Page 162 of Because I Killed Him
Instead, I turn in my seat to face him and let myself watch as he paddles us farther out: the steady flex of his arms, the rise and fall of his chest, the soft grunt that escapes him when the current resists.
He digs the oar deep and pulls through a firm stroke, then looks up and grins when he sees me staring. “What’s that look?”
I lean back, trailing my finger in a slow circle through the water. “I was just thinking it’s been ten minutes since you kissed me.”
“It’s been ten minutes since I started wanting to.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
He taps the side of the kayak with one oar. “If I lean that far, we’ll flip.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
I laugh and flick seawater at him. “So, let us flip.”
Edmund’s eyes narrow, sparking. Then he leans forward, and the oars slip from his hands. I hear the splash at the same moment his hands close around my waist. As the kayak tips and the world turns, he says in my ear, “I’ll be right back.”
Before I can ask what he means, I hit the water, surprised by its warmth as it closes over me. I’m under only a moment before I surface. I expect to see Edmund’s head break the water nearby, maybe hear his laughter.
But he’s gone.
A minute passes, then two. I turn slowly in the water, more curious than worried, until five minutes slip by and unease settles in. I dip beneath the surface, my eyes stinging with salt, but I see nothing apart from cloudy blue.
When I come back up, a hand closes around my leg.
Edmund bursts through the surface in a spray of water, his breath heaving, his hair slicked back from his face. For a moment, he looks feral, as though he’s surfaced from somewhere deeper than the ocean.
“Edmund,” I say, startled. “Where did you go?”
He lifts his hand proudly, revealing a fistful of dark sediment.
I arch an eyebrow, then laugh. “Is thatmud?”
His smile widens. “Yeah. From the ocean floor… so you can touch the bottom.”
Edmund drops some into my open palm, and when his gaze lifts to mine, it’s so ardent and consuming that it feels as if he’s loving me without laying a hand on me. I close my fingers over the mud, and for a moment, I can only stare at him, stunned. Then a rush of emotion breaks through, so overwhelming that I can’t explain what I feel for him, even if I try.
Instead, I say quietly, “It’s been fifteen minutes now since you kissed me.”
Small waves lap against us as Edmund moves closer. He lowers his hand toward the water, about to wash away the mud, when I catch his wrist, lift his hand, and press it to my cheek. He swallows, momentarily still, before his fingers curl and he spreads the mud across my skin. A soft breath escapes me, cut short when he cups my chin and takes my mouth with his. I curl my fingers into his soaked shirt and kiss him back with the full force of what I feel.
Around us, the sun finally sets, leaving darkness where I know Edmund is the only one who can see. But I don’t need sight for a touch like this. I slide my hands over his face, smearing the last traces of mud along his jaw and into his hair, guided by the rhythm of the water and the steadfast certainty of his hold. I rest my forehead against his, close my eyes, and as I catch the scent of mud on his skin, I share his hope—not just for my own future but for ours.
Over the next few days, that hope spreads, taking root and growing as large and untamed as my feelings for him. If we could, we’d spend every night together, dissolving into the forest or the ocean until the world forgets us. But there are evenings when we’re forced to stay in—nights given over to studying or to Charlotte, Jack, and Dickie—and those are the hardest. What we feel leaks into glances held a second too long and into hands that brush beneath thetable. By mid-April, hiding it becomes nearly impossible, like trying to disguise fireworks at dusk.
One Thursday evening, after dinner in Edmund’s suite, Jack and Dickie push back from the table and head toward the sauna in the private spa. Charlotte swivels in her seat to watch them go, her expression thoughtful, as if weighing whether to follow. As I wait, sipping my wine and hoping she will, Edmund leans across the table and tops off my glass. His smile is drifting, almost hazy, though he hasn’t had a sip. Wine, I recently learned, is the one alcohol he doesn’t like. But he always keeps a bottle here for me.
I smile back, thanking Edmund once with words. Then, again, by sliding my leg beneath the table and lightly brushing my bare foot against his calf, drawing a low breath from his chest.
His hand drops to catch my foot, but his elbow clips the wine bottle instead. It topples, spilling a sudden splash of red across the tablecloth. Edmund doesn’t glance at the stain; he doesn’t even notice the Pinkie rushing in to clean up the mess. Usually, when he looks at me in public, there’s restraint in his eyes, a promise oflater.
But right now, there is no later.
For a single, reckless moment, I think he might give in completely: sweep me up, carry me to his jet, and take me with him into the sky, the one place where our world has no written rules.
I glance back at Charlotte, who’s just ordered herself a fresh Gibson, clearly deciding not to follow Jack and Dickie.
