Boot(s)

31- Boot

Bobby O'Callahan

I was having a hard time processing it all.

Peter Jackson had my handwriting tattooed on his waistline. Peter Jackson had inked himself at least eight times over the past fourteen years, just for me. Peter Jackson had erased himself from my life—and I, from his—just so I wouldn't have had to grieve over his death. And now, hard-ass, U.S. military Sergeant Peter Jackson was here, making sure I woke up every morning with a fresh cup of coffee, letting my god-daughter draw kitty whiskers on his face, and making me chicken parmesan (I still don't know how he learned), all because he loved me. Too. He loved me too.

I had so many questions. So many questions.

Every night I had laid awake, his eyes the only thing I could see, was he halfway across the world, thinking of me? Did he ever pick up a pencil and try to write, like I had, only to never find the right words? Were there moments he cried at the mere thought of me, after going days forgetting I ever existed?

He cleared his throat, grabbing my hand and shaking me from the spiral I was only going to continue to go down.

"Bo, I know I'm not much. I know I didn't go to college, I know I don't have many strengths—"

"Peter, stop—"

"No," he squeezed my hand, his eyes pouring deeply into my own: wide as ever. "No, I need to say this." He swallowed. His stare drifted toward the ceiling as he gathered his thoughts.

"I know I'm not perfect. I know I'm from the wrong side of town and I know I get angry and sometimes say things I don't mean. I know I'm damaged and broody. I also know that you... You are..." his eyes, which had been lingering, found mine again. There were soft, now, a rarity for Pete. You could see fondness there, in the delicate way he blinked, in the way he tilted his head slightly to the right. He breathed in deeply and seemed to speak into his exhale. "You're sent from heaven, Bobby O'Callahan. You're everything a person should be. You're smart, you're loyal, you care more about your god damned dog than you do about yourself. You're a kick-ass godfather. And friend. And the best ballplayer to ever grace the basketball courts of this country." He smiled, pausing, as I interrupted with a soft chuckle.

"I am not religious, Bo, but I believe God placed you on this earth because he knew you would be a good one. And—again, I'm not religious—but I also believe he kept me alive the past 14 years for the sole purpose of being here, right now. And, to... Well, to love you, hopefully, for as long as you'll let me."

If I had to venture a guess, Pete had gotten tired of me staring at him, doe-eyed, love-struck, and absolutely speechless. Because he just kept going. "So, I'm not really all that familiar with this part, but I'd say this is when you do something, I don't know... like kiss me?"

My eyelids fluttered closed. His voice. His lips. Kiss him.

I opened my eyes to his green ones. His beautiful, heart-racing, always-and-forever-in-my-dreams, gorgeous green eyes. "You'll have to forgive me," I told him, standing up, untangling his grip on my fingers. My hands found their way to his face, instead. I let my finger dust over his cheek, savoring every second he was looking at up me, batting his eyelashes like a teenage girl, darting his tongue over his lips anxiously. "I'm not very familiar with this part either."

I took one hand off his face to press his chest down into the duvet that immediately seemed to engulf him. He was biting his bottom lip, holding off a smile as I climbed on the bed, knees at his thighs. I took a deep breath in, and bent down, my forehead on his. "But I'm pretty sure it goes like this."

And I kissed him. Soft. Slow. Slow, so I could feel it in my bones, in my nerve endings, in my toes, in the back of my head, in my blood, behind my eyes. I kissed him so I could feel it everywhere, because this was it. This was it.

My last first kiss.

"Well," Pete was breathing deeply against my lips. I let my forehead rest against his again. I kissed the corner of his mouth gently, then his jaw. Then his neck. "I think you got it down, Cal." My name. His lips, Breathing like that. I made him breathe like that; hot gusts of air cascading out of his nose, his chest rising, pounding against mine. "But maybe..." He turned slightly, dusting his lips against mine again. "Give it another try?"

He didn't wait for me to respond. His lips were on mine again. This time it was heat, and fire, and his nails digging into my shoulder and moans escaping his throat and my shirt and his on the floor and my name on his lips then his name on mine.

That night, I swear I kissed him for every day we weren't together, every day we weren't doing this, every night. Every morning. Every moment.

He was falling asleep, but I was tracing his tattoos, keeping him awake. Before he drifted off to sleep, I heard him whisper something.

"Hmm?" I sat up, propped up on my elbow, the duvet sliding off my bare skin.

His eyes were closed, but he was turned toward me. "I said, thank God."

"Yeah?"

He nodded, eyes still closed. The blinds were open, and the moon – or the backyard lights – were bright enough for me to see his eyelids jumping slightly.

"I don't think I could have gone another day without loving you."

My lips parted. Every piece of me wanted to cry.

"Yeah," my voice was a whisper compared to his. I leaned down, kissing his temple. Clearing the tears from my throat I told him, "And thank God? Again? Jesus kid, we got to get you to church on Sunday. You heard Pop, he was praying for you. This whole time, he had been praying for you."

The corners of his lips turned up into a smile. "Yeah. I heard him."