He's in my kitchen. His fingertips swoop against the table. Languish. Curious. Drops hit the window. A flash of spring rain coming to wash away traces of us. I pull my arms around my torso. I will guard my heart that he's come to steal.
Eyes appraise that which doesn't belong to him, searching my parents' house, finding and grasping. "Cute house."
"Mr. Cullen?"
Verdant green behind black frames descend onto mine. I am frozen in a tundra of winter and new life. There is space between us, but then none at all. If he decides to stand closer nothing keeps him from it. But he doesn't. Neither do I. We're separated. Nothing lies there except possibilities yet to be spoken of, though we both want to say it.
"Yesterday didn't bother me," I say.
"It didn't?" The space closes as he takes a step closer.
"Not the way it should have, at least."
"What do you mean?" Closer, still.
I take a step back. My eyes shut for only a moment. When I open them he's far too close, but I do nothing to correct it. I want to know he can be within arm's length and not stray. I want him to know it's okay. "I mean it the only way I know. What you said yesterday at the field has been on my mind ever since."
His curled fingers reach toward my cheek. He brushes the skin on my jaw, studying what he does. I close my eyes once more at the heat of his nearness. Him: reaching out, feeling, caressing. It's real. He's real. I see and hear him swallow. A nervous ship collected there while he stroked from my ear to my chin. "What I said yesterday was a mistake," he whispers. "I should've never have said it. Do you understand?"
I want to touch him back, but the words deflate my all encompassing need. I barely nod.
"But," he continues, "it doesn't mean I regret it." His lips crook again. His other hand reaches for the other side of my face. He brings me forward and kisses my forehead. His lips on me set a fire no man can lay to waste. I try to breathe normally, but I squirm as we grow closer. He denies me. It's gentle and looks me in the eyes. Sadness? Regret? Is he taking it all back? "I never meant for any of this to happen," he says. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"It's okay. Neither do I."
A thumb brushes over my lips. He stares as he does this. I pucker and kiss the passing flesh. He breathes in, stiffens. "I have to go. Will you be at school tomorrow?"
He's at the door. I'm behind him, my hand on the knob as I stare at his wild mess of hair and black frames. My sickness has turned in my favor. "Yes. I will definitely be there."
He smiles and so do I.