Unearthly

“I won’t get struck by lightning?”

I laugh. Then I lean in and brush my lips lightly against his. His hands on my waist tighten.

“No lightning,” I say.

He smiles. I run my finger along the length of his dimple. He lifts a strand of my hair (which has popped free from my ponytail) and inspects it in the sunlight.

“Not red,” I say with a shrug.

“I always felt like there was something off about your hair.”

“So you thought you’d torture me by calling me Carrots?”

“I still thought I’d never seen anyone as beautiful as you.” He drops his head and rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. He’s blushing.

“You’re a real Romeo,” I say, blushing, too, trying to cover it by teasing him, but then he puts his arms around me again and runs his hands over my wings. His touch is light, careful, but it sends a wave of pleasure straight to the pit of my stomach so strong that my knees get weak and wobbly. I lean into him and press my cheek to his shoulder, working to keep the air going in and out of my lungs as he strokes slowly up and down the length of my wings.

“So you’re an angel, that’s all,” he murmurs.

I kiss his shoulder. “Part angel.”

“Say something in the angel language.”

“What should I say?”

“Something simple,” he says. “Something true.”

“I love you,” I whisper automatically, shocking myself yet again. The words in Angelic are like murmurs of wind and stars, a low, clear music. His arms tighten around me. I gaze up into his face.

“What did you say?” he asks, but his eyes tell me he heard me loud and clear.

“Oh, you know. I just kinda like you.”

“Huh.” He kisses the corner of my mouth and pushes a strand of hair away from my face. “I really, really like you, too.”

* * *

So I’m in love. That crazy, forget to eat, float around in a daze, talk on the phone all night and bounce out of bed every morning hoping to see him kind of love. The days of summer fly past, and every day I find something else I love about him.

It feels like no one else knows him the way I do. I know that he doesn’t really dig country music, but it’s part of the whole Western scene so he tolerates it. He admits that he inwardly cringes every time he hears the twang of a steel guitar. I think it’s hilarious whenever we hear it, knowing that. He loves Cheetos. He believes one of the greatest tragedies in this world is the way the land keeps getting eaten up, all the wild spaces filled with condos and dude ranches. He both loves and hates the Lazy Dog, for that reason. His recurring fantasy is to go back in time and ride the range in those days before fences, out in the heat with the little dogies, driving them across the land like a real cowboy.

He’s good to people, respectful. He doesn’t cuss. He’s kind. Thoughtful. He likes to pick me wildflowers, which I weave into garlands for my hair so I can smell them all day long. He doesn’t make a big deal about me being different. In fact, he hardly ever brings up the whole angel-blood thing, although sometimes I see him looking at me with a kind of curiosity in his eyes.

I love how he sometimes gets embarrassed by all the mushy stuff between us and then his voice gets all gruff and he tickles me or kisses me to shut us both up. Boy, do we ever kiss. We make out like champions.

Tucker never takes it too far, though I sometimes want him to. He’ll kiss me, kiss me, kiss me until my head swims and my body goes light and heavy at the same time, kiss me until I start tugging at our clothes, wanting as much contact as I can get.

Then he groans, grabs my wrists, and moves away from me, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths for a minute.

I think he seriously believes that deflowering an angel could mean an eternity in fiery hell.

“What about church?” he asks me one night after he pulls away, gasping for breath.

It’s the first week of August. We’re lying on a blanket in the bed of his pickup truck, a riot of bright stars over our heads. He kisses the back of my hand and then twines my fingers with his. For a second I forget the question.

“What?”

He laughs. “Church. Why doesn’t your family go to church?”

Another thing I usually love about Tucker: He’s unflinchingly honest, forthright to a fault. I gaze up at the stars.

“I don’t know. My mom took us every Sunday when we were kids, but not since we got older.”

He rolls over to look at me.

“But you know that there’s a God. I mean, you’re part angel. You have proof, right?”

What proof do I really have? Wings. The speech thing. Glory. All powered by God, or so I’ve been told. God seems like the most likely explanation.

“Well, there’s the glory thing,” I say. “How we connect with God. But I don’t know a lot about that. I’ve only felt it that one time.”

“What was it like?”