Chapter 15

It was the first honest lie he had told her. It was a name, not a man. John didn't know who Jimmy Lawrence was, what he thought or felt or the story of his life. He did know his own, and his own was what he had been telling Billie. This was the only thought that gave him enough comfort to continue. As he considered it, he was only lying about one little detail about himself. A name. When he thought of it that way it, and convinced himself more and more, it was almost harmless.

His eyes lingering downward all he could see was the seat of the car and the girls lap. Her skirt had a light checkerboard pattern on it. Her hands still rested upon her books, running her fingers against the edges unconsciously, maybe nervously. He liked watching her, seeing her little habits and ticks. He looked at the spine of the book she picked at- Collected Poems, Robert Frost. Bringing it to her attention she placed it above her lap so both of them could see the cover.

"I'm studying it," she explained. "There are several poems I have to analyze and break down...you understand..."

"Sure," he nodded, smiling at their change in subject. She told him which pieces she liked and which she didn't find relevant to anything, and some she simply didn't understand. He listened with general interest. He had never cared for much in literature and told her honestly, saying too that during his younger years he had mostly read little comic books about the American West. As a child he liked the adventure and the good guys and bad guys, outlaws and cowboys. He thought that the cowboys had enough roguish tendencies that there was little difference between them and the renegades.

There was a time in High School when he'd had to memorize a poem, much like herself, and he'd chosen "Roses and Rue" by Oscar Wilde. "You ever heard of it?"

"No," she answered, smiling brightly. She was finding she loved to listen to him tell stories and explain things about his past and the way his thoughts worked. Hearing him speak of poetry seemed out of character, or at least out of his expertise, and she grinned with amused interest. "Well? Will you say it?"

He knew that was coming and couldn't help an embarrassed laugh of his own to escape lightly. He couldn't deny her, especially when he'd brought it up himself, and she'd already preformed for him. Still, he was hesitant, wanting to impress and fearing his inevitable failure anxiously. He felt a terrible sense of expectation.

"Well, you see, I hardly remember...I mean, I still know pieces of it..."

She knew he was stalling and nervous and found him extraordinarily cute.

"Go on...I'd like to hear it."

He found he couldn't possibly decline when she was smiling and looking at him so excitedly. He noticed she seemed to be sitting up on one knee and scooted closer to him. He knew he had to speak.

"Well...this part, it's not the beginning...around the third stanza or so..." The blue of her eyes were waiting and urged him to go on anyways. He started to feel silly and shy, two things he rarely felt at all let alone together. He couldn't look into her eyes. "Your voice had...your voice had a quiver...no! Quaver. Your voice had a quaver in it. Just like a linnet. And...shook, as the blackbirds throat, with its last big note."

Hearing him recite a poem was like hearing him sing. She understood it to be something he thought silly, or discomforting, and in other company would most likely never have done such a thing. His willingness, for her, felt intimate. "That was beautiful," she told him, meaning it entirely. His face might have colored just a hint.

He watched the shadow of his own hand distractedly. There was still enough light, dull that it was, to see the silhouette of his fingers against the dashboard. Billie observed his movements, seeing that he was playing with the light to distance himself from the discomfort he felt. His emotions were so readable and familiar, and once again reminded her that they, the two of them, weren't all that different.

"What are you doing there?" she asked with a smile, now watching his shadow as well.

John snapped his head up, breaking him from the light daze he'd been in. "Oh..." his hand stilled, the shadow then unmoving, and with a smirk contorted his hand so the shadow then turned into something mimicking the shape of a dog. "Shadow puppets."

She let out a laugh that, in another time and place away from the quiet of the car, would have been boisterous and loud. John's fingers were attempting to make the dog bark, the effort a mess, and she let a hand come to her lips as she giggled continuously. "That's not how you do it! Here," she reached out, scooting even closer so there was almost no space between them, and took his hand in both of hers.

In the beginning she was watching the shadow, moving his fingers so they resembled the correct shape. Then, and she didn't know how soon afterward it had been, her attention drifted. She realized just what she was doing. Her eyes stopped watching the shadow and hovered over his figure before passing to their hands. He was close now, enough so that their shoulders brushed. His fingers were long and slender with short nails. Her own trailed down the side of his, around and over, feeling the creases and wrinkles and his knuckles and nails. There was an indent, a small scar on the back of one of his hands. Down on his palm her fingertips caressed the openness of his hand, starting to trace the lines patterned across.

