I’m here. Today, this day. I am here. Aware and awake and … me. Not 100% me, but me. I’ve been in a COVID funk for, gosh, years, do I really have to say that? Yes, literally years now. I have flashes in time, traumatic memories and moments that this evil one has scarred me, and those I love with. It’s not over, but I trust God and science that it is diminishing. I, so far, am surviving, not thriving, but today feels brighter. I, we, those I am closest to, have survived thus far. There have been casualties, and there will continue to be. Some have lost their lives and some are yet to lose theirs. Some have lost their livelihoods, and some may yet lose their careers. Some have been scarred by the physical or psychological ravages of this evil one, some are still in the thick of their trauma. No one is unscathed. But I’m here. Today, this day. I am here. At peace. At my keyboard, with mountains in view… writing, for the simple pleasure of writing! And it occurs to me that though I don’t always write with the mountains in view I think I like to write best when they are. Now it occurs to me, that’s not fully accurate, there was that wonderful dock, on the banks of some river in Tennessee, the name of which I’ve now quite forgotten. Maybe, I like to write best when there’s peace in my soul, and maybe I most easily find peace when I’m wrapped up in Creation’s beauty. Anyway, I’m here. He hunts (he of course is the grizzly bear I call my husband, well usually I call him Jeremy, but grizzly bear works too). She sleeps (she is my 90 year old grandma with dementia who lives with us. I usually call her Gramma, or Gramma-lady in written word). They will be here soon (they are some of my grandchildren, I usually call them by name). You are here too. Not at the same time as me, but you are here now. Hello you! Welcome to my peaceful moment! This moment is 8:56am Pacific Time on November 27th in the year of our Lord 2021, I sit in one of my most favorite unnatural places. Inside walls of wood and sheetrock I hole up. The heater just clicked on, cars hum by outside, olive green clock ticks lull me from the kitchen. My soft and cozy, fuzzy brown double recliner holds me, and I pause writing for a moment to reach for, and hold, something of my own. A warm cup of goodness! Ahhhh... Feet up, laptop propped on legs, I am here, and I am at peace, for this moment. The house is remarkably clean. I spent hours yesterday before she woke cleaning it and listening to Rachel Hollis’ “Girl, Stop Apologizing” from my Audible app. I’m not a neat freak, I cleaned to prepare. Christmastime is here! We will decorate, and for some reason, in my mind, I need it to be very clean before I can decorate. This is a special decoration year for me. I am in MY own home for Christmas for the first time since 2016. I have Christmassed on the Chicken Farm, where I was quite welcome, but never quite “at home”. We Christmassed last year in a house that, though it belonged to us in name, was the “home” of the Gramma-lady. This year, my name and my heart are in this house, and I think that’s what makes it my own even though I share it. It’s Saturday, soon she will be up. We will go to get the grandchildren, and a day of introductory Christmas fun will ensue. I can only speculate from my peaceful seat now, how it will all play out but I know it will not be like this. Not quiet. She likes the TV on ALL THE TIME, so loud it drowns out the clicks of the heater and tocks of the clocks. They are tiny humans but so big with noise and questions and giggles and rattles and musical toys. No, it will not be quiet, but Lord willing, just as blissfully peaceful. May your day too be filled with peace, despite any noise, any trauma, any business that ensues. Peace be with you! I’m known for asking questions, please indulge me... I have a question for you today. You are here now. Where is “here” for you? Wait… one more question… Would you stop for a moment and breathe deeply? In …. out … in again. Hold. Think. Feel. Exhale. What are your feelings and thoughts at this moment? Do you have peace? If so, why? If not, why not? Share publicly, or privately, or just with yourself.
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Something about a mandate to get vaccinated or lose your job doesn’t sit right with me. It hasn’t since it was demanded of thousands of people. How is it right that men in positions of power can demand a mass of humanity to put something inside themselves whether they want to or not? How is it right that they can force people into submission by threatening their livelihood? It is not right, it is a breech of our human rights. I say “NO” to this demand! I refuse to turn my card or my body over a man who has made abusive, coercive, threatening demands. Let’s get a couple things straight: First of all, I love my job. The first time I heard about the Alternative Solutions Program within Washington State’s Division of Child Support I knew it was the job for me. I have served the public to the best of my ability, with the utmost integrity and honor. I am mindful that my paycheck comes from the taxes of the citizens of this state and do my best to not waste their money and my time. I have provided thousands of resources to hundreds of struggling parents. I am only one person, but I am a faithful steward to this state