Page 85 of Holding On

“Okay. Well, this is my mom.” I roll to one side and balance my head on a hand. “What about that? Have you ever thought about finding your birth parents?”

“Nope.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

He kisses the top of my hand. “Has Devon been up in your face about this?”

I touch his chest. “No. Why?”

Travis sighs and presses my hand to his chest. He’s shirtless and beautiful, and his skin is smooth.

“She was on a mission to find them, I think, but I stopped her.”

“Aren’t you just a teeny bit curious? Even for health reasons? You know, genetic stuff?”

Travis tilts his head up at the stars. “Not really. I have a family. I don’t need another one.”

“But you can always have more family, more people to love you. Love doesn’t come in limited supplies.”

“I’ve read enough to not want to do it.”

When he releases my hand, I keep it there, resting on his chest, right above his heart. I can feel the muscle there under bone, smooth and hard, and beneath that, his heart is beating fast. Too fast.

I’m a little drunk and a little ashamed I brought this up. He’s upset. I should have kept my mouth shut. Devon did talk to me. She did want me to feel him out. And now his heart is thudding under sore ribs, and I’m at fault.

He explains. “I’ve read enough stories about people who contact their birth parents, have a great relationship for ten years, and then the birth parents move on and have more children, and the person gets dumped again. I don’t . . . I don’t think I’m up for that.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself. I get it. They’re not your family.”

Travis smiles at me, but it’s more sorrowful than content. “You keep using the word ‘family,’ like that’s supposed to mean something to me. You’re right. They’re not my family. I have a family. I had an amazing mother and a wonderful father, and I have awesome sisters.” He pauses a long time. Enough time for his heart to slow and even out. He sighs.

“How do you think I knew enough to bring blankets, make the guac, stock a minicooler with four beers, remember chips, make a fire, pick out the island, and check not just the weather, but also the tide chart?”

His teeth are white in the night when he smiles.

I tilt my head. “I was wondering how you got to be so romantic.”

“It’s all those rom-com documentaries I watched with my sisters.”

I can’t help but start laughing. “Documentaries?”

“Critical.” He kisses the back of my hand again. “So, how does this score?”

“Score?”

“Yeah. Score it one to ten.”

“Oh,” I say, leaning over him for a quick kiss. “It’s definitely a twelve.”

“That’s right,” he says.

When we kiss, I slide my hand down his chest, teasing my fingers along that subtle trailing line to where his erection is at attention. When my fingers wrap around him, he starts to struggle up onto his elbows, but I push him down gently with my other hand.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, lying back, hands folded under his head. Stretched out like this, his stomach is concave, the muscles pulled long, his ribcage tilted up, and his groin is dark and delicious, hair swirling.

His skin has a sheen to it. I release him for the moment, and my cutoffs come off while he lies there appraising me.

“Shirt too,” he says, nodding at my zippered sweatshirt.