Her touch startled him, but not for its surprise or even for its boldness. He was alarmed at the softness that engulfed his hand. He starred at both their fingers twirling around one another though she was doing the most observation. What amazed him the most was the contrast between the two of them. Overall, her hand was much smaller than his. His fingers extended longer and his palm wider. And their skin; his was dark and tanned and hers as pale and pure as flour. Her touch, suggestively tracing the length of his fingers and hugging his hand within both of hers, aroused him slightly.

Her eyes, having been intently watching the movements of their hands, suddenly raised higher. Noticing the action John looked to her as well and for a brief few seconds they just starred. They could see in each others face the mutual sentiments. There was curiosity, apprehension, and a thick sense of want. Neither of them knew just what these emotions would cause or even if they should be expressed. Their entire encounter that night was fueled with romantic inclination, but it was too new and uncharted. Her gaze started to flutter downward. He realized she was looking at his mouth.

Being so close, to look anywhere else upon his face but his eyes was an obvious gesture. She had looked to his lips. What was happening between them, all the tension and implications, made her think that being so close, and touching, would have to lead to something else. In this particular circumstance she assumed that would be a kiss. Suddenly, in the throws of it all, she wondered if she even wanted a kiss or if it was something appropriate for either of them to share in. It was one thing to daydream and admire the man but now her fantasies were real, and had happened in seconds. She was unsure if someone was supposed to take the lead or if she should never have allowed herself into the sudden situation.

John leaned forward slowly. He, too, was contemplating several things. Did she want a kiss and was it right to give her one? Her breathing was deep and he could feel the air exhale from her nose drifting across his lips. She was nervous and maybe...maybe he was too. His shoulders relaxing he turned his lips inward and felt her breathing antagonize him as his moistened lips were blown with air. Bizarrely, he found himself recalling the poem again.

"And your eyes, they were green and grey, like an April day," he whispered smoothly. "But lit into amethyst when I stooped and kissed..." He wouldn't kiss her lips but was overcome with feeling he couldn't imagine letting her go now without some bit of affection. Leaning forward still he brought his lips to her cheek and kissed sweetly.

Seeing him move closer Billie realized he had taken the lead and closed her eyes, anticipating anything. She was holding her breath too and when she felt his kiss against her cheek smiled with slight relief. After he'd pulled away she let the breath out and opened her eyes slowly. Her hand came up to her cheek, cradling it, trying to preserve the moist kiss she could still feel there on her skin.

He watched her happily, seeing the dimples that appeared on either side of her mouth when she smiled. If he could cause that smile to exist and continue to do so he felt like there was really some purpose for him in the world. She spent some moments reveling in the gesture they'd shared, however simple, and scooted back to her previous spot in the seat.

"I, erm...well, I guess I ought to go..."

It was late already when the two had left the house and then they had spent an exceedingly long time sitting out in the car. She still didn't want to leave and the hesitance was clear in her voice and her face, although her happiness was a beautiful mask. He made no remark but gave her an understanding glance. Secretly, he didn't want to be the one to end their time together even if it was inevitable. They continued to smile at one another, Billie gathering the books in her arm.

"Can I walk you to the door?" he asked even though he was uncertain of doing so. She turned toward him quickly.

"Oh, no, thank you. It's just...it's late." She didn't want him to think she was against it, but she too knew the complications that could happen from doing so. He understood completely. She leaned toward the door, preparing to leave, and suddenly John felt a rush of anxiety. She was really going to go. Giving him a look over her shoulder the door opened, he feeling a kind of bottomless weight fill his stomach, and the door shut after her.

He watched the girls figure move several paces away from the car. He looked forward, not too keen on watching her leave him, and reached for the keys. Suddenly she was there again, leaning into the window. "Jimmy?"

He almost lunged over in the seat to be closer to her. "Yeah?"

She stuttered a moment, her words coming out clumsily. "Um, the dance, on Saturday night...Mary, well she, she wants to go together, to drive together. Maybe, well, would you-"

"I'll be there."

She grinned, turning away a moment later and John watched her until she safely entered the house.