and do not want to lose my job. Second, this isn’t about whether I’m vaccinated. I have strategically decided to keep my vaccination status to myself because it’s my personal business. I want to make it abundantly clear that I have absolutely no problem with the vaccine at all. I fully support its use for anyone and everyone that wants it, whenever, if ever they want it. I have encouraged people to be vaccinated. I have taken people to get vaccinated. I have chosen a personal favorite of the currently available vaccines and have carefully “followed the science” as well as I think any layperson can. No, this isn’t about whether I’m vaccinated or not. This is about a demand that thousands of women (and men) must either put something inside their bodies they do not want inside them or be forced to lose their livelihoods. I cannot be ok with it. For what they’re worth, here are my reasons why; for your rumination, for your ridicule, to rally you, to assure you that you are not alone, there are THOUSANDS OF YOU, you are heard, you matter and you deserve to do what you think is best for your body. You can stand strong and I will stand with you. When I was a girl, a man told me I had to put something inside me whether I wanted to or not. I didn’t want to, so he forced me. He coerced me to give in to his demand with a threat. He said bad things would happen to me and my family if I didn’t. Because of the threat, I complied. That decision shaped the rest of my life. The trauma and shame of giving into his demand led me to a young adult life of self-harm, self-abuse, self-hate and addiction. Then one day, through a simple sunset conversation with God, I found myself on a road to drug free living and healing through Salvation in Jesus Christ. Once I was stable, I devoted parts of my life to keeping people safe. Most of my efforts have been through advocacy and volunteer work. I have also defended people’s safety and autonomy with financial support to organizations that defend the abused and neglected or free humans from modern oppression, enslavement, bondage and trafficking. Of course, I’ve written as well. I have taught countless children to be “safe, smart and strong,” and to say “NO” if someone tries to do something to their bodies they are not comfortable with. I have taught children that if they say “no," they need to tell other grown ups and KEEP telling until someone makes it stop. How it came to this, I do not know, but it appears “safety” and “autonomy” are at odds with each other and we've been commanded to surrender our personal choice over our bodies for the sake of public safety or … or… something bad will happen. Again, I ask... how is it right that men in positions of power can demand a mass of humanity to put something inside themselves whether they want to or not? How is it right that they can force people into submission by threatening their livelihood? It is not right, it is a breech of our human rights! I ask you to say “NO” to this demand as well. As for me, I say “NO” and stand in solidarity with the heroic men and woman of the healthcare industry who have valiantly and bravely fought against COVID-19 for the last year and a half. If anyone has a right to choose they do! They lived it, fought it, and know that "no" means they may be putting themselves at risk. I say to them and other state workers like myself that I will stand with you and support your right to choose what you allow into your body. I will tell and keep telling others how wrong this demand is. Please make no mistake, I will still encourage those who are high risk to get vaccinated (although I can’t do this at my state job because it is such a hot, personal topic; we think it best left alone unless we are directly asked about vaccinations). I will still offer rides to anyone and everyone who wants a vaccine that may not be able to access one on their own. I will “like” or “thumbs up” those who feel compelled to share their vaccination status on social media. AND I will support body autonomy and a person’s right to choose what they do with their own body even if it costs me my livelihood. UGH I don't want to lose my job! But yes, even if... I have fervently fasted, sought spiritual council, read the Bible (specifically Daniel 1-6) and prayed over my decision. In good conscious that is true to my core beliefs, I choose not to submit to the demand meted out. I have gathered as much data as a non-scientific person can gather and may share what I learn as I process this life changing decision. I am making my stand FOR and WITH the health care workers and fellow state workers who will not comply. I will not be turning in my vaccination card on 10/18/21 as Governor Inslee demands. I am hopeful the Governor honors his words to accept religious exemptions and accommodate individuals accordingly. I’m hopeful thousands of men and women in this valley aren’t forced to choose between their religious and moral convictions or their livelihoods. I’m hopeful I, personally, do not have to choose between mine. I'm hopeful we get to herd immunity by choice and no one has to be forced, coerced or commanded do something against their will. It is, and always should be, an individual choice what we allow inside our bodies. Photo cred to: https://unsplash.com/photos/tKqqbDiya8A?