Page 73 of Licks

Pulse revving into overdrive, I forced myself to create space between us. I ran my hands through her hair, skimmed my thumbs over her cheeks. “I want you with me in Germany, wherever I am for as long as you can swing it. I’ll fly home often. I’ll reassess my career, see about building my audience in the States. We have options. We’ll make this work, and you trying means more than you know.”

My mouth was desert-level dry. Licking my lips didn’t help.

She fisted the back of my shirt and leaned away, tension in the guarded movement. “So why are you looking at me like we’re saying goodbye?”

I dropped my head forward, focused on a crack in the sidewalk between our feet. A mini fault line that could open up and swallow me whole. “This isn’t goodbye, Gwen. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

I forced myself to meet her eyes. Her pupils had blown wide, darkness taking over shades of green. “Why do I sense a but?”

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

Gwen

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Doomed to Die. The Doom Generation.

I mentally listed every movie or show I knew with the word doom (spoiler alert: The Doom Generation was a hardcore film with a questionable three-way and a penchant for grotesque violence), unable to process the shift in August’s demeanor. Not that processing was required. Doom was the real takeaway here.

Doom in his flitting eyes. Doom in his blotchy skin.

A couple times, before skydiving, I had nightmares prior. They’d consisted of me reaching for my ripcord, only to find it missing. I’d pummel to earth, spinning, unable to scream, the ground racing toward me at death-defying speeds. Startling awake had always been a sweaty, panting affair. Like right now.

I’d expected my flight news to come with hugs and making out, an awkward victory dance, maybe. I’d paid for a non-refundable flight, had been more honest with August than I’d ever dreamed. The words I love you had almost passed my lips. Present day love. Not past love. Not just because of our history. I’d leapt from a plane for August Cruz.

And the ripcord was slipping through my grasp.

A sheen of moisture clung to his upper lip, because he had something to tell me.

Doomsday. Mansion of the Doomed. The Sword of Doom.

I hadn’t done this in ages, listing movie titles with key words, a nervous habit I’d thought I’d kicked. As a kid, I’d go through this obsessive exercise, a way to keep it together when my mother was hurtful or I’d flunked a test. Teenaged August would snicker at me, and say, “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” I’d reply, royally embarrassed.

“That weird movie title thing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not.”

“Your lips are moving, Possum.”

I’d hated how well he’d known me.

Today I made sure to keep my lips stiff, but my focus was fading fast. Traffic sped behind me. The tourists in my peripheral vision blurred. Noises swirled with the scents of car exhaust and ocean air, spinning around me at a dizzying rate.

I broke free of August’s arms and blinked away my sudden vertigo. “Say it.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is that has you sweating on a non-sweaty day.” It wasn’t warm enough for him to be flushing like that.

His next swallow lasted an eternity. He didn’t reply.

“Spit it out, August.” I hugged myself, tried to breathe through the cumulating dread. “Is there a woman in Europe you didn’t mention? Did you get someone pregnant or something?”

Which had me wishing again for my belly to swell with our baby. Not a healthy sentiment when the guy at the core of that wish looked ready to faint.