Ficlet #2
I never meant to kiss her.
It'd be stupid to say "it just happened." Things don't just happen. A person wants a burger for lunch and not sushi, there's a reason for it. Someone wants to wear a red tie instead of a black one, there's a reason for it. A person dies, there's a cause behind it, be it a screwdriver to the neck or old age. There's an explanation for everything, everything. Nothing is random.
. . .
Fantastic. Now I'm starting to sound like Jordan. Maybe I'm just delirious. Maybe that's what sparked all this . . . introspection, listening to Jordan and another one of her crazed theories. Usually, Jordan makes me want to drink, not think, though at some point, I wind up doing both.
Huh. Maybe I do need to get out more.
Eegardless, the fact remains, I never meant to kiss Lily. I heard her rail at me, call me a coward, tell me that she was my path to salvation or whatever the hell that whole diatribe was about. I listened, and got madder and madder because she brought up memories I'd thought I'd put to bed. Memories of the two of us holding hands, watching fireworks over the Charles that New Year's Eve . . . the two of us at dinner . . . the two of us at the movies . . . the two of us freezing our asses off watching the Boston College lacrosse team beat up on some school named after the guy on the box of cornflakes. I remembered our first kiss. The first time we went to bed together. Evertyhing. Her little harangue couldn't have been more than five minutes, maybe even less than that, but in that space of time, I relived months and months of my life - from the first time I set eyes on Lily to me standing in the middle of the road watching the bus pull away, taking her out of my life. For good, I thought.
I don't remember having any conscious thought after she'd run out of steam. The word coward was gnawing at my ear, but I don't remember being very aware of anything else in the room. Just her. And me. I moved closer, asked her if she really felt that way, thought I was a coward, thought I never, ever took any chances. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I figured she'd back off. Lily isn't necessarily what I'd call confrontational - not like Jordan is, or, god forbid, like Renee. I thought she'd take it all back, now that I was practically in her face . . . walk away from me, tell me that "it wasn't important," the way she had the whole year.
But she just looked up at me, straight into my eyes and said, "yes."
Yes.
And there was nothing I could do then. She'd thrown down the gauntlet, and I had to stoop and pick it up, or risk her being right . . . that I was afraid . . . a play-it-safer . . . too chicken to reach out and grab what was being offered . . .
So I kissed her. Not to shut her up, not to quiet the misgivings in my head, not to prove a point. I kissed her because at that moment, I wanted to. It was that simple. I wanted to.
A simple explanation, but one I couldn't expound on, not later, after Jordan, her dad and damn near the entire Boston PD had recovered from the whole Malden mess. Wolcott and I stayed out of each others' way and beds for weeks. Then, just a few minutes ago, she showed up, stood in the door to my office, and spoke to me in this low, smooth voice I'd almost never heard from her before . . .
Tell me what I saw between you and whatshername didn't mean anything . . . or it's over between us.
I didn't tell her that. I didn't tell her anything, because I didn't know what to say. The kiss between Lily and I . . . it meant something . . . god knows what, but it did mean something . . .
So Renee left. She smiled a little at me before she went, shook her head and said, "We could've been something together, Garret." Then she was gone. I stared after her, sad, but not heartbroken. Not the way I was when Maggie told me our marriage was over. Not the way I was when Lily left on that bus. What the hell does that say about me?
I don't know that, either. Don't know anything much right now except that no matter what I was or was not thinking when I kissed Lily, right now, tonight, I'm going home alone.