He’s starting to get upset. “Maybe we should—” He stops when a grimace of pain comes over his face. He hisses between his teeth and grips my hand even tighter as a tremor rolls through him.

  I sit forward and bring his hand to my lips. “Just hold on. John, just hold on, okay? I’m here. I’m here. It’ll pass. I’m promise you, it’ll pass.”

  “Hurts, Jackie,” he says through gritted teeth. “This one hurts. Oh, Jesus, this one hurts.”

  Anything. I’d give anything to take this away. I’d do anything to have his burden placed upon me and not on him. If I could take on his pain, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I have to distract him. “Do you remember the first time we kissed?” I ask him as he starts to sweat.

  He nods tightly. “Tell me. Please.” He closes his eyes, his brow furrowed. His hand starts to shake as the tremors get worse. I can’t begin to imagine the pain he’s in, and it’s almost too much for me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to find my voice to speak. Please, he said. I push through the fear and dig deep. Because when John says please, I’ll move Heaven and Earth to get him what he asks for.

  “We were fifteen,” I manage to say, though my voice is rough. “It was summer. We’d gone down to the lake to fish, but nothing was biting that day. We didn’t care, though. We were lying on our backs, looking up at the sky, finding shapes in the clouds. It was such a pretty day. Such a beautiful day. And I remember thinking—”

  Four

  We Dreamed Out Loud

  I remembered thinking that life couldn’t get any better than that moment. I had no worries in the world; well, none that were pressing anyway.

  My best friend was by my side. I could feel his arm brush against mine every so often as we watched the sky. We were young and strong and oh so alive, our entire future stretched out before us. Nothing could stop us, and I was sure nothing ever would. We were making plans for the years ahead, spilling out secret dreams and wishes that we couldn’t share with anyone else.

  In the three years I’d known him, John had become the most important thing in my life, and I couldn’t imagine a life where he wasn’t by my side. He’d always be there, I knew. I was certain. My parents had their faith in God. I had my faith in John.

  So we dreamed out loud. Dreams only for us to hear. We dreamed big and wild, knew it was all inevitable, that it would all be ours one day.

  John wanted to build a big cabin for the two of us, out in the middle of the woods, where we’d live and never have to see anyone else unless we wanted to. We’d hunt for our food and have a garden with carrots and cabbage. There’d be a big apple tree, the branches hung low with Granny Smiths, tart and crisp. In the summer, we’d sit on the porch and watch the trees, bees floating in between the butterflies on the flowers. In the winter, when the snow fell heavily, trapping us there, he’d build a fire in the fireplace, and we’d lie in front of it, watching the flames chase away the shadows. It’d be cold outside, but we’d be safe and warm.

  Just him and me, he said.

  We’d stay there in this cabin because that was where we’d belonged and no one could ever tell us what to do. No one could ever tell us no. We could stay there, he said, for the rest of our lives and all would be well because he would have everything there he ever wanted.

  I told him I wanted to be a detective, a private investigator. Jack Ford, PI. I’d solve crimes and smoke cigarettes. I’d know some rough characters and get in fights and battle my own inner demons while wearing a black fedora. I’d drink whiskey out of a flask and get the dame. I’d always get the dame in the end. John could be my partner, and we’d have adventures that’d make this small life seem like nothing. We’d break up crime rings involving international jewel thieves. We’d solve murders. We’d catch the bad guys in the act. We’d never have to come back here, to this place, because we’d be something. We’d make something of ourselves. Everyone would know our names, and we’d be famous. I laughed at the idea.

  John didn’t laugh with me. “That what you want?” he asked finally, not looking at me. “To get the dame?”

  I shrugged, not understanding why he sounded so deflated. “I guess. I don’t know. That’s how those stories go, right? The cabin is a good idea, too. I’d live there with ya. We could even make snow shoes, like the Eskimos did. Set traps for rabbits and squirrels. You’d have to be the one to clean ’em, though. I don’t think I want blood and guts all over me.”

