Beth Hyland - Fall Into Forever

She sniffs and grabs my hair tighter. I think she might be crying though there isn’t any sobbing. It’s like she’s keeping it tucked deep inside and won’t let it out.

“I gotcha, babe. Nothing’s going to happen to you now.”

“I know,” she whispers in my ear. And then, very quietly, “I’m glad you came for me.”

Her hair is sticking to her wet cheeks, but my mouth finds hers anyway. I roughly push the strands away, until it’s just my lips against hers. I kiss her too hard. Too desperate. She smells sweet and tastes even better. It’s as if I’ve been thirsty all my life but didn’t know it, and now I finally have water.

Someone whistles from across the street. Ivy stiffens in my arms, her lips still pressed to mine.

“Yo, dudes,” a male voice calls out. “Get a room.”

There’s a burst of laughter and someone else says, “That’s some serious goddamn PDA.”

“Yeah. Another minute and they’d be going at it against the wall.”

“Why’d you stop them, idiot? I’d have watched that.”

Reluctantly, I release her and pick up her things.

A Campus Security officer rounds the corner on foot and beams a flashlight in our faces. “What’s going on?”

“I’m picking her up and taking her to my place.”

“Is that correct?” the officer confirms with Ivy.

“Yes.” Her voice rings out in the cool night air, her breath fogging in front of our faces.

I grab her hand and head toward the bike. “Have you found the guy?” I ask the officer.

“Not yet, but we’re still looking.” He heads across the street to talk to the group of guys, then continues his patrol.

“Jon, I—”

I touch a finger to her lips. I can tell she’s tired. “We can talk about this later. I need to get you home.”

Jon

I survey the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink as we enter the kitchen. “Sorry for the mess. I’d have cleaned if I had known…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I clear away someone’s soup bowl and the crust of a sandwich. “Care for a nightcap before we retire?” I use my best British accent, hoping to make her laugh and take her mind off what just happened, but it doesn’t work.

She looks dazed, like she’s in shock. “Tea? Hot chocolate?”

“Either one. I have both.”

She purses her lips. “Got any marshmallows?”

“Nope. But I do have whipped cream.”

“Okay, then I’ll have tea, but only if it doesn’t have any caffeine.”

Now that’s one I’ve never heard before. “You drink tea with whipped cream?”

“No, I hate whipped cream, but I only drink hot chocolate with marshmallows. Since you don’t have any, I’ll just have tea.”

I grab the tea container from a cupboard and slide it across the island. “How can anyone hate whipped cream? I’m pretty sure it’s against the law.”

The smile she flashes lights me up inside. “Guess you’ll have to throw me in jail then.” She thumbs through the teabags like files in a hanging folder, chooses one, and hands it to me. “I can’t stand the texture of whipped cream.”

I fill two mugs with water and put them in the microwave. “So I take it you’ve never done whip hits.”

She frowns. “I don’t even know what that is.”

I grab the whipped cream from the refrigerator. “Watch and learn.” I shake the canister a few times, tilt my head back and spray it directly into my mouth.

“Can’t say that I’ve ever done a whip hit,” she says, laughing. “My mom always bought the kind in the tub.”

I lick my lips. “The fake stuff? Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve had a whip hit with real whipped cream. Here.” I lean over the counter and hold the nozzle near her mouth. She tries to take it from me, but I pull it away. “No. I’ll do it.”

She narrows her eyes, looking very skeptical.

“I promise I’m not going to spray you or anything.”

“But can you be trusted? That’s the real question.” She points to the tattoo on the back of her neck. “Remember?”

How can I forget? I hold up three fingers. “Scout’s honor. How’s that?”

“Ha,” she laughs. “Somehow I don’t picture you as a Boy Scout.”

My mind flashes to the scrapbook Mom made for me, with its quilted cover and various buttons and charms glued to each page. At least four or five are devoted to my time as a Cub Scout. She spent months going through the pictures she’d saved on her computer and phone, getting them printed, then crafting each page, but she never got a chance to finish it. “Well, I was. So you can trust me.”

“Famous last words.” She takes a deep breath. “Okay, I trust you. Hit me. But not too much.” She leans forward and opens her mouth.

