Being Kalli(51)

I reach out to his stubble and graze his jawline. The rough hairs bring back a stream of emotions, memories that I can’t box away. Tonight will be a bitch when he’s gone. It’s more sexy than I can handle from down here below his face with him stretched out and lying on my bed.

“Are you …” His eyelids flutter closed, and for several seconds he regains control to steady his breathing. “Are you scared with me right now, here?”

I don’t look around my empty room, door shut. And I think it for no more than that tiny moment. “No.”

Lowering his eyes, he combs his fingers through the back of my hair. He wets his lips and takes my mouth. We melt into each other with that first touch, and since everything’s awkward and tricky, we both settle for a war to suck on each other’s bottom lips.

My insides are definitely goo.

As we part and move into our second kiss, we shuffle and peck at each other’s lips, him daring a tongue in my mouth, me plunging mine in, and both of us finding ourselves together. When we move our tongues together in sync, he starts shifting closer and up, moving against me.

It must be a second later that I feel it.

Do I acknowledge the hardness against my thigh?

Do I turn so that it’ll find its way to mould against where he fits me so perfectly?

My body knows what it wants, turning to give him the option to access me. It’s probably way too fast, but my heart is beating in my throat and I’m moments away from panting into his mouth.

He pulls away, leaving my lips to remember what it’s like being kissed.

“I’m trying to hate you right now,” he says, his voice raspy and totally not hating me. I’ve affected him big time, in both his physical response and mental.

“Don’t, I miss you.”

He stares at my lips, licking his, and I wonder if he’s remembering tasting me. He doesn’t look up when he says, “I’m also trying like hell not to miss the fuck out of you, Kall Bell.”

I feel ashamed again, remembering letting Donovan own me with his tongue, the public hurt for Nate. It’s too much and I curl in, effectively making a human ball.

“It doesn’t help that I spend every night writing texts to you and deleting them, then opening your photo book and remembering every amazing memory of us.”

My eyes snap up, hearing the hope.

“It doesn’t help that I’ve turned down three girls since we’ve been speaking normally because my body misses holding you, touching you, kissing you. Doesn’t help that I’m imagining being you that day, and how you only knew what you’d always done when faced with anything more than a kiss or a hook up.”

“Then channel your hate. We’ll have a movie marathon and you can hate the villains trying to kill spectacular Mr Bond.”

So, Nate and I watch and survive two-Bond films, and watch just over four hours of TV without more than cuddles. I’m finally seeing all the emotions that sex was blocking, like the simple want to bury my head in Nate’s chest and feel enveloped by the warmth his body gives me, instead of focusing on if the door’s locked, if I can escape quick enough to jump out the window.

And when he leaves, my thoughts are all dreamy and happy. The air is fresher, my step has more bounce, and I feel like cleaning the house and having a meal ready for everyone when they’re back.

Then Aunty Nicole rings me and agrees to come over sometime soon, and I feel like maybe I can do all this.





21




Sometimes, when the rain beats against the windows like rat-tat-taps in a continuous stream, it’s just as perfect an environment to practice my violin as when summer sun is a bright yellow, lighting my room like I’m situated under a giant globe. It’s all about the mood, which is why anything that takes me away is fine.

It’s Saturday, concert day. T minus nine hours until it all begins. This traditional piece is slow and tragic, a sweeping story told through music. I’m hoping it will get the audience’s attention for all the students coming up after me, since it’s my job to warm the crowd.

Nervous, I swipe way too much resin on the bow. I put the block down after I realise this, but any movement—dusting off my hands, picking up the bow too quickly, my first long note—produces clouds of white to fluff everywhere like it’s really a bag of exploded flour.

“That’s—” I start to cry out.

But Mum is at my door. She rests on one side of the frame, arms crossed over her chest, and a proud smile lit on her face. Seeing her watching me makes me pack up my violin and music. She’s glowing, as any proud mother would be, so I’m not sure why I felt I had to pack it away. Maybe because it seems like she’s here to deliver bad news.