Losing Hope

privacy like this since we officially started dating two weeks ago.

Her hand is in mine and they’re clasped together, resting on her thigh. She’s not wearing the dress that completely melted me the first time I saw her in it, but she is wearing a dress. And I love this dress just as much as the other dress.

I wish she were wearing jeans, though. I overheard Les talking with one of her friends once when we were sixteen. They were about to go on a double date and the friend was explaining to Les the rules of “make-out” clothes. She said if Les just wanted to kiss the guy, she needed to wear jeans because the guy would be less likely to slip his hand where he shouldn’t. Then she told Les if she planned to move past first base, that a skirt or a dress was the way to go. Easy access, she said. I remember waiting in the living room after hearing that conversation to see which outfit Les chose. She walked down the stairs in a skirt and I marched her right back up to her room and forced her to change into a pair of jeans.

I wish Sky were wearing jeans right now because my hands are starting to sweat and I know she can feel my pulse through the palm of my hand. Her dress makes me think she wants to take things a step further tonight and I absolutely can’t get that out of my head. I sure as hell want to take the next step, but what if Sky doesn’t know the rules to “make-out” clothes? What if she’s wearing this dress just for the hell of it? What if she’s just wearing this dress because her washing machine broke and all her jeans were dirty? What if she’s wearing this dress because she didn’t have time to change into jeans before I showed up at her house? What if she’s wearing this dress because she went to some sort of random church today that has service on Saturdays?

I wish I knew what was going through her head right now. I rest my head against the back of the couch and swallow the huge lump in my throat before I speak. “I like your dress,” I say. It comes out in more of a raspy whisper because my throat is so weak right now just thinking about her. But I think she liked the way I said it, because she tilts her head and looks up at me, then slowly drops her eyes to my mouth. Thanks to the angle we’re sitting, we wouldn’t even have to shift positions to kiss. Her mouth is so incredibly close, it’s practically on top of mine. But neither of us is taking advantage of that. Yet.

“Thank you,” she whispers. The sweet breath from her words crashes against my mouth, warming me from the inside out.

The tension is so thick now, I can’t even inhale.

“You’re welcome,” I whisper back, staring at her mouth the same way she’s staring at mine. We’re both quiet for a moment, just silently staring. She slides her lips together and moistens them and I’m pretty sure I mutter “holy shit” under my breath.

She likes that she just got me all flustered because she grins. “Wanna make out?” she whispers.

Oh, hell yes.

My lips are on hers before the sentence is even completely out of her mouth. I lower my hands to her waist and pull her until she’s straddling me.

Straddling me in. Her. Dress.

I keep my hands locked tight on her hips while her hands slowly make their way up my neck and into my hair. The way her chest is pressed against mine makes my head spin, and it feels like the only thing that could set it straight again is if I pull her even closer and kiss her even harder. So that’s what I do. I slide my hands away from her hips and reach behind her and pull her closer, pressing her into me so perfectly that she moans and tugs on my hair. I keep one hand on her ass, letting it flow with the rhythm of her movements while my other hand slides up her back and into her hair. I pull her mouth deeper into mine while I straighten my posture and lean forward so that my back is no longer touching the couch and my mouth is as meshed with hers as it’s gonna get. Only that just makes my head spin even worse, so we’re kissing faster now and she’s moaning louder and I’m gripping her hips again and moving her against me so perfectly that I’m pretty sure she’s about to have a repeat of what I did to her the first night we made out.

I don’t want that yet because she’s wearing this dress and it’s absolutely amazing and I’m not even taking advantage of it. I grip her shoulders and push her away from me, letting myself fall back against the couch.

We’re both gasping for breath. We’re both smiling. We’re both looking at each other like this is the best night ever because it’s only ten o’clock and we’ve got a good two hours left of this. I release her shoulders and take her face in my hands, then slowly pull her back to my mouth. I change the position of my hands to support her weight and I stand up, then lower her onto the couch. I join her, pressing one knee between her legs and the other on the couch beside her.

I’m starting to get the impression that Daniel picked out this oversized couch in the same way that girls pick out their make-out clothes. Because it’s the perfect couch for this sort of thing.

I begin to kiss down her chin, down her neck and down to the area where her dress stops and her cleavage begins. I slowly glide my hand over her dress and up the length of her body until I reach her breast. I stroke my hand over the material and she hardens beneath my fingertips.

Ohmygod I fucking love tonight.

I groan and grab her breast a little harder and she moans, arching her back, pressing more of herself against my hand. I claim her mouth with mine and continue kissing her until we have to break for air again. I press my cheek against hers.

My lips are right next to her ear.

“Sky?” I whisper.

She inhales a quick breath. “Yeah?”

I inhale a slow one. “I live you.”

She exhales. “I live you, Dean Holder.”

I exhale.

And inhale.

And exhale.

I repeat that sentence silently in my head. I live you, Dean Holder.

It’s the first time I’ve heard her say Dean.

It’s also the first time I’ve ever had my heart impaled by a word before.

I lift away from her cheek and look down at her. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “For what?”

For being alive, I think to myself.

“For being you,” I say out loud.

Her smile fades and I swear she looks right through my eyes and straight into my soul. “I’m good at being me,” she says. “Especially when I’m with you.”

I stare at her for several seconds, then I have to lower my cheek to hers again. I want to kiss her, but I keep my cheek pressed firmly against hers because I don’t want her to see the tears in my eyes.

I don’t want her to see how much it hurts to know she can be this close to me . . . and somehow not remember me.

Chapter Thirty-five-and-a-half

Dear all dead people who aren’t Les, since I’m not writing letters to Les anymore,

I’ve loved Hope since we were kids.

But tonight?

Tonight I fell in love with Sky.

H

Chapter Thirty-six