Finding Eden(48)

Calder let out a loud exhale of breath and leaned his forehead against mine. "Even us?"

I pressed my body more firmly against his. "Yes. I promise you. Even us."

And that's how we fell asleep, wrapped around each other, love filling the room, and Calder didn't wake up again until the next morning when I felt him pressing against me, his morning heat right within arm's reach.



**********



We spent four days in that bed. Four days telling each other about the time we'd spent apart, four days talking about our many fears and hurts and the things that were the hardest to move past. We created our own little world, with nothing but bodies, and hearts, and whispers, and truth.

We had both spent so much time grieving for each other, that we hadn't taken the time to grieve for ourselves—for what we had endured that day, for the horrors we had seen, for the guilt we each carried. And so in that bed, we exorcised those demons still in our hearts, by speaking of them and setting them free.

I kissed his legs, the scars still visible from the torture Hector had inflicted on him. I rubbed my lips over the larger scar on the side of his thigh where he had been shot. Hurt moved through me, but just as I'd promised all those years ago, so did pride. My brave man.

Our innocence had been destroyed that terrible, terrible day. Our hope had been snatched from us. But neither of us had seen what the aftermath looked like in the other person. And there was grief in the discovery just as sure as there was pride in the evidence of our survival. A part of me rejoiced, and a part of me mourned, and I thought that was as it should be.

I moved up his body and we both forgot about scars and hurts and felt only pleasure—only the meeting of our bodies—and all the ways in which we were still very much whole, and very much alive. We both realized we'd merely been surviving these past three years. Both bereft of the completion only being in each other's lives could bring.

We only got up to use the bathroom, brush our teeth, and for me to text my mom and Molly to let them know I was still with Calder. But even after those few minutes, a small feeling of fear and loss would fill my chest and I'd practically run back to Calder. Almost every time, he would be out of bed and on his way to me, too. We weren't ready just yet. After all, who would be eager to leave the scene of a miracle?

We grabbed what food Calder had in his kitchen and ate it in bed—bread with peanut butter, raisins, half a bag of corn chips. We made do. On the third day, Calder said he was going to go out and get us some real food, but after getting dressed and kissing me goodbye and walking out of the bedroom, I started feeling anxious and so I got up to tell him not to go. I met him at the doorway to the bedroom, coming back. He wasn't ready to leave yet either. He grabbed a can of peaches from the kitchen, opened it, and brought it to bed. We undressed and fed each other peaches with our fingers, sticky syrup dripping on our skin. Calder grinned wickedly and dribbled more of it on my nipples and licked every bit off until I was writhing and moaning and begging him for more than that. When we were both fed and satisfied, I asked jokingly, "How much sex do you think you can have?" Because there had been a lot, Calder was not a small man, and my own body was deliciously sore and achy. I didn't mind.

Calder turned toward me, his cheeks still flushed from the workout of minutes before, looking beautifully happy. "Well, I'm young, and healthy, and I'm desperately in love with the woman in my bed. So, a lot."

I laughed.

The Bed of Healing felt holy—as if, in it, we had been reborn somehow. And every second was precious to two people who knew the next breath was never guaranteed.

"Eden," Calder asked. "You said you've been studying religions. Why?" He was looking at me as if my answer mattered very much to him. In this way, Calder hadn't changed. I wondered how many had possibly fallen a little in love with him over the years, because his quiet intensity and unwavering ability to listen, was probably one of his finest attributes. Rare in a boy, and possibly even rarer in a man. I loved him to the depths of my soul.

I thought about his question. "I guess . . . I guess I just want to figure out what feels right to me, you know? Not what feels right to anyone else, but to me. What kind of god feels right to me."

"And what have you figured out?"

"I don't know yet. I'm still working on it. All I know is that just like love, God shouldn't hurt." I sighed. "That's all I've figured out so far."

He frowned up at the ceiling. "I'm not working on it," he said. "I have no desire to worship a god or gods who looked down and watched what happened in Acadia without intervening. They did nothing to help."