Picturesque

Chapter 23: The Sun

"I know I didn't." Her voice was strangely calm, her stare steady. "I'm asking why you didn't."

I looked around, trying to figure out what she wanted me to say. I just threw my hands at my sides with a shrug, nervously laughing in a desperate attempt to cut the tension. "I don't know, Jo, I just didn't. If you want me to apologize, then fine—"

"I don't want you to apologize!" she exclaimed, reaching forward and grabbing my hands. "I want you to tell me why you didn't pull away." I froze under her touch as she stepped close to me, holding my hands between us. "Why you nearly let Johnny fuck you at the club. Why you asked me not to kiss you when I know you wanted me to."

I couldn't breathe. There was a balloon swelling up in my stomach and into my throat, squeezing my lungs against my spine.

"Why you look at me like I'm a Christmas present. Why you're still nice to me, even after I was mean to you when you were first here," she continued. She let go of my hand and brought hers to my face, and the touch made me gasp. Her delicate hand, cupping my cheek, those viridescent eyes staring so deeply into mine, it was all too much for me to bear.

I slapped her hand away and pushed past her, pacing to the other side of the room, turned away from her. I put my hand over the spot on my cheek that she had touched, feeling the skin boil there. It still throbbed with the feel of her skin.

"Becca," she called, but I turned around, still holding my cheek as if she hit me.

"Jo, stop this! I don't know what you want from me!"

I thought maybe my anger would deflate her, but she grew irritated, her face flushing red. She ran her hands through her hair, her sunglasses falling to the floor as she started to pace around my room. "That's what I'm trying to fucking figure out!"

Her voice startled me, and my eyes dropped to the floor. I didn't understand what was happening, what I did wrong. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

She turned to look at me again, hands on her hips, her eyes wide. She saw the way I was looking down, realized the tremor in my voice. "Don't," she said softer, biting her lip. "Don't be sorry, Becks. I don't want you to be sorry."

I said nothing, my arms crossed over my stomach like a poor beggar child in the cold winter wind. The sun didn't feel so hot anymore.

Jo opened her mouth to speak but then closed it, running her hand through her hair again as she sighed and adjusted her feet where they stood. "I don't know how to... I just... I don't know. I don't fucking know. I want you to know that I..." She kept cutting herself off like speaking the words would make her drop dead. "I look at you, and I... Oh, fuck, Becca, I'm no good with words." She palmed her face harshly until it was bright red, turning around in circles. I started to wonder if she was still high.

Suddenly, she ran across the room at me and grabbed me by my face, holding it tight in her hands. My hands latched onto her wrists, my breath leaving me as she stared down at me. "I think you're beautiful. I think you're funny. I think you're kind. I think you're great, and all that. I think... I just..."

There were no words for me to say. Her hands softened their grip but still held my face, her thumbs stroking my cheeks.

"I couldn't stand to see you cry that night. I don't want to ever see you cry again, ever," she whispered gently, her eyes searching over my face again. "I feel...different when I'm around you. All the time, everywhere I go, I feel like I'm being chased. Like I have to run. But when I'm with you, I can..." She trailed, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. "I can just be still. I can just... I can just... be." Her voice rose in pitch, her lips curling into a nervous laughter. I'd never loved the smell of cigarettes more.

Her laughter faded as her eyes fell to my lips. Her pupils swarmed, and I could feel it coming. I felt the gravity pulling her closer to me, I felt her thumb brushing over my lower lip.

"Don't kiss me," I whispered desperately, although I wanted her to. I wanted her to kiss me so bad, I had never wanted anything more. I was afraid of what happened last time I was kissed. I was afraid she would throw me down and kick me and then leave and disappear forever.

"Please," she whispered, leaning even closer to me. "It won't hurt." She looked like she did that day she asked me to play chess or ride bicycles with her—like she had never wanted anything more.

I was caught between two truths of myself. One was the truth of my shame and the evidences of it in Georgia. One was the truth of my utterly helpless love for Jo that sprung from inside me the first moment I had seen her burst through Holly's bedroom door, when I was sitting at the tea table with stuffed animals looking like an idiot.

Jo was pulling me closer to her, but my mind was pulling me backwards, and I felt like I was going to snap in half. Finally, I gave in. I nodded under her hands, and she pushed her lips against mine.

My eyes squeezed shut, expecting what I had felt last time—hard kisses, teeth, anger, an elbow on my neck. Instead, I felt softness. She kissed me gently, so gently I barely felt it. Her hands held my face still, but they weren't demanding. They were reassuring. I felt embers of passion sparking within me as I leaned into her kiss, years of oppressed desire unleashing within me.

The kiss was clumsy. Jo seemed unconfident, though eager. It wasn't a perfect kiss, but it made me feel more things than I ever had.

Finally, she pulled away, and I realized how breathless we had both become. She placed her forehead against mine, her hands on my face lowering to my waist and pulling me against her. Our bodies touched, and more embers flared inside me. She felt so warm and bright, and I just wanted to melt against her.

"Was that okay?" she instantly asked in a low, tremulous whisper.

I smiled a little. "Yea, it was."

"I've been wanting to do that forever," she said in an airy laugh, her hands on my waist squeezing my flesh as she pushed herself closer against me.

She pulled away so that she could look at me, and she realized how much she was squeezing me against her. She carefully let go and allowed some space between us, which I was a little thankful for because I already felt dizzy and faint from the kiss.

"I'm gonna..." She pointed to her room, and while part of me was grateful that I would have some time to recover from the feverish feeling within me, I started to grow worried that she was going to leave for good—the childish, grief-stricken part of me. She noticed, and said, "I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

I nodded, smiling a little. My lips were buzzing delightfully from the kiss, and I wanted them to feel like that forever.

She mirrored my nod and looked around a bit, giving a nervous chuckle before she rather clumsily shuffled out of the room and closed the door.

Instantly, I fell on my back on the bed, my mouth wide open in a grin. She kissed me. It didn't hurt. She didn't run away. She liked me. I liked her.

If only in that moment I had remembered Madame Vionette's words.