Page 36 of Second Story

That’s wild when I could have happily pushed him into the sea yesterday. Now I hold tight, my fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders to anchor him to me just as firmly, and I didn’t predict this wet and wild contact—couldn’t have guessed that his tongue would be this deep in my mouth tonight either—but his hand in my hair tightens, and I wouldn’t choose any other outcome than this one for us.

“Isaac.” His voice is as rough as his hold on my hair and as gentle once he eases off.

“It’s okay,” I promise, then give an equally rough order. “Don’t stop. I want…” I don’t know how to describe that I’m grounded the same way now as when he caught my feet between his during an interview my whole future hung from. This bite of pain is nothing to what I’ve watched my brother live through. Now I can see a future for him.

Not with Joe. I can’t stay a dreamer like our mother.

This hold, though, and him not letting me go?

It’s so real that I want to. I settle for reaching up for his hand before he can lower it, my fingers skimming a scarred wrist and sliding under the sleeve of his jacket.

He goes still.

The inside of the van is dim. I still spot a familiar glimmer. This want Joe shows me is a reminder of kids who don’t believe they’ll get to keep the books I offer. It flickers again as if he doesn’t believe I want to touch him.

I do.

I have since he let Lenny trace each pit and divot on his forearms, his expression the kind of gentle that Wintergreen men don’t show. Now I repeat what I’ve seen Lenny do often enough to know it can’t hurt Joe, only maybe my touch does cause him pain.

I stop the second Joe’s forehead creases the same way as when kids think they’ll have to leave books behind. He looks away. Just by a fraction, but we’re so close that I feel his breath hitch, then gust, as if this old wound my thumb brushes is fragile instead of a sign of strength like the book he gave to my brother promised.

According to those pages, scars hold heroes together. It seems he didn’t make the link between those words and himself.

I want to voice that but, like Lenny lately, I can’t find words when I need them. Instead, I can only manage a rough-sounding, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He looks down, still not meeting my eyes. “I can’t predict…”

“What?” I slip from his lap. Kneel between his legs. Look up to see his brow is still creased. “What can’t you predict? Tell me.”

“I can’t predict what I’ll feel. Sometimes it’s nothing more than pressure. Other times I get tingles.” I’m not sure that’s a good thing from his wince, and this low rumble confirms it. “Or shocks.”

“Shocks?” I sit back on my heels. “You let Lenny touch them loads of times. I saw you do it. You didn’t ever flinch.”

“We don’t, do we?” He reminds me of what a school librarian once stood me in front of a mirror to practise.“Showing weakness? Bad idea.” His eyes close. “Lenny never hurt me. Even if he did, a few volts would have been worth it.” He opens eyes that shine darkly. “They don’t hurt anything like getting scarred in the first place did. Wouldn’t matter if they did.” He finished with a request. “Tell him that I never stoppedthinking about him, will you, one day?” And just like that, we’re kissing again.

It’s still new. Still a test of where we fit and where we don’t. In a different situation, we’d learn to avoid our teeth clashing, our noses bumping. But that would mean this being the start of a story instead of the end of a surprise bonus chapter, so I do what he did for my brother by ignoring discomfort. I kneel up and clutch his shoulders again before letting go just as abruptly. “Where…”

“Is it safe to touch?”

Drumming drifts from nearby practice rooms, a rat-a-tat my heart echoes as Joe repeats what I last saw him do on a moonlit beach. He strips, loosening his tie first, then sheds his jacket and shirt, and fuck there already being a coil of tension between us. Each pop of a shirt button through its hole twists a wire inside me tighter until he’s bare-chested, and that’s a lot to take in.

He’s broader than me. Hairier too, apart from one bare streak I already saw in moonlight. Now I pay close attention, piecing together this shadowed visual. “The acid caught your arms and belly, but most of it hit your back? You must have turned away fast.”

“Had good training. Dad couldn’t make a fighter out of me, but he drummed in the instinct to keep my guard raised.” He holds up his fists like a boxer, and I told Lenny stories about giants. Now I kneel in front of someone who might as well be one. The size of his fists alone should scare me. They’re huge. So is his sigh. “No worries about…” He gestures between us. “I get that it’s a vibe killer.” Joe grabs his shirt as if, now that I’ve seen what acid left him wearing, I won’t want to see more.

Fuck that.

I’ve felt rage about him for so long. A new wave almost swamps me.

For him.

“You think you’ve shown me your worst?”

He stills for a second time, shirt on again but unbuttoned, scarred torso still on show as I stand up, my hair brushing the van’s roof.

“If you wanted to put me off, you probably shouldn’t have shown me your best. Like putting Len first. And like you telling Luke I was a safe pair of hands even though I almost slugged you.” I came so close to doing that in that lay-by. “You meant everything you said, didn’t you?”

I’m close enough again now to see his quick nod and to hear another hitch in his breathing.

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