I can imagine something else slipping between those pretty lips. Willing my mind out of the gutter, I press the nozzle and fill her mouth with swirls of cream.

“Mmmm,” she says, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk. “That is good.”

“See? What did I tell you? And to think you’ve been missing out on this your whole life.”

“It’s a travesty,” she agrees. I give her another hit.

“You’ve never lived until you’ve done that in the store.”

“In the grocery store? No way.”

“Yes.” I tell her how my friend and I used to go to the Fresh and Easy Market when my mom and I lived near Camp Pendleton. I’d keep an eye out for the manager while he took a hit and he’d do the same for me.

She laughs.

Normally, I don’t like talking about when I was a kid. But with Ivy, for some reason, my past and everything in it doesn’t seem nearly as dark.

The microwave beeps and I pull out the two mugs of hot water.

“Is it too late to change my order to hot chocolate?” she asks, licking the last of the whipped cream from her lips.

“Not at all.” I grab two packets and dump them into the cups.

“You mentioned Camp Pendleton. Was your dad in the military when you were little?”

Ha. “My father is the last person who’d join the military.”

“What if there was a zombie apocalypse and all the remaining people needed to become soldiers to defend the human race? Would he join then?”

Where does she come up with this stuff? I shake my head, laughing. “Yes, even then he’d figure out a way to avoid it.”

“Hmmm. Then he’d probably be one of the first to be infected.”

“Let’s just say he’s the ultimate narcissist. He’d never do anything where he had to be a team player or a small cog in a greater machine. He needs to be the one on top. The one getting all the glory and attention. If you don’t fit into his world or serve a purpose, he has no need for you.”

“And by you, you mean you?” Her tone is soft.

I exhale a long, slow breath. “Pretty much. He left my mother when she was pregnant with me.”

“Before you were even born? Wow, Jon, I’m sorry.”

“Yep. Told her he wasn’t interested in being a father.” I stir the chocolate, add some whipped cream, and hand one to her.

She swirls it around, but doesn’t take a sip. She’s chewing the inside of her lip like she’s trying to figure something out. “Do you have a relationship with him now?”

“Never met the guy.” I don’t tell her that I have seen him—in occasional tabloid articles and online gossip sites.

“He sounds like a jerk.”

She doesn’t know the half of it. “When I was a kid, I wanted to meet him so bad. All my friends had dads and I wanted one, too. So when I was seven, I drew a picture at school of what I thought he looked like. Basically, it was a self-portrait, only he was taller and had bigger muscles. I can still remember the drawing. Stick figures, of course.”

Ivy smiles. “Of course.”

“I came home and told my mom I wanted to mail it to him. So she got an envelope and helped me address it. He was living in New York City at the time.”

“And did you hear from him?”

I shake my head. “The letter came back marked Return to Sender. Printed by hand, not a stamp. My father didn’t even bother to open it. Just saw that it was from me, his son, and sent it back. Had he just thrown it away, I could’ve imagined that he’d read it and displayed the picture on his fancy New York refrigerator to show to all his famous friends. But no. It came back unopened and unread.”

“Your dad is such a fool.”

“I’m thinking more along the lines of fucker, asshole or douche.”

She sets down her hot chocolate and looks me square in the eye. “He’s a fool, Jon, because he doesn’t know, doesn’t even have one clue, that he’s fathered a pretty amazing guy.”

My first reaction is to refute her words, but she’s staring at me so intently, as if she’s daring me to contradict her. And then she does something that blows me away. She lifts her hands and signs, You’re amazing.

My heart races. My throat tightens up. I try swallowing, but I can’t. I turn away, not sure what I can say. Or do.

Quietly, she comes around the island as I stand frozen on the other side. She places her hands on either side of my face. At first, I think she’s going to kiss me. Her lips are parted and her eyes are so intense with emotion, they almost burn right through me. But no. She’s holding my face so that I’m forced to look at her without turning away.

“You’re a good person, Jon Priestly. And if your dad is so self-centered and self-absorbed that he can’t or won’t be bothered to see the kind of son he’s fathered, then I’m incredibly sad for him. One day, he’s going to die. And you know what? He’ll never have known how much better his life would’ve been had you been a part of it.”