hell on the ego. Did I have bad breath?”
He catches me off guard. I laugh and it feels good. “No. Sorry. Lost in thought.”
“Good ones or…?”
Because I can’t help myself, I meet his eyes. Warmth looks back at me. He covers one of my hands with his. “You’ve definitely made the day a little brighter,” I say.
He strokes his thumb along mine, sending little shivers of pleasure across my skin. “That’s good to know. I’ll have to come up with other ways to make your day a little brighter.”
I shake my head. “Another euphemism?”
“Maybe. Though clearly I need to work on them.”
We sit there talking about nothing and everything. About classes and how the basketball team won their last game and nonsensical things that don ‘t matter. It’s a completely normal afternoon in my abnormal life.
The whole time, his hand covers mine, his thumb stroking slowly. A light, teasing caress. No pressure. Just’85connection. A human touch when I wasn ‘t looking for anything but a paycheck.
It looks like I’ve gotten way more than I bargained for.
Noah
“So your dad. Why hasn’t he been seen at the VA?”
She leans back as the waiter brings us chips and salsa and our drinks. She dips a chip and takes a bite. She’s stalling, but I’m not sure why.
“We should try to keep this conversation light and enjoyable. If you get me started on the VA, I may start using creative profanity.”
I lean a little closer so I can whisper in her ear. I’m tempted to bite her earlobe but I’m trying to behave. My restraint is damn near superhuman “I’m dying to hear what you consider creative profanity. I can’t picture you swearing.”
“The VA is one of the few institutions that gets my blood pressure up that high.”
“Why?” I haven’t been seen by the VA yet. I’m still on Tricare for a few more weeks and then I’m taking advantage of the student insurance. I’ve heard enough horror stories about the VA that make me skeptical at best. I won ‘t be able to avoid it forever, especially not with everything that happened to me during the war. But I’m content to avoid it for now.
Beth sips her water then takes a deep breath. “They cancel more appointments than they keep, and he’s been scheduled for surgery five times in the last year. Because he’s not 100-percent disabled, he doesn ‘t have full coverage at local hospitals. And because of his rating, his back problems are treated as elective as opposed to medically necessary.” She takes a deep breath. Her voice is laced with tension. It’s complicated.
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” She snags another chip. “So what’s your story? You’re a junior?”
“I took a lot of courses after work when I was down at Bragg. School accepted most of my transfer credits. I get to use my GI Bill to finish up my BA and then I’m applying to grad school.”
“My dad gave me his GI Bill,” she says after a moment. “He’s the reason I can even begin to afford to go here.”
There’s something else there, beneath her words but I don’t push her on it. “I’m glad I went to school while I was active.”
“How did you have time? If you got promoted so quickly you had to be working a lot.”
“I was, but I carved out time. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up so I joined the army.”
“You joined the army on a whim during war?” Her words are laced with sarcasm.
I laugh and almost choke on a chip. How’s that for romantic? Smooth, Noah, real smooth. “When you put it that way, it does sound kind of foolish,” I say when I’m done hacking up a lung.
“I don’t know too many people who would join the army because they didn’t know what they wanted to be when they grow up. A couple of guys I went to high school with joined because they wanted to blow stuff up or because their dads wanted them to.”
She’s avoiding my eyes now, but she hasn’t pulled her hand from beneath mine. I hope she doesn’t feel the tremble in my hand. The anxiety is back, squeezing my lungs. Making me want to retreat into the shadows and comfort of the medication. Anything to take the edge off. I consider ordering a beer to get me through the rest of the day, but I don’t make it a habit of drinking and driving.
No, my other vices are plenty. No need to add criminal offenses to my list of sins in this life.
“How did that turn out for them?” I ask.
“I don’t know. My dad moved with me here once I got accepted, so I lost touch with a lot of people from high school.”
“You don’t sound like it’s much of a loss.”
She shrugs, swirling her tortilla chip in the salsa. Her hand tightens beneath mine. “I’ve always had a hard time fitting in.”
“You seem like you’re passing pretty well here. The professors like you.”
“The professors continually tell me they’ve never had a student work like me. And I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or not,” she says.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Maybe my working too hard makes my class background obvious.” She rolls her eyes with a funny smile on her lips. “Like my freshman year, my friend Abby pulled me aside and basically said, ’91I’m your fairy godmother. Here’s how you pretend you belong here just like the rest of them’92.”
It’s so strange, hearing her talk about how she doesn’t fit. I never would have figured that she feels this way. It’s true enough that she’s working and she walks everywhere but the way she carries herself makes me think quiet sophistication. The mystery of Beth Lamont deepens and I want to know more. So much more.
She catches me watching her and flushes. I love the way her cheeks turn a little bit pink, matching the tone of her lips.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump all my neuroses in your lap on a first date.” There’s an embarrassment there that’s sweet and compelling.
“Don’t apologize. I think it’s fascinating. So many layers to you, Beth Lamont.”
Her eyes sparkle now. “What about you? Where do you fit?”
I shrug. “I thought I fit in the army pretty good but that changed when I came home. I guess I haven’t been here long enough to say if this place fits or not. If the discussion in class today is any indication, it’s going to be challenging, to say the least.”
“Why?”
“Because these are useless thought experiments. It doesn’t teach you how to make these decisions in real life. When no matter what you decide, someone is going to die.” Her green eyes are intense. Curious. She’s unflinchingly honest when most people avoid any real talk about the war. Most folks say we support the troops until those troops bring up what really happens in war. Then they quietly change the subject. But not Beth.
“I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about what you guys do during war. I spend most of my time pissed off at how we take care of people like my dad when they come home.”
Her hand is tense now, beneath mine. We’re treading into dark waters. Moving beyond a conversation about thought experiments and business school ethics into something dangerous and personal.
“I think they’re tied together,” I say.
“You’re probably right.” She finally slides her hand free to take a drink. “But it’s not my place to judge. My dad came home. I’m not going to question what he did in order to make that happen.”
“I’m not sure our classmates would be so forgiving,” I say.
“Just wait. At least you’re not in any political science classes where you’d hear about the American hegemony and racist imperialism.”
I laugh because she sounds so disgruntled. “Not a card-carrying hippie?”
“Not exactly.”
She’s relaxed again as the waiter brings our food. She keeps glancing at her watch every few minutes. I’m curious enough to finally ask if she’s going to be late for an appointment.
I am not prepared for her response.
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