Right-oh.
Seeing as I am on school holidays, I have a buttload of free time to write with. Don't get excited, it won't last; my final exams begin at the end of these holidays.
Now now, don't cry for me, its not that bad. All that happens if I fail these exams is that I will be screwed for all of the foreseeable future, jobless, and living under a bridge in a cardboard box.
Ok. You can cry now.
Seeing as homeless people don't have access to fanfiction.
Hell, now I'M crying.
ANYWAY. Back to my original point, I have another chapter for you. I was going to be mean and hold this chapter to ransom, my ransom demand being LOVELY, LONG REVIEWS, but I decided you guys didn't deserve it, having given me pretty lovely reviews all round last chapter.
But don't get too comfy. If I am feeling neglected, don't be surprised when one of your next update alerts lead you to a ransom note.
You have been warned.
For the Love of the Game.
Bounce once…bounce twice…throw-up-in-the-air…swing…hit…follow through.
The ball hits the far boundary net.
New ball.
Bounce once…bounce twice…throw-up-in-the-air…swing…hit…follow through.
The ball hits the far boundary net.
New ball.
Bounce once…bounce twice…throw-up-in-the-air…swing…hit…follow through.
The ball goes over the far boundary net. Settles somewhere in the too perfect grass.
New ball.
I don't know how long I was there for. Could have been hours. Could have been minutes.
Where I was; was out on the perfectly kept green tennis courts, "Practising my serve." Or that's what I had told Alanna. What I was really doing was hitting things as hard as I could. Admittedly, 'Things' pretty much amounted to tennis balls, but there's a definite satisfaction in hearing the noise the racquet made when brought into connection with the tennis ball.
And an even better sound when the racquet itself made contact with the wood bleachers lining the courts.
But I only did that once or twice.
Or . . . possibly more. No one's counting.
It was 6.00 in the morning—I'd been here since four—and a perfect day, and I was spending it the way I thought best.
Of course, when I say perfect, I'm not meaning in the traditional sense, but more in my sense. It was freezing cold and the sky was almost completely clouded over. Perfect.
Yes, perfect. For what I had in mind it was completely perfect. Ferndale didn't really cater too well for those with solitude in mind, but they DO have what looks like tennis court after tennis court. No one's really playing Tennis at four in the morning, I've discovered.
Bounce once…bounce twice…throw-up-in-the-air…swing…hit…follow through.
The ball hits the boundary net with such force it comes sailing back and I had another crack at it.
Ball goes over the far boundary net. Passes the one in the grass.
New ball.
I wonder if Arabia's daddy was expecting to have to pay for damages? He probably was, I reasoned, having met Scott.
I hear the court gate swing open and I spin around to see Arabia herself and Alanna standing at the gates.
I flicked the latest ball up into my racquet and did a few bounces.
Nothing unusual about finding someone out here at six in the morning with a crooked racquet and a few hundred tennis balls.
OK, nothing unusual about finding Melinda de Simon out here at six in the morning with a crooked racquet and a few hundred tennis balls.
"Hey Melinda," called Arabia, "I thought we'd come out and join you, you up for a game?"
Subtle interference. Mooch your way in until the subject cracks and spills. Not going to happen.
Welcome back the closed book.
Fuck off world; the bitch is back in control.
Maybe a little more cantankerous than usual, but not too bad, considering.
"Why?" I said smoothly, "Does someone want to play me?"
Rhetorical question. No one actually wanted to play TENNIS. Sure enough, no answer and I turned away with a slight sneer and headed back to find the racquets cover. Which . . . doesn't now fit the unrecognisably bent mix of metal and nylon I currently held in my hand.
"Actually Melinda," came a voice, "I was thinking you'd be interested in opposing me."
Big surprise.
The thick skulled boy doesn't know when to leave well enough alone.
How predictable.
"You know?" I straightened up, "I think I will."
Nick's captain of the men's tennis team and I'm mad as hell. We're fairly evenly matched.
