Letting You Go Was The Hardest Thing

Letting You Go Was The Hardest Thing - Chapter Seven

I know it's late but I still want to greet you a Happy Birthday. Hope you like this ;-D

Letting You Go Was The Hardest Thing

Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved

Chapter Seven

Picture on the side is Terrence, Dalton's brother (Model Tyson Ballou) Imagine him with green eyes.

It was just a kiss.

       Yes, I believe with all that is holier than thou that it was only done to show Dalton his place, but I couldn't help but wonder if it meant something...

       Unknowingly, my fingertips reached to touch my lips and I thought, 'Was it?'

       Was it really just a kiss to me? To my best friend, Mike?

       Mike and I spent four years of our lives not making any types of physical love. The only form of touch were allowed was the offering and receiving perfunctory kisses and hugs. None of it mean a thing; just good old familial affection. But how can one heady lip locking moment have my emotions in a turmoil, or - swallowing a huge lump lodge up on my throat here - have stupid butterflies flutter in my stomach?

       I'm seriously going to burn in fiery pits of hell for this.

       Minutes of silence followed as we walked, heading to the town's diner. Each step I took, I tried so hard not to dwell on it, but my mind was making it harder.

       'Brain, will you just stop with the powerpoint presentation?!' I angrily thought in my head. 'I get it! It was a son of a bitch of a kiss and good lord, it didn't feel wrong!'

       "Charlie bear? You okay?"

       'Crap,' I thought, startled. I stopped walking then my hand went to my now erratically beating heart, the inner turmoil forgotten, and sent Mike a reproachful look.

       Good grief! For a moment there I thought my heart was going to jump out of my rib cage.

       "Mike, you scared the crap out of me!" I told him, still reeling from the shock. "A little warning would be nice."

       Mike smiled, yet his brown eyes smoldered with concern. "You were thinking pretty intense there," he informed me. "Something wrong?" And just like a light switch, it dawned on him. "Was it about what I did? If it was, then, I'm really sorry, but that prick was --"

       "Michelangelo," I interjected him, using his full name on purpose. The boy hardly rambled, yet, showing his flustered side is just endearing. "Just breathe. And no, it's not about what happened a while ago, so don't worry about it," I fibbed, hoping he would buy it.

       "Are you sure?" he asked.

       I nodded. "Yeah."

       He looked straight into my eyes, searching for reassurance, and it was unnerving how intense it was. I held in his gaze steely, providing him what he wanted and finally, he resigned with a soft sigh.

       "Okay, but I just want to say I'm sorry."

       It never ceases to amaze me that lying through my teeth comes out naturally now, like an art. It is all thanks to four years of spinning webs of alibis all in the name of dodging my family.

       And it comes in handy with this particular situation, but why do I feel slightly disappointed that he was sorry?

       The mysteries of human emotion I tell you.

       I smiled. "Let's just go to the diner. I'm starving."

       Mike laughed lightly. "Only you, Charlie. Only you," he said then laced our hands together.

       Before I could pay him out with an awesome comeback, my stomach growled like a  lion and I blushed as red as a tomato.

       How embarrassing!

       Mike threw his head back and let out a deep belly laugh. 'Stupid stomach,' I thought with irritation. "Oh lordy, I-I c-can't-- breathe!" he said in between his laughing fit. "That was too adorably funny and cute."

       I slapped his arm with my free hand. "Oh, shush!" I scolded him, blushing profusely. "It's not funny and cute."

       How could this whacked Italian man think a growling stomach is "adorably funny and cute"? What on Earth is he smoking?

       "Yes, it is."

       "No, it's not."

       "Yes, it is."

       "No, it's not."

       "Yes, it is."

       "No, it's--" I stopped myself, sensing familiarity with our banter.

       This was how Dalton and I were when we disagree on things. The heated "Is too" and "Is not" exchange, and here I am, doing the same thing with Mike.

       No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to bury those fond memories for never to be remembered, simple things such as this come crawling back to you and hits you like a freight train.

       Being home is scaring me.