  He pulled his arm away so it didn’t touch mine anymore, and I hated that he’d pulled away from me. I hated that we weren’t connected. If I was being honest with myself, it was really because his skin wasn’t against mine.

  Lately it seemed we’d found ways to touch each other more and more, and even if I didn’t really know what it meant, I knew I didn’t want it to stop. It felt wrong when he wasn’t touching me. As if I was only half a person, missing part of my soul. That was how it always felt when we were apart from each other, as rare as those times were. But it was somehow worse that we’d be right next to each other and I still felt that same way, that I wanted more. That I needed more.

  “Maybe,” he said. He brought his other arm up, covering his eyes in the crook of his elbow. His hand stretched toward me, fingers dangling. “Maybe not.” He sounded funny.

  I turned on my side, facing him. “What?”

  “What?”

  “You mad?”

  “No, Jackie. I ain’t mad.”

  “You sound mad.”

  And he did. John rarely got angry; the few times I’d ever seen it had either been directed at his asshole father or at Carl Morley, a snake of a teenager who thought I was his personal punching bag. Well, he’d thought that until John broke his nose. Carl didn’t come after me after that. No one did. Not with John around. John was right when he’d told me he had a temper, but I’d kept my part of the bargain over the last few years and kept him grounded. For the most part.

  He snorted. “Okay.”

  “I don’t know why you’re—”

  “It’s okay, Jackie. Don’t worry about it.”

  “That just makes me worry about it more.”

  “That’s ’cause your brain never shuts up. I ain’t mad at you.” He still wouldn’t look at me.

  But his distance was okay for the moment. I was fascinated by his fingers, long and slender, the way the sunlight hit them, casting shadows onto his ear. I could see fine hairs on the back of his hand, thick blue veins that interweaved, mapping the whole of him. Fine bones against calloused, tanned skin. Fingernails bitten almost to the quick, a habit he would never break. Lines buried deep into his palm, the lifeline like a canyon that split his hand in half.

  Everything about his hand was lovely, seen in a light I’d never thought possible. My breath caught in my chest and grass poked against my ear. I wanted to touch his hand. I wanted to feel it under mine, our fingers pressed together. I wanted to trace his skin. I wanted to know it like I knew my own. I’d had these thoughts before, but never as strong as right then.

  I knew what God and the Bible said about such feelings, and I suppose I should have felt ashamed, but this moment wasn’t about God. This wasn’t about the Bible. None of that really mattered much, at least not right now. This moment was about me and John. And that was right. It was always right when it was the two of us, so how could something like that be a sin? How could him and me be wrong?

  He sighed, but it wasn’t from contentment. It wasn’t a happy sound. It was resigned. It was fatalistic. It was accepting something that could never be. It was closing a door and locking it, the key disappearing so that it could never be opened again.

  I wanted to shatter that door into a million pieces, so it could never be closed.

  I didn’t stop myself. I couldn’t.

  I reached up and grabbed his hand, grasping it tightly, tugging on it. I heard his sharp intake of breath as I pulled on him. I rubbed our hands together, sliding my fingers between his. He pressed his thumb deeply against my palm, a sharp pressure that grounded me through the fog that had fallen over my eyes.

  He rolled to his side, mirroring me, and our hands fell between us, still joined, pressing against the grass. He watched me, his eyes wide but careful, almost wary. I catalogued everything: The chicken pox scar on his chin. The freckle below his left eye. His nose, slightly bent from when his father had broken it the year before. The part of his lips in a cautious smile. The one tooth, endearingly crooked.

  This was the face I dreamed about with increasing regularity. This was the face I knew so well. It’s just John, I told myself. That’s all this is. Just John.

  But I don’t think our faces had ever been this close before. Not as we looked directly at each other. My skin felt warm. Just John. Always John.

