Kyland
Page 42
I shook my head back and forth slowly, his hands in my hair causing it to pull against my scalp as I gazed into his troubled eyes. "How can love be a mistake?"
I wrapped my arms around his back, sliding my palms up his shirt to feel his smooth, warm skin. He stepped closer into my embrace.
"I love you, too, Ten," he finally said softly. "That's why this is so hard." He seemed almost defeated, as if the words themselves had stolen something from him.
My heart soared as much as it lay bleeding from hearing the distress in his voice and standing among the proof of his imminent departure. I held him tighter. "Whatever you need, Ky. Whatever that is, I'll give it to you."
He let out a long, shuddery breath, but remained silent.
The problem was I didn't know if us loving each other changed anything. In fact, after everything Kyland had shared with me over the past months, I understood more than anyone why he needed to leave. He deserved to live a life out of this house of loneliness and loss. He had to picture his torment every day—hear his brother's cries in the very walls, hear his father's voice in every room, feel his mother's absence, her abandonment. I wanted him out of here as much as he did, and yet it still hurt so much. I bit my lip. But maybe . . . maybe if he won that scholarship, he wouldn't leave me behind. Maybe sometime, somehow, we could even make a life together away from here. Maybe he'd allow that—maybe not everything from Dennville, Kentucky had to hurt. And maybe he'd be willing to take the one thing that didn't—me—with him, in his heart at first, and later . . . later, into his home, his life. Maybe first he needed some time to live without his demons, to begin to believe that love didn't always have to hurt, that sometimes love was enough. I'd wait. I'd wait as long as he needed me to.
We lay down on the couch together and stayed that way for a long time, Kyland lost in his own mind, and me lost in mine. After a while, he asked if I wanted to stay and study a little bit with him—finals were on Monday. We didn't discuss our feelings anymore.
Was love supposed to hurt like this?
We ate vegetable soup at his coffee table for dinner and then I kissed him goodbye. Marlo would be leaving for work soon and I needed to get home and make sure my mama was okay.
"I won't see you this weekend," I said sadly. "Be safe, okay?"
Kyland nodded, some kind of sad longing in his eyes. But he was the one going away. That was his choice. And maybe he needed it. Maybe he needed that time in that place where he had a few happy memories of his family. Maybe that was exactly what he needed. Maybe that was exactly what I needed. Maybe I simply had to let him go.
I loved him. I'd give him whatever he needed.
"It's your birthday tomorrow, too," he said, softly. "What are your plans?"
I shrugged. "Oh, Marlo will probably bake me a cake as hard as a brick and I'll do some reading." I smiled and he smiled back, brushing a piece of hair off my forehead.
"Happy birthday, Tenleigh."
"Happy birthday, Kyland."
We kissed slowly and deeply for several minutes on his couch and I sensed his desire for me. But when I pulled back, he let me. I kissed him one last time on his mouth and then I walked back to my trailer. My heart felt as though it was breaking into so many pieces, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to keep them all together. And I wasn't sure I even wanted to.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kyland
The place where I had camped with my family for years was always a little more peaceful than I remembered it—which was good because I needed a good dose of peace. Tenleigh had told me she loved me, and I'd said it back. It filled me with joy and fearful desperation. I had nothing to offer her, and now, how would I leave her behind?
I'd almost gone to her trailer and asked her to come with me before I'd left, but I'd resisted. The problem was, I'd been resisting her for over three weeks and I thought it would have gotten easier. Instead, my longing for her had only increased. I craved her. It was a hunger deep inside my gut—a burning that only grew fiercer, more demanding without being fed. And I knew I'd loved her for a long time—perhaps even far longer than she'd loved me. When had it happened? When had I let my guard down enough to let her sweetness slip around my heart in a way I'd never untangle myself from? And at this point, what did it even matter?
I looked around. There was a huge, ancient oak that provided the cover we'd always used for our "campground." We hadn't been able to afford camping gear and so we'd used the same blankets and quilts we always slept in, just with a plastic tarp underneath. My dad would make burgoo, a stew that was made from possums and squirrels and any other wild game you could catch in a small trap—venison if you had a gun. It was supposed to be a delicacy, but like so many other "delicacies," it was probably born from starvation and the likelihood that calling something a delicacy made it more palatable. As gross as it sounded, it was good. And I made a batch of it every year for this trip, which just happened to be my birthday. I thought my dad would probably like that.
I looked out to the field of lavender. I liked this spot because when the breeze kicked up, you could smell all those purple flowers—sweet and herbal at the same time. Calming. I sat on a huge fallen branch that had been there since I was a kid and regarded the wood for the campfire I'd laid out on the ground in front of me. I'd light it once the sky became dark and heat up the stew. I'd sleep under the stars in my makeshift sleeping bag in this spot for the very last time. I wouldn't come back here again. Something moved inside me that felt surprisingly like grief, an ache in my guts. I didn't exactly understand it—this place had been so full of pain for me because each time I came, I felt the absence of my family. But at the same time, there had been joy here, too, that I was only now remembering. How did I make sense of that? I couldn't stand these conflicting feelings. I wanted to feel hatred for Dennville, Kentucky—nothing more.