But naturally, money on me.
I was going to be needing a new racquet though. I walked to the gate and made to go past Arabia and Alanna. "Where do you think you're going?" Arabia grabbed my arm.
"Um, I know I'm going to get a new racquet," I replied. "So . . . hands off."
"Why?" she demanded sharply. "What happened to the one you had before?"
I smiled callously and held up my unrecognisable racquet.
Arabia winced.
"Well . . ." Alanna didn't look too surprised; after all, she's seen me this angry before—when we found out Stacy had supposedly taken her own life. "Here. We only came to talk with you anyway, you can have mine."
"Sure?"
She nodded. "Duh. I can't play tennis. Have you SEEN my serve?"
I admitted that I had.
"Oh, and whack one at that Slater, won't you?" Arabia asked, "He's been in a mood ever since we got back from paintball yesterday. Can't think why. Unless you—"
I turned and walked back onto the court.
"Ready?" I said, not expecting an answer. In fact, if I had gotten one . . . lets just say I'd be needing a new racquet.
While I will admit denim shorts and a tank top were hardly a perfect tennis-playing outfit—I was freezing in this weather, and didn't care—I'd be dammed if I'd wear one of the perky little white get ups.
Nick was hardly better.
He was wearing jeans and a raglan long sleeved shirt. Pretty much what he was wearing when we—It is what he was wearing when we—god, CHANGE THE OUTFIT MUCH? I felt like shouting, but didn't because of the awkward questions it would raise.
Was ALREADY raising in my own head.
I swung the racquet haphazardly around me, on the pretence of warming up and then I stood impatiently waiting for Nick to grab a racquet and get on the court.
"Can you hurry up a bit?" I said bitchily.
Let us forget for a moment that I am a catastrophic tennis player, and focus instead on the game at hand.
And you know what? I didn't even CARE. I didn't CARE what happened. I wanted to HIT stuff.
It started to rain.
Light, feathery drops, but we all know for how long this stage lasts.
"Do you want to serve?" Nick called.
"I couldn't give a rats ass!" I threw back.
He served the ball. A perfect serve, as I knew it would be. Bounced perfectly in the centre of the square and I came forwards to meet it. I hit it directly to the far corner of Nick's side, not wasting any time on the pleasantries of little hits back and forth.
He didn't fuss about hitting it back with the same amount of force either.
Good thing I'm not scared of violence.
Because . . . there was going to be plenty of that.
"So Melinda!" Nick called loudly—I checked to make sure Alanna and Arabia weren't still at the gate: they were, which was fine by me. Nick was the one going to embarrass himself here—"Is that how you deal with everything in your life that is a threat? Pretend it didn't happen? It doesn't exist?"
I rolled my eyes and gave a wild laugh.
God. Said a small part of me. You really are insane.
"Seriously." He kept at it, "You found out you were wrong and then you ran away."
"Whoever said I was wrong?" I smiled nastily at him over the net as I hit the ball back as hard as I could.
"Oh, FUCK OFF!" he yelled, smashing the ball at me. "You're stubborn, but you're not STUPID!"
I looked again to check Alanna and Arabia were still there to bear witness to the famously cold Slater losing his cool, but they'd disappeared.
Unfortunate, but not crippling.
"You're a good kisser." I shrugged and lobbed the ball high over the neat and just Out of Nick's jumping reach. Point to me. "Thanks for sharing."
"Did you just say THANKS FOR SHARING?" he bellowed incredulously. He didn't bother retrieving the ball, just got another one.
The rain was getting heavier and heavier. Now we actually HAD to yell, instead of just doing it to emphasise our arguments. Well, my argument. His was just crappy lawyer logic anyway.
"Yep!"
Ha. CRAM THAT UP YOUR SKIRT LAWYER BOY.
He smashed the ball at me and gained an instant point. Mean serve on this kid.
That might explain those incredible thighs at any rate. Tennis, I mean. Although. His floozies might have something else to do with that.
God. He's such a pimp.