  I squeezed his hand. And then again. And again. And again until he squeezed mine back and his head was only inches from mine, his breath on my face and—when did he get so much closer? How did he get closer without even moving?

  I could feel the stretch of the muscles in my neck and realized it wasn’t him moving at all. It wasn’t him getting closer. It was me. I was moving. I was straining toward him. His eyes grew wider every second that passed and just before it happened, they fluttered shut and a soft breath escaped him.

  The kiss was chaste, the first time. A mere brush of my lips against his, a momentary connection where I thought stars had exploded across the sky and all the world would sing because nothing had ever felt so right. Nothing had ever felt like so much fire bursting within me. If this was sin, then I wanted to revel in it. If this was against the Word of God, then I’d go to hell. I’d bow at John’s feet in veneration, uncaring if it was blasphemous. If I had any fear, it didn’t last long. The same with any doubt.

  The tumult within me calmed in just a few short seconds before it turned into something else entirely and began to whisper to me. It said yes. It said thank you. It said this is how it should be. How it will always be.

  It was chaste, that first kiss. But the ones that followed were not. As soon as our lips broke apart, and we stared wildly at one another, something snapped and I let go of his hand and cupped his face, pulling him back to me again. It was awkward. Too much, too fast. Our noses bumped, our teeth knocked together. There was too much saliva, and I felt assaulted by his tongue as he pushed it past my lips, tangling it with my own. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t focus on doing anything right; the only thing going through my head was more, more, more.

  And he gave me more. He gave me all of him. He gathered me up in his big arms and pulled me to him, crushing our bodies together, holding me close like he thought I’d disappear if he let me go. Like I was something precious.

  I made little noises that I couldn’t keep from crawling up the back of my throat. He growled at me, low and throaty. Those sounds went straight down to my sex, but that seemed dangerous, something that I wasn’t quite ready for, something I couldn’t even begin to grasp. But he never pushed. He never pushed for more than we were already doing. It was enough, for the both of us. More than enough.

  Eventually, he pulled back, breathless, eyes wide, his lips swollen and wet. I panted at him, unsure of what to do, of what to say. Unsure if I’d just made a huge mistake and he’d never speak to me again. If I’d be alone forever, because I’d never have someone like I had John Kemp. I’d never find someone again who understood everything about me, who could know all of my secrets. Someone who had my back just as sure as I had his. Someone I loved above all others. I darted my tongue out to try and catch a taste of him on me, even as I began to crack.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I whispered as I shook.

  I was terrified. I was sure he was about to look at me like I was disgusting and he was about to run. I knew he’d kissed me back, but now he would reel from me, and I wouldn’t blame him. He must have thought I was some kind of abomination. That I’d forced my will upon him, making him give me what I wanted. How could I have thought that was okay? What in God’s name had possessed me to think I could kiss my best friend and not have there be repercussions?

  “Please don’t go.” I sounded like I was begging. I probably was. “Please don’t leave me. Ah, Jesus. Christ. Oh, John, don’t leave. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  He trailed his fingers along my face, wiping away the tears that had started to fall. “Jackie,” he said. “I ain’t gonna leave you. How could I? I’m nothing without you. I’d be lost. It’d be like being in the dark without a light. I ain’t gonna do that. I can’t.”

  “You promise?” I cried at him. “You promise me, John Kemp!”

  There was fire in his eyes. “I promise you, Jackie. I promise you with my whole heart. Every piece. Every part. I’ll never leave you. Not now. Not ever. I been waitin’ for you to do that. I wanted to do it for so long. I just needed you to look at me like you’re looking at me now.”

  “How am I looking at you?” I asked as a breeze blew through our hair, as the waves of the lake lapped gently, as a bird chirped somewhere in the trees. I knew, but I needed him to say it. I needed to hear it from his lips.

  “Like I’m everything,” he said quietly, grazing my jaw with his fingers.

  And that’s because he was. He was looking back at me just the same. Like so much heat. Like so much fire. Like I was all there was to him and all there ever would be.

