Page 79 of The Story of You
“Yeah, I guess.”
As I moped, reliving that awful strapping in my mind, he stole my glasses, setting them on the end table. I met his brown eyes. “Hey!”
“You said I could kiss you. I was kinda planning on more than one kiss.”
Oh.Oh.
I waited, gazing, heart pounding. Even though Darius and I had kissed a ton, this felt like my first kiss. Boy, was I glad I’d practiced. Had Shane? Had he kissed other boys before? Girls?
“Let’s see if I can get you to stop thinking so many thoughts at once,” he said. He pressed his lips to mine. His confidence was solid—a shield around us—but his lips were soft honey. I inhaled his scent of hard work—a hint of it was always there, even after a shower—and let myself go, giving him the lead.
We kissed and kissed again. Our tongues tangled—he was as warm on the inside as he was on the outside—and we carried on until we both needed oxygen again. “Wow,” he said. “Better than I could have imagined.”
Great. Now I’d have to eat crow and tell Darry he was right about our practice sessions. No way I’d be that impressive without them—he’s a critical hard ass. I knew I’d have to thank him too.
“Not enough though. I’m gonna keep going until you say stop.”
I wasn’t going to be the one to do that or so I thought, but after making out for a bit, my special places were crying, and I knew we weren’t going past kissing. We had to stop.
Shane and I waited until I was eighteen for sex. He knew what I did with Darius, and he didn’t care—for me and him things would be different and so they were.
“Can I be your boyfriend now?” I blurted out.
“Were you someone else’s?” I shook my head. “I believe I already said you were mine.”
Shane and I argue over that line. He thinks he couldn’t have been that possessive then, extra careful with me because of what he’d been through. And he was. But he was also fifteen and sometimes logic’s thrown out the door in a teenage brain. He sometimes rivaled Asher in the possessive department, but I loved it. He had his own quiet way of doing things, which others may have missed, but not me.
I know what I heard and besides, I wasn’t afraid to write Property of Simon in neon on his forehead.
Why should he have to feel any different?
ChapterTwenty-Six
Silas ~ November 1986 - February 1987
The second coincidence in finding Darius was thanks to Father’s alcohol abuse.
I’m not sure the internet would have helped with finding Darius, but it would have made things easier. I spent weeks making phone calls and canvassing for information when I was out with Oliver, but my first breakthrough wasn’t until Father came home drunk.
He’d been kissing someone. Probably more, but that was my young thought. I was so innocent once upon a time. His shirt was open—three buttons undone—and ruffled, which was unlike him who preferred everything he wore to be crisply pressed and tidy. He was still beautiful with his dirty blond hair falling over green eyes. Father had movie star quality. A smooth face and a strong jaw like Paul Newman.
Falling through the door, he smiled at me. “Sye. Make some coffee, will you?” He hiccupped. It didn’t suit him. It made him more human, and I’d never looked at my father as one of those. He was too perfect. Like an angel.
Lucifer had also been an angel once.
I made him the coffee. He stumbled to the chair. I rushed to help him get seated, so he didn’t fall to the floor. He gripped me tight and inhaled long and slow. “You smell good, Silas.”
He smelled good too. Like safety. My heart sped up and simultaneously relaxed.
He wasn’t just drunk; he was out of it, but I wasn’t. I took the chance and pushed him back to the chair. It didn’t register for him that I’d done that. He sat and laughed while I raced to get him water. Then it was me holding a bucket while he puked, wiping his chin off. I tried to coax him to his bed. He insisted he drink the coffee.
Less jubilant, he groaned with his head in his hands, running them through his hair periodically. I thought about leaving him there, but something told me that wasn’t an option, so I leaned my back against the counter and observed his internal struggle.
“I wanted to kill him,” Father slurred.
My brow scrunched and my heart sped up. I knew who “him” was, but I couldn’t make sense of his words. “D-Darry?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “Don’t worry. I didn’t.”