. . . Images of Nick as an aging sugar daddy . . .
Am filing that away for a later date.
"You ARE scared." He said it like he knew it, "All this, all—THIS" he broke off to return my hit, "is just another act. You're actually scared."
He touched a nerve.
No, he hammered a nerve.
"SAY THAT AGAIN." I challenged.
"You're TERRIFIED!" He hollered
I smashed the ball directly at him. Got him in the gut.
I'm quite proud of my aim right now. Of course, I was aiming a little lower . . .
"Cheap shot Melinda!"
"GO FUCK A DONKEY!" I screamed, then controlling myself slightly, added maliciously, "If you can. Maybe all your sluts have worn you out. Sadly for you, I'll never be in a position to find out. Which is just as well, seeing as you probably couldn't handle me anyway."
. . . Well no one's calling me mature after this. Actually . . . no one called me mature before this.
If that wasn't catty, I don't know what is. I couldn't think of any better insult to throw at Nick that implying he might not be able to handle me sexually.
Heh. If I wasn't so damn furious, I might be slightly scared of the reprisal.
It was worth it though. That felt GOOD.
"And another cheap shot," He surprised me by laughing, "You're slipping, you know that? And you KNOW I'd be more than your match. Why don't you stop barking and come taking a bite?"
Ooh! That was dirty!
An insane smile came across my face and I laughed a little into the rain.
The rain was bucketing down now. It was getting a little hard to make those running hits.
And then I missed one. I slipped and nearly hit the ground, but I managed to stop myself from falling my throwing out an arm. I hauled myself back to my feet and retrieved another ball.
"I know WHY you're scared too." Nick yelled. He wasn't going to be stopping his little rant anytime soon; I could see that. "You're sour because you're not calling the shots anymore! You want someone you can chase into a nice little box, who will stay there, ready for you to manipulate and use whenever you want! Well you tried that, remember? You got bored!"
I'd admit that there was some truth in that.
Outwardly I just shrugged and bounced the ball a few times.
But he . . . he nailed it. Perfectly. I liked to be the one calling all the shots, and with Nick, that didn't happen. And when it did . . . he's right. I got bored.
"You know what?" I yelled, deciding to go bold. "You're right. But did you ever consider Nick that I just might not like you? Or can your stupid ego not HANDLE THAT?"
I threw the ball up in the air and smashed it as hard as I could completely disregarding that it was his serve.
He laughed, "That's not it. Or have you already forgotten the way you kissed me?"
Stupid, cocky idiot. 'Woo, who could resist a kiss from me, I'm so sexy, everyone wants me'. I suppose I could say, 'kiss you? I never kissed you. It's all in your head . . .' but I thought that might have been asking a bit much.
The rain was soaking my clothes through, making it harder to move, harder to run too, which was a definite problem, but a benefit was he couldn't see my face through the downpour and I couldn't see his.
In fact, I couldn't even see the net. So when Nick, God knows how, managed to get the ball back to me, I just had to swing as hard as I could and hope brute force would make up for accuracy.
"Thing is, Melinda," he snarled, "I'm no one's toy. You can't control me. I gave you a challenge," he continued, "And now you're running scared. I must have given you way too much credit!"
"You are SO going to hell!" I shrieked.
"Yeah? Well I'll save you a seat!" he roared back over the rain, hitting the ball back at me.
God knows how his shots were still perfectly precise.
"Hey, NONE OF THIS IS MY FAULT!" I let the ball sail past me and forgot about it.
"Sure it's not sweetheart," he called, moving to the net.
"You kissed ME!"
"You kissed me BACK!" he growled.
And what could I say to that? Really, he was right. Absolutely right. And it was killing me.
I walked to him at the net, which was a mistake, as it must have allowed him to read my expression, dripping wet as I was, because he said smugly, "You see Melinda? You want me and you know it. No matter how much your head may try to deny it, your heart, and your body," he added with a smirk, "Wants me."
