Summer in Montauk

Not Your Fault

A cab comes to pick us up after twenty minutes of silence between us. We wait for the two truck to come too, before we leave Don's extremely expensive, smashed car laying in the middle of the street. That may have aroused some questions that were not available to mortals, and everyone else who can't see through the Mist.

I can tell Don's concerned, and not about his car. Even though his mouth isn't moving, I can tell his mind is racing. He fidgets with the edge of his t-shirt, looking down at the gravelly road. He prevents himself from making eye contact with me, turning away whenever I try to look at his face.

We walk into the empty house. I can hear the shutters creaking from the wind, and I feel a sense of random nostalgia for what the home used to be. Then, I'm jerked back into the present.

The room is ominously silent, save the creakiness. Don sits at the kitchen table, muttering incoherent phrases to himself. I hear the words "danger" and "my fault" thrown around. Your average "hero who caused danger to someone else through this thing that really wasn't his fault" talk. You know, just the average conversation.

"Don," I whispered to him. He didn't even look up. He stared at the table unblinkingly, ranting on about danger.

"Don!" This time, I yelled to get his attention. He jerked violently to look at me with his sea green eyes. "What is wrong with you?"

"You have every right to be mad. I put you in danger. You could have died," he said softly.

"Is that what this is about?!" I yell. "My gosh, it's nice to date a hero, but they always blame themselves for everything!" I grab his face lightly, and turn him towards me. "Get this in your head. It's. Not. Your. Fault. In fact, you saved me. I would have died if it wasn't for you."

He still looked uncertain, although not mad at himself. I sat down in the chair next to him, stroking his cheek. "Hey, Don. It's not your fault. And if it was, I wouldn't care."

I kiss him softly, running my hand through his jet-black hair. He caresses my cheek, my neck, and my shoulders, his hands running farther and farther down. For some reason, I don't stop him. His warm touch seems warm and comforting. He stands up, picking me up off the ground. I wrap my legs around his waist as he sets me down on the table, keeping our make out session interrupted.

I slide my hands down, underneath his shirt. He takes the hint and shrugs off his shirt, pulling it off from the back of his neck. I run my hands across his perfectly chiseled chest. Did every piece of him have to be perfect?

His mouth moved from my lips to my neck. I let out a small moan, so he kept going. He finally brought his lips away from my skin and said it. "Sally. I love you."

I felt my heart swell. All of the pain and heartbreak in my life had led up to this moment. I had my parents and uncle die on me. I had felt the pain of someone much older than me, and it followed me, everywhere I went. But in that moment, it was gone. In that moment, I felt overwhelming joy. "I love you, too," I whisper. I kiss him again harder, and he picks me up, walking while still kissing, all the way to the bedroom.

And let's just say that we both have a very long night.