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink https://unsplash.com/photos/HBABoZYH0yI?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink I am surrounded. Murky southern reservoir water laps the edges of the dock I sit on and we call our own for this one glorious weekend. Earlier this morning the birds and water filled the air with music and sound, a serene welcome to the day. It’s mid-morning now, the world is awake, so I unleash the music from the little square speaker. Kenny Chesney sings Blue Rocking Chair. My hand-picked serenade to fit the mood, if not the color or style of the chair Jeremy sits in. Not too loud, not to quiet, enough. Like this weekend and this vacation get away. Enough. There’s no loss of nature or the slow ease into the day on my speaker’s part; the speed boats, pontoons and wave runners have already washed out the birdsong and we’ve been to the store and back for bait and more supplies. While he’s focused on the lines. I’m focused on remembering how I ended up here, surrounded by water this morning. After we returned from the store, I contemplated staying on the cozy, covered porch of our “glamptastic tent” or moseying down to the dock to be nearer his essence. I love this tent and this Airbnb space. It boasts all the pieces of nature I adore, hills, trees and water with the luxuries of modern convenience, indoor plumbing, running water, covered spaces, air conditioning, electricity. Near perfection. It would be quite perfect if not for the mass of humanity. The lake is fairly full of gas powered this and screaming engine that disturbing the natural wonder for the sake of leisure and entertainment (but isn’t that why we’re here too? Just turns out our leisure is preferably a little more slow and quiet than theirs.). I digress, back to my contemplation. Of course nearer is better, I am a quality time soul, so I work my way down to the dock… to him, getting this and that for me or for him on the way. It occurs to me that a laptop is an odd thing to bring out to a dock, but it’s sturdy and also covered and there’s an outlet above the table and chair set for the Christmas lights that illuminate the night, so I shrug and do it anyway. It’s time to fish. All this time while I’ve been contemplating, he’s been preparing the lines. Sweet! I haven’t missed a minute of the lazy summer action. We have two licenses and poles and I’m not opposed to catching fish, I even tied one of my own lines to a swivel this time, but he seems to like baiting and stringing for me, so I’ll let him… until my bobber dips under, then I’ll be all about the catch! I day dream that mine will be the biggest catch and I’ll bring it in flawlessly (with his guidance of course) and it’ll make him, and my son, proud of my catch too. Hopefully I don’t pull a silly girl move and lose a fish. That’s the worst! Don’t get me wrong, I’m OK being a novice at fishing, I do not pretend, nor could I ever pull off a bluff that I love to fish as much as true fishers do, but I don’t want to ruin a good catch either. And there he is. He who loves me. Big, broad, brawny, bold, bald and bearded. My favorite human. Maybe it’s rude to say that with children I’ve known and loved longer. Is it fair to put them “second” to him? Maybe if they were still really children that wouldn’t be a right thing to say, but they’re all grown, doing their own things. I love them and am devoted to them but, if I’m honest, it’s the truth that Jeremy Worley is my favorite human, save for myself. My kids had no choice, I am their mom, or adopted mom, or ex-step mom, or step-mom. They didn’t choose me (well maybe Matea did). It is what it is and we are family. He chose me. He chooses me every day. I’m humbled and grateful for his love and also for his family. They live in this Tennessee area and their annual reunion gave us the excuse to make a point to be here. I might not have left Washington otherwise, the work to plan for my grandmother’s care while I am away was extensive and exhausting! I might have thrown in the towel for an eight day vacation “just for me.” I was willing to put in the work and effort for family. My look back at the work from this dock tells me the reward was worth the effort! If only the boating traffic wasn’t so profuse, this would be bliss! Two books on a bait laden table flank my left side. To my right … the rapid lapping water, yes, another boat went by a few minutes ago. In front, the best view! Him, two poles and a watery reprieve from work and care giving for a dying loved one. I struggle though. Part of me feels like I should be up there with him, nearer him, touching him maybe, or at very least sitting by him but I wanted to write. This is fishing for me… sitting, pondering life, waiting for the bite! They tug at the strings of my heart these inspiration filled, ripe, hungry emotions and thoughts waiting for me to set the hook on the concept, give it some slack, let it swim and fight a bit, reel up and guide it in when it’s time. His bites too are filled with anticipation of what’s on the hook at the other end of the line. This is bliss! But after one thousand wonderful words of reflection on this morning and this moment, the books beside me beckon. It makes sense to close here, grab a book and lay nearer him. Who know maybe I’m the luck he needs to bring in the big one! Now what? It occurs to me