"I - that is - no way - I mean to say—" I gave up on words and flicked some water out of my eye.
"You can't deny it any longer Melinda."
"Im not denying anything!" I bit back furiously.
He smirked.
I'll admit that was a possible exaggeration. I'd been doing nothing but denying.
"You see kitten, the problem with sticking you're head in the sand is it leaves your ass more exposed."
Oh boy . . . was there ever truth in that.
"Poor kitten." He said cruelly. "To find out that's all you are after all this time . . ."
I chose to ignore he called me 'kitten'. AGAIN. I looked down at my racquet. A few strings had worn and looked to the point of snapping. These things weren't very durable.
"Doesn't it just kill you that I was right?"
"No." I said defiantly.
"Excuse me?"
"NO!" I thrust my chin up. "Want to know why? Because if you can use me, then I can use YOU!"
"Use you—?" he wasn't following, "I'm not using you—" I didn't let him finish.
I shut him up the only way I knew would work. I kissed him.
This time I did what I said I would. I used him, as I knew he was using me. Boy was he in for one hell of a trip, because I knew that was what he was trying to do to me.
Two are in on the game now.
Blood will be shed.
He wants me for one reason only. Soon as I give it to him—or let him think I'm giving it to him, I've got the upper hand.
Nick said he couldn't be manipulated. Wrong. He's a male isn't he? Males all have that one weakness.
Sex.
Good thing I'm such a quick learner.
Time to see what sort of prostitute I'd make. I leaned right over the net and pulled him to me—doing what prostitutes do best. Tricking their victim into believing they are the only one, all the while the victim is being manipulated into believing passion is all that exists and then . . . then they get hit with the price.
I concentrated being as mind numbingly seductive as I knew how, and seeing as I didn't actually know how . . . I went on instinct.
Funny thing instinct. Raw. Primitive. Seductive. Dangerous . . .
Another funny thing . . . CONTROL. This was the only time I'd seen Nick surrender control. Sure, I've seen him loose it—our Tennis match proved that, if nothing else—but I've never seen him surrender.
He was surrendering to a whore.
And that was fine by me. Surrender is the same, no matter how its come about.
I was enjoying his reaction to me as well. And was I ever getting a reaction out of him. A purely physical reaction.
His jaw . . . his ear . . . his neck . . . his mouth again, I used my teeth on his lip and that seemed to send him to breaking point, as he grabbed me and started returning the assault—which was NOT what I wanted. I moved my body off his and left him with one last taunting kiss . . . and then I pulled away completely.
He looked triumphant, like a cat with a bleeding canary trapped between its paws. More fool for him.
The canary wasn't finished.
"And you said I had no control . . ." I whispered, "I want you to know . . . You will NEVER leave me powerless."
I turned and walked away, flipping my racquet over my shoulder and concentrating on making sure Nicks last look at me would give off the illusion of confidence and power.
Two things I'd always have, and would do anything to make sure I always had.
All I'd done tonight was get myself angry—way angry—then I evened the playing field a little. You want to play with me Nick? Watch my claws.
I waited until I was out the tennis courts and out of Nick's sight before I let my shoulders drop and the tennis racquet fall.
It hardly mattered now.
This couldn't go on.
I didn't want this, I mournfully thought, as I slid down the tennis changing room walls and sat there helplessly in the rain, letting it hit my face and roll of.
That way I'd never know the difference between tears and rain.
I'm falling apart! I realised. I DIDN'T WANT THIS. I didn't want to have to play stupid games to be left alone! I just wanted it to stop! Him to stop chasing me, me to stop responding—both sexually and mentally—all of it.
One thing was for sure. The games were going to stop.
X-X-X
Later that day, I was sitting out in the courtyard wishing I smoked—it's supposed to calm you down, right? —When my cell phone went off. Again. I fumbled in my jacket pocket for the small device and flipped it open. "What?" I snapped in the direction of the mouthpiece.
"Melinda?" a confused voice came through.
