I think of nothing more than Edward Cullen and our stolen moments. Thieves we are. Small measures of fingers intertwining when we're sure no one can see. He touches my hair, strokes it along my shoulder, a layer separating our skins. If we touch, we ignite. He's forbidden us playing with such fire.
I don't stay after class the next day. I allow him to drift without me during sixth period as well. I want him ripe during the away game tonight, a prelude to our day together tomorrow. I'm sick with nerves and stay in the bathroom until it's close to time to gather equipment. Edward asks if I'm okay and I nod with a smile. As long as the equipment keeps the boy army and the bus driver from seeing us, nothing will sour my mood. Together, we safeguard our space where we can continue our thievery. He won't touch me and I won't touch him, but that buffer between us and the rest of the world is calming.
The entire ride is full of whispers of beauty, edged with sincere questions.
"What's your favorite color?" I ask, resting my head on the seat in front of us and looking back at him.
He's sitting upright, fingers touching and puckering his full, bottom lip. I would die to kiss him now. "Red."
"I would've thought blue." I grin.
"What's yours?"
I need no time because the color is already there. "Washington green."
"Never heard of that one before." He smiles with me, and I wonder if he thinks I'm ridiculous.
The dusk turns on us, but we won the game. The victory from the army can be heard a mile away. It doesn't stop when they enter the bus. They riot with joy, impervious to what the darkness hides four seats in front of them. In the dim, Edward loops his pinky around mine, finding my eyes along the passing lights of the dying field we've conquered. This shroud is virgin and inside its blanket we covet each other in small doses of finger touches while voices carry on behind us. Beyond tonight tomorrow is waiting and I want to ask what we're doing or where we're going, but his phone buzzes with a stock ringtone. I see the name when he pulls it from his pocket. Rosalie. His wife.
His finger hovers above the display, and I know he's on the fence about whether or not he should answer. At the last second he does. I pretend to not listen, but I hang onto every word.
"Hey, Rose."
I can't hear her conversation over the boys behind us. She's muffled. I coil my arms around my stomach, hoping to contain my sickness.
"No, we're on the way home. We'll be there in an hour. We actually won." The smile is in his words, on his face. He's proud, beaming. She laughs. It's unmistakable.
"I'll see you soon."
She says one last thing, and he ends the call, shoving his phone back into his khakis. I know what he meant about me being hurt. This relationship can go either direction for him. Whether or not he sees me or his wife, he wins. Edward ends up with someone to hold him at the end of the day, someone to call him and tell him about their day. What happens to me if I'm not the one he calls or holds? I'll be alone. Rejected and forgotten while he still loves entirely and with absolution. But me? I'll have pictures in my head of our time together, paintings under my bed to serve as a reminder of what once was.
My eyes sting, fear overcoming and taking me into uncertainty. I have no control here. I can't look at him.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"I'm sorry. If I didn't take it she would've kept calling."
"Forceful isn't she?"
"Persistent," he says, but it's correcting, defending.
I turn my body from him, wondering at the infinite night beyond the bus windows. That's when I feel the warmth on my thigh and when I look down his hand is there. His eyes want to hold mine, and even though I should free myself from his stare, I can't. I'm a captive. The warmth steals my breath when it climbs higher, fingers before palm, inching. He searches for permission without saying a word. I lean back, place my hands on the seat, unlock my knees, and open.
I feel a flutter against my jeans, a pleasant torture inspiring my rich fantasies, eliciting a slight reaction in my throat. I'm unable to control myself. My hand steals a touch against the ridged material on his knee. It doesn't stay. I climb on the inside of his leg, brushing my fingertips against him. He closes his eyes, his lips parting, and I know then he feels what I feel - that charge between us, sending us back and forth on waves of pleasant light. His opposite hand seizes my fingertips, moving me away from him, but he doesn't surrender against my jeans. He moves silently against me, rupturing the possibility of freedom.
He leans toward me. It's slight, but even through the noise I hear him, as though he's screaming the declaration. "I wish I could kiss you."
We remain this way until the night forces us to part ways. He tells me to meet him tomorrow at noon a few miles outside of Forks where Quillayute Road meets La Push Road. There is a small dirt road there beyond the bend where I'm to park half-way down.
He tells me goodnight and I turn to go while he waits for the team to clear out. I want to wait for him until they're all gone, but I don't. Dad has already sent me a text asking when I'll be home. He's on the couch when I walk in, a beer keeping his company on the coffee table. I turn off the T.V. and wake him so he can go to bed. I slip under my sheets, waiting for sleep, but I'm too anxious. I think of his hands on me in the dark, the way he haunts me and I can't fight him when I'm alone in my room. I seduce myself with his fingers, imagining, pocketing until I'm rocketing from the Earth and floating in space on the edge of tomorrow.