that I’ve spent so long preparing these seven books that are still not “ready for market,” that I don’t know what to do now that I’ve given myself permission to “just write.” I’ve been ready to move on for years. Yes, I mean “move on.” This term, I’ve learned from a number of trusted friends and loved ones is shunned among the grieving. We do not “move on” from grief… but in this case, I’m ready to move on. I’m not grieving these seven books. These three, or six worlds I’ve created (depending on how you look at them) aren’t lost or gone or dead. There is no grief in “leaving them.” I’ve finally given them permission to be! I grieved and mourned when they were hidden away from the world. Not so anymore. They are alive and available for you or for no one and I do not care (but if you do read them, as always please leave feedback for me in an Amazon review so I know how to get better at my craft). I’m not an all-star advertiser, that ain’t my jam (if it’s yours and you believe in my work, let’s chat, I’ll split royalties!). I’m a writer and my job is done for these seven books! I created them. They’re out there. Now I move on to other worlds, words and stories! I move on because only seven stories are out there. There are so many more books and Creations in my mind! I have an intentional non-fiction partially drafted, and a few more that could be manuscripted. I have who knows how many drafts of fictional work in various stages of doneness, or mostly finished. I have hidden ideas that have all of a sudden exploded in my mind again, tapping, knocking, pounding out their existence in my mind… “Hello! We are here. Will you work with us again? Will you please, finally make us come to life?” I’m ready to move on to them. They deserve shelf space and existence as much as the other seven do. Really, then, the question isn’t, “Now what?” It’s more like… How do I choose? How many do I have to choose from? I don’t even know. There’s the first. We all know that nothing compares to the first! It’s still out there, stopped dead, ironically at a funeral scene. Letting Go… its working title. This first story of mine, this first awakening of a different place, time and world, these main characters are, have always been, black. Do I, a white woman, have the right to write this story? Appropriation comes to mind, “woke” comes to mind, “White Supremacy” comes to mind, and yet, this is the first for me. My first story was all about them. Kiera, Marcus and their family. How I loved shoving myself deep into Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Alex Haley’s world where Kunta Kinte endured so much and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., a dead-too-soon mentor changed my life and opened my eyes even wider to the racial disparities that still exists and how I as a Christian must be against racism. I cannot forget the truck driving culture I researched too, the world of sleeper Mack Trucks and mobile existence, and families back home, the European boarder crossing drivers, the lot lizzards… All gloriously assimilated into Kiera and Marcus’ world. But … Do I dare tell their story? I’m white. That’s dangerous. But they were never white, always black, always. Who do I offend if I continue their story? Who do I betray if I change them to white because I am white? What happens to them if I don’t finish their story? Can I find a friend who is black who will give them credence. Ahhhh, yes, yes I can! I see her now, in my mind, this gorgeous dark skinned friend of mine! She will help… I’m sure of it! And so Kiera and Marcus’ story might come to life , but I will not make them white. They are not white. They are survivors of a legacy of slavery, atrocities put on them that built the wealth of this nation. Their heritage and story deserve to be told. I will not change them to white because I am white and it’s frowned upon for me to write characters any color other than white. Why do I have to write just white anyway?! Why can’t I give presence to other cultures and colors in my worlds? Who dares say because I’m white, I can only write white characters. That’s rude! Maybe I only know the experiences of a white woman but I LOVE multi-colored, multi-racial spaces where other cultures can be celebrated and explored by my ignorant white friends who see only their world, and see it so blindly, they can’t even identify characteristics of their own white culture. I WANT racial diversity in my work. I do not want vanilla white power, assumption and privilege. It disgusts me. More than disgusts me, it saddens me. So blind, we whites, we are so blind. Why not give presence in my white womans’ novel to all the colors? There’s that, and then there’s “my” people... the “conservative Christians.” Sex and Jesus, my non-fiction work, will surely piss them off. I’ll be a heretic for sure! Let’s be honest, it’s going to piss off the LGBTQ+ sector of the population too. And just now it occurs to me, maybe it was better to get bogged down in the seven books of yore than face ridicule from all sides and sectors because I want to honestly explore sex and sexuality for myself and with my God and my Bible. The “Safe Seven” … Can I call borderline erotica and books that discuss child abuse, drug addiction, suicide, and abortion and highlight Korean and blind characters “safe” and get away with