I wrapped my arms around his back, sliding my palms up his shirt to feel his smooth, warm skin. He stepped closer into my embrace.
"I love you, too, Ten," he finally said softly. "That's why this is so hard." He seemed almost defeated, as if the words themselves had stolen something from him.
My heart soared as much as it lay bleeding from hearing the distress in his voice and standing among the proof of his imminent departure. I held him tighter. "Whatever you need, Ky. Whatever that is, I'll give it to you."
He let out a long, shuddery breath, but remained silent.
The problem was I didn't know if us loving each other changed anything. In fact, after everything Kyland had shared with me over the past months, I understood more than anyone why he needed to leave. He deserved to live a life out of this house of loneliness and loss. He had to picture his torment every day—hear his brother's cries in the very walls, hear his father's voice in every room, feel his mother's absence, her abandonment. I wanted him out of here as much as he did, and yet it still hurt so much. I bit my lip. But maybe . . . maybe if he won that scholarship, he wouldn't leave me behind. Maybe sometime, somehow, we could even make a life together away from here. Maybe he'd allow that—maybe not everything from Dennville, Kentucky had to hurt. And maybe he'd be willing to take the one thing that didn't—me—with him, in his heart at first, and later . . . later, into his home, his life. Maybe first he needed some time to live without his demons, to begin to believe that love didn't always have to hurt, that sometimes love was enough. I'd wait. I'd wait as long as he needed me to.
We lay down on the couch together and stayed that way for a long time, Kyland lost in his own mind, and me lost in mine. After a while, he asked if I wanted to stay and study a little bit with him—finals were on Monday. We didn't discuss our feelings anymore.
Was love supposed to hurt like this?
We ate vegetable soup at his coffee table for dinner and then I kissed him goodbye. Marlo would be leaving for work soon and I needed to get home and make sure my mama was okay.
"I won't see you this weekend," I said sadly. "Be safe, okay?"
Kyland nodded, some kind of sad longing in his eyes. But he was the one going away. That was his choice. And maybe he needed it. Maybe he needed that time in that place where he had a few happy memories of his family. Maybe that was exactly what he needed. Maybe that was exactly what I needed. Maybe I simply had to let him go.
I loved him. I'd give him whatever he needed.
"It's your birthday tomorrow, too," he said, softly. "What are your plans?"
I shrugged. "Oh, Marlo will probably bake me a cake as hard as a brick and I'll do some reading." I smiled and he smiled back, brushing a piece of hair off my forehead.
"Happy birthday, Tenleigh."
"Happy birthday, Kyland."
We kissed slowly and deeply for several minutes on his couch and I sensed his desire for me. But when I pulled back, he let me. I kissed him one last time on his mouth and then I walked back to my trailer. My heart felt as though it was breaking into so many pieces, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to keep them all together. And I wasn't sure I even wanted to.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kyland
The place where I had camped with my family for years was always a little more peaceful than I remembered it—which was good because I needed a good dose of peace. Tenleigh had told me she loved me, and I'd said it back. It filled me with joy and fearful desperation. I had nothing to offer her, and now, how would I leave her behind?
I'd almost gone to her trailer and asked her to come with me before I'd left, but I'd resisted. The problem was, I'd been resisting her for over three weeks and I thought it would have gotten easier. Instead, my longing for her had only increased. I craved her. It was a hunger deep inside my gut—a burning that only grew fiercer, more demanding without being fed. And I knew I'd loved her for a long time—perhaps even far longer than she'd loved me. When had it happened? When had I let my guard down enough to let her sweetness slip around my heart in a way I'd never untangle myself from? And at this point, what did it even matter?
I looked around. There was a huge, ancient oak that provided the cover we'd always used for our "campground." We hadn't been able to afford camping gear and so we'd used the same blankets and quilts we always slept in, just with a plastic tarp underneath. My dad would make burgoo, a stew that was made from possums and squirrels and any other wild game you could catch in a small trap—venison if you had a gun. It was supposed to be a delicacy, but like so many other "delicacies," it was probably born from starvation and the likelihood that calling something a delicacy made it more palatable. As gross as it sounded, it was good. And I made a batch of it every year for this trip, which just happened to be my birthday. I thought my dad would probably like that.
I looked out to the field of lavender. I liked this spot because when the breeze kicked up, you could smell all those purple flowers—sweet and herbal at the same time. Calming. I sat on a huge fallen branch that had been there since I was a kid and regarded the wood for the campfire I'd laid out on the ground in front of me. I'd light it once the sky became dark and heat up the stew. I'd sleep under the stars in my makeshift sleeping bag in this spot for the very last time. I wouldn't come back here again. Something moved inside me that felt surprisingly like grief, an ache in my guts. I didn't exactly understand it—this place had been so full of pain for me because each time I came, I felt the absence of my family. But at the same time, there had been joy here, too, that I was only now remembering. How did I make sense of that? I couldn't stand these conflicting feelings. I wanted to feel hatred for Dennville, Kentucky—nothing more.
