Darkheart

The Present: Lost & Found

Kevin brushed a finger across the woman's collar, paused in that indentation at the bottom of her throat, and then slowly continued along her breastbone toward her stomach. Her skin was so much softer than his own, so much smoother. He hadn't noticed the way it felt, before, like a baby's.

Heather was asleep. Or at least, she was pretending to sleep. He thought he'd seen her eyelashes flutter a bit, maybe the hint of a smile as he touched her. It'd been like this for a few days, since she'd helped him. They'd sequestered themselves in his house, uninterested in leaving, spending most of their time just lying around. He preferred when they were in bed, when her back was pressed up against his chest, perfectly fitting the curve of her body into him. There were so many things he hadn't realized before, like how much Heather's short hair shone when caught by light, or the constellation of small moles on her left shoulder--he'd wanted to grab a marker and connect the dots, but she'd only laughed when he'd told her. And of course there were her eyes--that aquamarine. God, they were stunning. He'd always seen them, but he hadn't really seen them. Not until now.

But he was worried, too. They hadn't slept together, been in any way physical, since they'd been at that motel, before reaching Port Killdeer. Looking back at that brief spell, Kevin couldn't help but feel ashamed, and while the shame itself was bearable (expected, even, considering the predictable pattern of his life), the fact that he was upset by the shame was something new. He hadn't cared what anyone thought of him for a long, long time. Not since Lyra. And he couldn't quite say he cared what Heather thought . . . he'd never cared before, anyway. In fact, he'd hated her, not exactly because of who she was but because of what she knew of him, and because of what he knew of her. They'd hardly been friends when they were teenagers. He'd had his mind elsewhere, and when they'd been forced to reveal themselves to one another, it'd served only to deepen his animosity toward her. What she was, and what he was, the corruption of their hearts--seeing her was a reminder of all that was wrong with him. It was difficult to work past that association.

And yet, here they were, she in his arms, and he felt, suddenly, necessary.

The worry, though. He couldn't so easily dispel it. Did she actually need him? Was this some cosmic farce? Just another method of torment?

His thoughts were stifling, suddenly. Kevin sat up, shook the fleece blanket off, then carefully tucked it back around Heather. They were in his old bedroom, his full-size bed barely big enough for the two of them, but he couldn't stomach taking the larger beds belonging to his brother and father. He'd closed their bedroom doors forever, so he and Heather had been hanging out amidst all his old high school paraphernalia, grunge and punk rock posters, CD tower full of old music, empty critter tank and defunct desktop computer, archaic gaming system and weed paraphernalia. Nobody had touched anything in his room the entire time he'd been gone, even down to his bedding and paper-filled trash can. When he'd first returned, he'd cleaned it up enough for himself, and though he hadn't anticipated Heather staying with him, he'd gotten over any potential embarrassment pretty quickly. It wasn't as if he were in high school anymore, even though his life had certainly been stunted, had gone pretty much nowhere since then.

Kevin glanced at the woman on his bed, her slim body beneath the blanket. She hadn't been feeling well, nausea off-and-on, ever since they'd finished dealing with Mike. She'd been so strong during that whole nightmare; it was like she'd saved up all her sickness for the days after.

He wouldn't wake her. She needed to rest. But he himself was restless. Pulling on some jeans, Kevin slipped out of the room as quietly as possible, watching which parts of the floor he stepped on and pleased he still recalled the squeaky bits. Then he descended to the first floor and made his way to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator to see what he could possibly eat. Mike hadn't been much for real food. He'd gotten takeout most meals. The fridge was stocked well with energy drinks and beer, but as far as anything worth eating? Well. A cigarette would have to sate his appetite.