it?! I didn’t have to worry about anyone calling me out or ridiculing me too badly with the Safe Seven (but that’s probably because they weren’t properly marketed haha). Who cares if they’re offensive? They scream to exist so, in boldness I must press on, to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations… ohhhh wait… that sci-fi world already exists. I digress. In boldness I dare to step into deeper waters. It’s where I’ve always longed to go, but it’s dangerous. I can’t touch bottom if I go too far in my fiction and non-fiction. There is deep, thick, eddied water out there that just might pull me under. But again, what does it matter? I don’t market. No one will read it anyway right?! I mean without big dollar marketing I’m a no one and a nothing. I can write whatever I want and it won’t exist in the real world at large. So… why not write what my mind creates?! If I’m white and I want to give space and presence to black main characters, I will! If I’m conservative Christian and want to explore polygamy and homosexuality I will! If I’m happily, faithfully married and want to write about a polyamorous soul, or middle class and want to dare to enter the world of the unencumbered rich, or dwellingless destitutes, I will! I’m doing it! I feel it’s only right and fair to dust off the old stories down in the cellar first (Anyone else hear Creole Williams just now?) Let me take them down off their long forgotten shelves, blow off the cobwebs, wipe down the sides and surfaces, pour out the worlds I’ve hidden away for far too long, breathe in my creation, celebrate the skills, however unrefined they are that God has given me, and offer them up and out into this world we all share so you may share in my world. I think sending them out first is the right thing to do. In theory, the more I write, the better I’ll get at my craft and if I leave these firstlings to fester, I’ll never move on. I’ll always hear Marcus crying for Kiera, and Lewis and Clark beckoning me to explore. Yeah, there’s dust and inexperience, but these half-crafted come out first. Fiction and non. I’ve got four days of mornings to write, I’ll give two to fantasy and two to reality. I’ve got an inventory to work with for a couple years at least, I’m sure. Fair enough… hello worlds, how ya been?! It’s good to be here again! Fingers flying across the keyboard, ideas filling my mind. Hello you, hello me! Let the new adventures in old worlds begin! As always, whoever you are, enjoy! My current inventory of unpublished, unfinished or somewhat started stories for reference and planning: Sex and Jesus – and all the others that come in this explorer’s series of the Bible Sailing with Russell (do I still call it that?!) - maybe that too is where reluctance to “move on” comes from Missing Matea – is it more than an idea anywhere in any manuscript, this “Missed Connections” creation or mine?! And then of course there just must be a book for Ashlee and Jake, since the other kids have one! Manalysis and Date-a - because if I charted my dating adventures, I can publish them right?! The Leaving – because there is something there to share Dementia Land – but that story isn’t over yet is it? Letting Go – the first world I ever created, paused at a funeral Eleven Lives of Evelynne – Ohhhhhh to be skilled enough to take on her 144 overlapping years, do I dare?! Maybe it’s fear keeping me from moving on and into the complexity here The Big Y – my Nanowrimo of favorite people’s favorite songs! Oh I love this HEA! Sugar Shack – because oh what a dreadfully transformative place this is! Cardboard testimonies – I can’t even begin to imagine how this world will change mine! Ladies of the Loop, or Let’s get Loopy, or some other sweet sisterhood story that centers here in Wenatchee on friends who meet for walks and runs on the Apple Capital Loop Trail How Church Girls Get it On! - because that’s a purely shameless endeavor! Parens Patriae – the dystopian world born in Kaihla’s mind, that’s gestated in mine for all these years now Exotic Teas, The Sunrise Guy, The Amazon Adventure, and The Safe Story – none of my own, but if he who shared them with me doesn’t do something with them… I just might!! - hint, hint!!!! That’s it?! Really?! Only these works or worlds of my own and a handful of borrowed concepts? They seem like an endless universe inside me, ever expanding, galaxies and solar systems to explore, chart and share! Here I boldly go! That’s the thing about summertime romances…” she mused out loud to herself as they sat wrapped up together on a ridiculously large, lush lime green beach towel. She sat between his outstretched legs, toes in the sand, tracing her hands up over his hairy knees and back down to his shins in time with the cerulean ocean waves. Cerulean, with a “c” not an “s” and deep blue like the color of her heart knowing he was going to leave again. She watched them gobble up the beach before their retreat into the burnt orange horizon. As the waves pulled back into the water, her fingertips slid up his legs, languidly, repetitively, occasionally flicking sand from her fingers or his leg hairs. She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. She knew this part of the summertime too well already. The thing about them was that the page turned, or the credits rolled, and the guy or girl left with