"Father Dominic? Shit—"
"Melinda!"came a shocked voice.
"Oh, I mean—uh, can I start again?" I didn't wait for an answer. "Hello, Melinda speaking."
" . . . Hello Melinda."
Damn.
"Hi Father!" I said guiltily. "Hows life treating you?"
"Better than it is you," he said, speaking wryly. Well, as wryly as a priest CAN speak.
"What . . . what do you mean?"
"Stacy's murderer."
"Oh."
Silence.
I decided the Ferndale's courtyards weren't exactly the perfect place for this sort of discussion. But then, there was no one around . . .
I wonder how Father D got my cell phone number? I mean, I don't mind, I just—ah. Mom. Duh. I always knew she and Father D were tight.
There was some more silence.
"So . . ." I decided to go for broke and confide it all in Father D. Who better than a priest?
"Father Dom, don't you think it's weird that nothing paranormal has happened in ages?"
I'm sorry; did I say 'confide it all'? What I really meant was 'confide some of it.'
"Yes," he said flatly, sounding pleased. "To be honest with you, I'm getting a little worried about how keenly Susannah seems to look upon that mecumba thing of hers."
He was right to be worried.
He doesn't know the half of it.
She told me this great plan involving exorcisms Brazilian voodoo style, but dad caught us with the stuff and took the Chicken blood off us, saying Father Dominic would disapprove.
But he didn't say he disapproved, so I wondered . . .
"You know Father, even dad agrees—" I began.
"Absolutely not." he interrupted. "I said NO Melinda and I meant it. So far we've seen no direct action from this spirit. There is every possibility that it was a misunderstanding and this ghost deserves Gods forgiveness—"
Tsk tsk.
"Are you SERIOUS?" I demanded, "The guy threw my mother out a WINDOW!"
"Perhaps it was an accident . . ."
Wow. He . . . Really believes in the good of mankind.
Shame.
"I don't think so. But then why has he done nothing for so long? I mean, I don't get it Father Dom. Why would he make it perfectly clear that he's going to case as much damage as possible . . . and then just STOP?"
"He may have moved on." Said Father Dom seriously.
"I . . . I don't think so. I just know, I can feel it. Call it . . . " I smiled ironically to myself, "Call it shifters intuition."
Or an overdose . . .
"Its possible," he admitted, his voice lightening, "But you're not just a shifter Melinda, you're gifted in more ways that one, with you're parents—"
I rolled my eyes and crossed my legs, and absently watched a bird in one of the tree's flit from branch to branch.
I knew what he was going to say. With so much freakishness in my genes there is no way I could have escaped being "special". Gotcha Father D.
My Dad was a GHOST for chrissakes. I mean, how many test cases has their been like this?
I bet I know.
"I see." I said impassively.
Again with this gift stuff. I'm not even going to GO there.
"What I called for, Melinda, was to tell you to be careful. No—" he said firmly, as I showed signs of interrupting, "I mean it. Be cautious."
He truly cared.
What could I say to that?
I had that sore feeling at the back of my throat, and my eyes felt prickly. NOT that I was going to cry or anything . . . I was just moved. "I—I'll try Father."
"It's all anyone can ask." He said slowly. "I'll see you at school Melinda. Wish Miss Keklt a Happy Birthday from us at the Mission." He added, and then terminated the call.
I sat back on my bed and stared at the wall for a while.
There was no one more perfect for giving your conscience an unintentional jab than a Priest.
X-X-X
"Cogida," I cursed. I'd just dropped my towel, spilling all my gear onto the perfect white tiles.
My bathing suit splayed out across the aforesaid tiles, and I snatched it back up quickly before anyone could see, which was quite pointless as there was no one around to see, but all rationality had already been shot to bits earlier this week.
I stepped into one of the pool's changing kiosks and slipped on my suit— A Jehene Raomas one piece, royal blue with a twisted front . . . I'm sure it sounds ugly, but trust me, would I be wearing it if it were? No way.
And then I got the hell of the there and slipped into the pool.
