Page 35 of Memories of the Lost

“Finally,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her. They were sweaty and disheveled in five minutes.

She surfaced, swallowed, smoothed his hair. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll get the box for you.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll have Jon help me.”

“Jon, the artist at the show?” He sounded dubious.

Jon was many things, but it was true that strong wasn’t one of them. “Okay. I just don’t want you to think I’m using you as a pack mule.”

“You can use me,” he said, and kissed her again before he got out.

It was only two blocks to the apartment, but even Superman was huffing a bit by the time they got there.

And Jared was on the steps.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Tillie cried. “You have to stop this. I’m going to file a restraining order.”

“I just want to talk to you!” he said. Again, he’d been drinking. Again, he looked like shit, and as a person who had loved him, she was sad for his pain, even if she was the one who caused it.

She took a breath. “I will talk to you tomorrow, okay? Go home, get some rest, and I will call you.”

He stared at her, his red-rimmed eyes daring to hope. “Promise?”

“Yes,” she said. “I promise. Now, let me call you a cab, and you can go home.”

Standing a little unsteadily, he looked at Liam. “Are you a couple?”

Tillie glanced over her shoulder.

Liam said simply, “I’m sorry, Jared, but we are.”

Jared nodded sadly and came down the steps, standing beside Tillie like a child while she hailed a cab. She poured him into it and gave the driver his address. “Promise you’ll call,” Jared said, grabbing her hand.

“I promise.”

As the cab drove away, Tillie wondered if this would interfere again. But Liam, having set the box on the stoop, turned to her. “Was that all right?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Good.” He picked up the box. “Lead the way.”

They paused on the landing halfway up; then Tillie was opening the door, holding it open. He tripped on the threshold ever so slightly, and the loose top of the box tumbled off, followed by a cascade of papers and photos and detritus spilling out. “Damn,” he said.

Tillie pushed the papers aside with her foot. “I don’t care.”

Neither did he. In minutes, they were naked in her bed, kissing as if there would be a war tomorrow, their bodies hot and sliding, their hands exploring. Nothing else mattered but this overwhelming connection. Tillie felt enchanted, narcotically lost in the taste of him, the feel of his skin under her hands. He touched her as if he’d already memorized the manual to her body, and she discovered that he responded to herthe same way, as if they were made to fit together. She cried out so long that she should have been embarrassed, but it didn’t matter because he joined her, and they kissed, and kissed again, as if the act itself was an incantation, and they were now woven together, a single length of fabric.

She didn’t think about how it would feel to tear that fabric apart.

“Do you want a glass of water?” she asked. It was late afternoon, and cloudy skies muted the light in the room.

“Not if you have to get up to get it.” His head was tucked against her neck, his hand draped over her ribs. The duvet had fallen off the bed, as they nearly had more than once, and it was getting cold, but she hadn’t wanted to move.

“I’m dying of thirst, though.”

“Drink from my lips, my lady,” he said, lifting up on one elbow to kiss her, and laughed. “I’ll go.”