well-meaning promises, but the two words, the end, sealed it all into a melancholy memory of what had been and will be no more. Evidently he did not remember how this part of summertime romances went. “What’s the thing?” he asked, tightening his embrace around her shoulders, drawing her back further into him. He shifted forward suddenly and grabbed the other towel still folded neatly beside her and wedged it between his back and the abrasive volcanic rock he was leaning against. He wiggled a little to find the right position, and she wiggled a little to tease him, then remembered his injury. “Oh, sorry. Are you OK? Is your leg OK?” she asked, finding and tracing the still-fresh rigid scar that ran the length of his knee. “So OK,” he said into her ear in his sexy lover’s voice before nibbling at her neck. “Mmmm!” she sighed, closing her eyes and exposing more of her neck to him. She couldn’t put a finger on what made that tone more arousing than his normal voice. It wasn’t deeper, it was maybe almost higher but with a want in it that melted her. She leaned her head back onto his shoulder basking in the bliss of the moment, letting out another audible sigh of delight. She arched her head back a bit more and looked up at him wistfully. She stared, wishing, hoping, willing this to be anything more than what it was always fated to be. He stared back caught up in the passion of the moment. She knew what they had was special. There was definitely some kind of love that passed between them. They couldn’t have spent all these summers for all these years together without it meaning something… even if it was only ten or fourteen days of each year. She was probably still too young to know what true love was, but maybe this was it. She turned her face into his cologne and neck. She breathed every bit of his essence into her soul, stealing some of who he was right then and there. Keeping it just for herself. She wanted to remember him, here and now, mixed in with the color of the sunset. Not the water. He was too much like the earth to mix with the water. He was warm and hard and bold. Orange, yes, orange like the fading sun in front of them, leaving so beautifully she almost forgot to be sad about it even though she feared their summertime romance would end once and for all this summer. She worried about it every year but his letters always promised he’d return and so far he always did. But things were changing for them both and something inside told her the sun was setting for them. She feared more than ever before, even more than that first summer, that this would be their last summertime romance. He was gorgeous. A ripped, stacked and muscled guy from a far away place, and to the place he belonged he would return. He was here, now, with her on a beach in paradise. They shared so much history together in their brief summer visits. It was a bittersweet but true, honest connection and in all truth and honesty, she knew their lives were nothing alike. He was too old and idealistic for her, she was too realistic to see how it could ever be more than this. He was away from home and real-life for two weeks and she was home. This was her real-life. He found a lovely distraction in her like a lot of guys found in the local girls and vice versa. She didn’t mind being a summertime escape, but he was lying to himself and her when he said it could last longer. He told her that their love could conquer all the obstacles they faced and overcome all the odds. He promised that one day, some way, they’d live happily ever after… or maybe he was only telling her that because he thought it was the right thing to do. She supposed, as she mused over telling him the thing about summertime romances, that he could really think this would last. She remembered their first summer together, oh how magical that summer had been, fresh and new and full of fun and exploration. For all his big tough football exterior, he was a pure romantic. She knew he’d fallen hard and fast for her. Maybe she helped him notice her at first but she didn’t have to work very hard to keep his attention. Maybe she lied about how old she actually was at first but she couldn’t help it, he was great and she wanted to be with him. If he’d known the truth upfront, maybe he wouldn’t have pursued her, but it didn’t matter now. Here they were years of summers later and in some kind of love that made sense to them both every time they reunited. This time they’d spent ten glorious days of the summer together. They were nowhere close to inseparable because of her work and his play, but as often as they could be together they were. This was his last night in paradise, so she snuck away from home and responsibility and brought him here… to do it! They were miles away from the mountain village she called home, and cuddled up together at the edge of the ocean for one last long good-bye and her first time. He had never pushed her, though it was obvious he wanted her. She had never been ready before. She hated her parents and preacher’s talks about waiting to have sex and her being too young to even think about it, but still they sunk in. She always kept him at bay each summer, not quite ready to go all the way. All those times before she was afraid he’d either never come back, or find some other girl that put out. But he kept writing her