. . . Bliss.
I moved out into the middle of the pool (and the pool was odd, it sloped inwards, so the deepest point was the middle) and let the water seep into my skin and flow around me, keeping absolutely still until the disturbance I caused by moving had settled and the water stilled, accepting me.
I know that sound's weird, but that's how I've always felt about water. You have to wait for it to accept you. Same with fire, only I wasn't exactly about to stick my hand in that and wait for the burning to stop. I'm not that stupid. That time I stuck my hand on the oven element doesn't count. I was a toddler! My point is submission. You're never going to dominate this power. Same with all the elements, Earth, Fire, Water and Air.
They were all beautiful, and they were all deadly.
But bowing to the power of the element, you were embracing it, and it you.
. . . That could be just me, but I believe it with all my heart.
With all my . . . heart . . .
Maybe I really am insane, I thought, not for the first time. But then again. I never had a shot of being anything else.
I'm not going to bring up the dead people point again, but it's there.
Oh, Dr Phil . . .? Urgent call on line one . . .
This had to end, I resolved. NOW. It had to end NOW.
I kicked myself up onto my back and closed my eyes,
Thinking of nothing I just floated there with a blank mind.
Then out of the Blue I abruptly found cold water tipped over my face.
I opened my eyes, spluttering, and saw Nick in the water next to me not looking at all like he regretted dumping water over my face. I sat up and spluttered a little bit more then asked, "Do you have a reason for trying to drown me, or was that just a whim?"
"No, no. You just looked like you'd really love me . . . ." he paused intentionally, "to come and tip some icy water on you."
"DON'T," I warned tiredly, "use that word around me. I don't CARE what context . . . That word is forbidden, understand?"
"What, Love? Why?" he said softly, using his hands to push aside the vase he'd used to tip water over me out of his way, and moving towards me.
I hope he cleaned that vase before filling it with water. Otherwise he'd just tipped a whole lot of plant residue over my face. As much as I love Nature—mom disagrees with me on this. She thinks nature is out to get her—That might have been taking it a little too far.
"Scared I might say something you don't want to hear?" Nick continued, reaching over to me and grabbing my hand, "Like . . . I love you?"
"You're a pathological liar." I said coldly, "Is there any wonder I don't want to hear it?" I lifted his hand off mine and tried to move away, which was kind of futile because as quick as . . . oh, a mongoose say, he grabbed my hand again and pulled me back again.
"What's the harm Melinda?" he said, "Scared I'm going to ask you to marry me?"
He then – comically I thought – brought my hand up to his lips and kissed it gently before asking me to marry him is his most sombre voice.
I almost laughed.
"You know," he said, dropping the pretend voice, "You wouldn't find spending your life with me so bad you know. Like you'd be happier with someone else," he laughed, "You'd get bored!"
"Yeah? Trust me Nick. I'm not marrying you just so you can screw me. Hell will freeze over first."
We were joking about the marriage thing. I knew that. But we weren't exactly joking about the meaning behind it.
I'll say it again though, just to save confusion: I DO NOT LOVE NICK. NOR WILL I FUCK HIM WHEN HE WANTS ME TO.
I have class.
CINDY DOESN'T.
GOSH.
Idiots! Learn the difference!
Heck yeah!
"Like you could hack being married to me and not getting sex for your troubles." Nick said with a self-confident smirk. Jackass. "In case you haven't noticed Melinda, you're an extremely passionate person, you just haven't had the right guy to . . . awaken, your inner—"
"Skank?" I supplied.
"No—"
"I'm not going to be sleeping with you."
"Really? The way you dance with me would indicate otherwise."
"So you think my DANCING is sending you fuck me signals? NO! I just DANCE. I'm a very . . ."
"Passionate dancer." He said with a nod. "I know. It's who you are. Melinda, and I said Passionate. Not slut. Although the signals were there . . ."
Can't argue with that.
"True," I said brazenly, "but that doesn't change anything."
