He dreams that night about getting blasted with her in that rundown shithole that reminds him of home. Sitting on the porch, after their fight, in the dark, still sipping out mason jars, bellies filling up with nothin' but firewater. He dreams of her sayin', It'll kill you...
Here, she finishes, staring directly into him- seeing him for exactly who he is- with a little drunk, all-knowing smile, her fingers at her heart.
It fucks him up. Her touch to her sweaty, dirt-covered chest, at the open buttons of that yellow polo she'd taken from the golf club hellhole. His stomach was still sloshing with dread from her hooch-fueled declarations, a distressing, bleak oracle: I'll be gone one day. You'll be the last man standin'. And now- she holds his gaze, probably unintentionally drawing his attention down to her hand, much as he fights not to give in and follow the movement.
He dreams of her eyes bright with the 'shine, the goldenrod-colored shirt, her frizzy mess of blonde hair; she's a small sun sitting in that ugly place from his past. He wants to put his fingers there, too, where hers are. Just to touch the edge of the open collar. To put his fingertips on the back of the buttons, where they're sewn in. Feel her heart beating strong and alive. Her breath inevitable and real and reassuring against his knuckles. Her sweat-moist, summer-sticky skin against his busted-up knuckles.
Her eye contact, the way her fingers flex, the atmosphere so centered and hot, like heat lightning. Like the way it feels under his skin when a thunderstorm is rolling in deep in August, humid and oppressive and almost crackling. An old familiar tingle went down his back, and into the pit of his gut, to his dick.
Something he hadn't felt for someone in a while. Unless you counted that confusing moment in her cell, when he'd told her about Zach, and her sweater had slipped, and he'd been caught off guard.
He's too drunk, for fuck's sure. He has to look away, into the woods. He smells smoke and dead things. Overwhelming and sinister.
He jerks awake, heart pounding like a nightmare, disoriented, the bed jostling underneath him. He hates that, never knowing where he is when he wakes up anymore. Takes precious moments to recall. He can still smell the dead and the fire. The moonshine they'd thrown all over, gotten on their clothes and skin. He stays frozen- still leaning against the headboard, where he'd planned to stay awake till dawn listening, just in case. He waits for a sound that mighta woke him.
Everything is still and hushed. All he hears is a few birds starting to sing and Beth's breathing even and slow on the other side of the bed. Her back is to him, her shoulder, waist, the curve of her hip covered with the dusty blanket. Her boots are still on under the covers. She's painfully close, painfully distant. She doesn't react to his sudden movement. He lets the air out he's been holding.
He adjusts himself in his jeans, the dream fresh. He lights a cigarette and lets the frustration fuel him, keeping him up till the dark lifts.