letters promising his return. He kept coming back summer after summer to this mountain place… and to her. Even after he found out her real age he stuck around. This time, though, she was sure he’d never come back and just as sure that she was finally ready and she wanted her first time to be with him. She might be young but she was old enough for that and she wanted it to be with him even if this was the end. “What’s the thing about summertime romances?” he whispered, lips on her hair, rocking her a little, snapping her out of her forlorn conclusions. He scooped her even closer, nestling her head under his chin. Ever attentive, he wouldn’t let the musing go ignored. He wouldn’t make her bring it back up, he would draw her out. Yeah, it was definitely some kind of love. Should she tell him or let him live in a make believe land of “this-will-last-once-I-leave” mumbo jumbo. “They don’t last.” “Why do you always have to be such a downer? Ours can last.” “Are you going to give up everything you have and come down here?” she asked, “Because I can’t leave.” She heard him breathe in, felt his shoulders sag. There she went, Miss Realistic, killing his sweet summer fantasy along with the sexy vibe they had going on. That’s not what she meant to do this time. She meant to make it the most amazing memory ever, better even than that very first summer. She turned around quickly, kneeling right into his face, leaning closer and closer and closer until their noses touched. “Never mind,” she said playfully nipping at his lips, “I didn’t mean to say it out loud. We’re here now and I want it to be perfect. I want to remember you just the way you are right now.” Wispy, straight strands of her thick dark hair shrouded their kiss, though there was no one on this beach to hide from. The tourist beaches were elsewhere. This one was too remote to find easily, locals made sure of that. She knew this beach, this time of night would probably be deserted, or close to it. It was too tricky to amble out of in the dark. Considering his leg, she wondered if it was the best idea but ignored the caution and moved on with the plan. Her mouth covered his. Their kiss, more than familiar to the both of them, tasted different mixed with the salty brine of the ocean on their lips. She willed him to know she was ready without her having to say it and make the moment awkward. His hands cradled both sides of her face for moments of delicious tasting and teasing, but then he pushed back her face ever so slightly and looked at her with all the love and sincerity she’d ever seen come from him, or anyone. Gorgeous brown eyes searching, penetrating her, willing her to love him, to want him forever. “I don’t think this has to end.” She knew the truth but she wanted the moment so she smiled and made him lie to her, “Promise me Preston.” “I promise,” he answered and bucked her backward deftly and laid her down on the towel and sand under them. She giggled at the maneuver and their kisses deepened. She loved feeling the weight of him press her down and into the sand under the towel. She was smothered in all that was him and she pulled him into her soul. Maybe he could keep the promise and there would be more summers and moments, but just in case not she gave herself to him this time fully and completely. “Are you sure?” he asked when she didn’t resist. He looked at her in the dusky dimming light, gauging her movements and response. “Yeah, I’m sure,” and she was pretty positive she was sure. No matter what preachers or parents said, she needed this memory with him. As the sun went down and the orange darkened to twilight, she promised herself she would never regret this moment no matter how it ended. It was a chore to amble up and out of the rocky local beach, but their kisses and giggles and half caught stumbles kept them amused along their way. Neither wanted to say goodbye, but it had to happen. Ever the romantic, he fished a letter out of the back pocket of his soft surfer shorts and gave it to her at the smooth wrought iron and stone gate to his opulent hotel. “Do not open this until next week,” he demanded, holding it up between them and whipping it out of the way when she tried to swipe it. “Give it to me,” she smiled. “Not until you promise. Don’t open it until next week. “I promise. Not until next week.” He relinquished it to her eager grasp and pulled her into his bare chest, his big broad arms enveloping her, one hand threaded into her hair. She was in heaven, at least for a few more seconds. She wrapped her arms around his waist and they stood in the light of the entrance amidst the muted evening bustle of the other tourists and town. His heart beat slow and steady in her right ear and she could actually hear the air enter and exit his lungs. It sounded hollow-ish and reverberated through him. It was an interesting sound she doubted could ever be visually represented or reproduced. She refused to let go and evidently so did he; but it had to end, all of it had to end and so reluctantly she eased back out of his embrace to look up at him. One last perfect kiss on his lips. One last kiss on the letter as she walked backward away from him promising again to wait until next week to open it and then she was gone. Page turned. Credits rolled. Summer ended. |
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