"Right. So," he said, leaning close to me, "According to you, I just want you to screw me?"
He was sounding angry again. Why though? I just spoke the truth. Unusual for me, but I was ready for a little bit of truth. I couldn't keep fighting him; I had to make him understand WHY I was fighting.
"You know Nick, One day I'm going to say yes. What will you do them, hmm? Will that be what it will take for you to drop me? To let you amuse yourself with me for a week, then you get bored and leave me?" There was as seriousness to my question, and I wanted his answer.
I really believed it what I'd said too.
J. K. Rowling got it right. In one of the Harry Potters, Dumbledore had said: "Ah, how often this happens to us Harry, even between friends. Each of us believes what they have to say is more important than what the other has to say."
Take away the magic, the old guy, and the dude with the scar, the castle, and the characters—Here we were.
"Because you know what?" I said, "I'm tired of this, I'm just . . . tired. Have me then." I said shamelessly, "But once you're finished, leave me the hell alone."
"Melinda, no—!"
Funny. I'd just offered him exactly what it was he wanted and he's STILL yabbering.
TAKE WHAT'S OFFERED ALREADY!
"—I don't know what sort of guy you seem to think I am, but—" He stopped and took a step closer to me and just looked at me.
. . . Maybe he didn't just want—no. Impossible. Impossible . . .
"Yes?" I said, sucking in my breath. His mouth was like, two millimetres away from mine. I couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking . . .
"Hey, are we interrupting?" said a voice from the side of the pool.
Funny how people always ask that when they KNOW they're interrupting. WHY ELSE WOULD THEY ASK THAT?
A girl with red hair stood at the edge of the pool, so she must have been the— 'are we interrupting?' one. She then shrugged and slid into the pool, followed by some jock, Alanna, Daniel, and—would you believe it? WILFRED AND FRIEND IN SWIMMING TRUNKS.
In a way, I should be glad for the interruption. Nick and I were really getting into some deep stuff. I sort of drifted away from him, needing some solitude to think. I pulled myself out of the pool and sat on the side kicking my legs in the water as I thought.
You know. There comes to a point where you think too much. You deny and deny until you forget what you had been denying.
Was it time to stop? Time to stop playing games and just live on the emotions?
Like Nick and me.
I'd been fighting against . . . well, whatever it was, for so long, I'd forgotten why I was fighting but I carried on anyway.
You can't beat fate; she's the Ultimate. And I was ready to bow to her.
Nick was getting out of the pool now and coming over to me. I stood up and waited for him to reach me. Then, slowly, so slowly, I pulled him towards me. I let him completely read whatever emotion was in my eyes, letting him in completely. He saw I trusted him before I let my eyelids close and kissed him softly on the lips.
He kissed me back.
It was a bit of a change from our usual violent, force-a-response kisses.
And it was the sweetest feeling in the world. I shut my brain off and just went with it, surrendering completely to him, letting my body fall against his as he supported me, and pulling me comfortably close.
I wasn't aware of someone coming up behind me until I felt myself falling—Typical. I'm always bloody falling—into the pool.
I looked up to see Ben (Wilfred's buddy) turning away and saying jokingly, "God you two, at it again. I'm telling you," he said confidingly to Wilfred, "You just can't keep them off each other."
Wilfred, Alanna and Daniel all had the biggest grins on their faces, because, for all they knew, this was BIG.
And it was.
I looked up at Nick to see him smiling at me and I smiled back at him. Then he said to me as I slid my arms up around his neck and let them rest, "Melinda, it's because I love you that I feel I have to do this—"
What he DID was pick me up and dunk me under the water. I hadn't time to digest his words . . . I love you . . .
Of course, naturally, his actions started a huge dunking war, involving anyone and everyone.
And for the first time in our lives, Nick and I were on the same team.
X-X-X
Now I think I need some love people. Exams are depressing things.
Or maybe it's the cardboard box that's depressing me.
I'm undecided.
Love and kisses,
Mariah.