  He and I knew then that things would never be the same.

  They’d be better.

  Five

  That God-awful Paisley Couch

  “And then you kissed me again,” I tell him now, squeezing his hand as his tremors subside. “You kissed me again like the world was about to end and it was the last thing you ever wanted to do in your life. You kissed me and then you laughed. We both laughed so loud and hard because how hadn’t we done that before? Why’d it take us so long? Why didn’t I see what you could see?”

  “I wanted you,” he whispers. I take a soft towel with my free hand and wipe it across his brow. His skin is hot to the touch. “From the first moment I saw you. I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand it. But I saw you and I knew you were gonna be mine. Ain’t no one else in the world but you, Jackie. Don’t need nobody else. Never have.”

  I know this. I do. John would have been content long ago if we’d done exactly what he’d wanted when we were kids: build a cabin in the middle of nowhere and let the world pass us by. John didn’t have much use for other people; his daddy made sure of that, having beaten the shit out of him on a regular basis since he was old enough to remember. It got to be that I’d check him daily for new bruises, sure that one day John wasn’t going to come to school because he’d gotten hit upside the head and killed.

  And then it happened. About a year after that first kiss. He didn’t show up to school, and I panicked. I was so scared. I didn’t think I’d—

  “Jackie.”

  I shake my head, clearing the cobwebs in my head. I look up into my husband’s eyes.

  “Where’d you go?” he asks. His voice is weak. He shouldn’t be talking so much. He needs to save his strength for—

  Oh. Oh, heart. Oh, love. I don’t know if I can do this. How did I think I could do this? Even for you. Even if I promised. I just….

  “Just thinking,” I say, trying to ignore my thoughts. “All these memories. Everything we have. It’s like digging through a box of pictures.”

  He nods and I can tell he’s pleased. “If the box was the size of a warehouse. Two warehouses, even.”

  I laugh quietly and reach up to slide the oxygen mask back over his nose and mouth, trailing my fingers along his cheek. “Yeah, John. That’s what happens. That’s what happens when you spend your entire life with just one person. The box gets bigger and bigger. It never bursts. It just grows.”

  He threads his thin fingers through mine again. “Our entire lives.”

  “Yeah. Our entire lives.”

  “Because there was nothin’ about my life I can remember before you.”

  “I know. Me too.” I could remember life before John Kemp. I just choose not to.

  “Sunset’s gettin’ closer, Jackie.”

  “Yeah.” I look away.

  “Do you….” He squeezes my hand.

  “What?”

  “Do you have any regrets?”

  My gaze snaps to his. “About what?”

  “This. Me. You and me. Do you ever wish things had been different? You could have gotten married. Had kids. You could have had a family.”

  “You are my family.” I sound slightly hysterical, but I don’t know how to stop it. “I made a home with you. I made a life with you. I only ever wanted you, John. I didn’t need anything else. I never wanted anything else. So, no. Not one regret. Not once. Not ever.”

  And that’s the truth. As much as he and I identified ourselves as bisexual, there’d never been another in my heart.

  People had come and gone in our lives. There’d been women I’d been attracted to. Other men, too. And there was one that caused us a bit of trouble. I never acted on it, not really, though I’d felt like a horse’s ass for even looking, because John didn’t. Not once. I know because I watched for it. I asked him about it one night, feeling brave as we lay in our bed in the dark. He’d told me that he didn’t need to look anywhere else or even at anyone else because he had all he really needed right beside him. I didn’t look after that. There was no need.

  “No regrets,” I repeat.

  “Yeah, me either.” He sounds satisfied.

  “No?”

  “No, Jackie. No regrets.”

  “Not even that god-awful paisley couch you bought and brought home without my permission?” I tease him, surprised I’m able to do so.

  He smiles. “In our first apartment. You came home and you were so mad.” His eyes light up. He grips my hand tighter.

  I snort. “It was an ugly couch, John.”