I had never held someone or been held without sex being the intended outcome. I had never run my hands across a man's back or linked my hands through his as he kissed my mouth without my mind being consumed with what came next. With Wilson, it wasn't about what came next but what was happening now. Touching wasn't orchestrated or choreographed to fulfill the requirements of foreplay. It was an event all its own. And it was erotically chaste, tender, and telling.
It was the ultimate makeout session, the kind I imagined took place in homes of teenagers all across America. Where every touch was stolen, every kiss a conquest, every moment a race against curfew. It was the kind of kissing that felt forbidden because Mom and Dad were sitting upstairs and discovery was imminent, where clothing stayed put and passions raged and kissing took on an intensity all its own, simply because going further was not an option. By the time the late afternoon sun filled my sitting room, my lips felt bruised and beautiful, and my face was slightly raw from nuzzling and nudging, from burrowing my face into Wilson's neck and from being burrowed into in return. I was spent without compromise, sated without sacrifice, completely and totally head-over-heels in love. And it was delicious.
The shadows of a perfect Sunday evening filled my apartment before either of us made any attempt to speak of the future. We had raided my cupboards for sustenance and discovered what I already knew . . . there was little sustenance to be had in my kitchen. We ended up ordering Chinese and waited anxiously for its arrival, distracting our famished selves with cinnamon bears and confession.
“I was the one who took the caps off of all your dry erase markers.”
“Really? Were you the one who replaced them all the next day, too?”
“Yeah. I felt bad. I don't know what got into me. I kept trying to get your attention in the nastiest ways, like one of those weird little boys on the playground who throws rocks at the girls he likes.”
“So I can assume it was you who put a dirty picture on my overhead projector so that when I turned it on all the students got the full monty?”
“Guilty.”
“And the lock that suddenly appeared on my cello case?”
“Yep. That was me too. It was just a little one. And I put the key in your coat pocket.”
“Yes . . . that was a little strange. Too bad it took me two days of trying to saw off the blasted thing before I found it.”
“I wanted your attention, I guess.”
Wilson snorted and shook his head. “Are you kidding? You walked into my class in the tightest trousers I've ever seen, high-heeled biker boots, and wild, snogging hair. You had my attention right from the get go.”
I blushed, half-pleased, half-mortified. “Snogging hair?”
Wilson smirked like a man who knows he's pleased his woman. “Snogging is what we spent all day doing, luv. It means kissing . . . a lot. After that first week or so of school, I was convinced I'd chosen the wrong profession. I was utterly depressed, and it was all your fault. I was quite sure I would have to ask you to transfer out of my class because I knew I was in trouble. In fact, as long as we're confessing things . . . I went and asked the counselor to pull your records for me. It was after the day I talked to you after class, after the whole 'I don't know who I am bit.'”
“It wasn't a bit.” I said, stung.
“Yeah, luv. I know,” he said softly and dropped a long kiss on my frowning mouth. And then we became entangled in each other, forgetting the discussion altogether until the doorbell chimed and we jerked apart, laughing a little as we did.
“Food's here!” We both raced for the door.
It wasn't until we had dug into the cashew chicken and the sweet and sour pork that I circled back to his confession.
“So you pulled my records . . . and what did you find?”
Wilson swallowed and took a big slug of milk. “I didn't know what I was dealing with then. You were a hard case, Echohawk. Did you know there's a police record in your file?”
I froze, my spoon paused between mouth and bowl. “What?”
“When your father's body was found they re-opened your case – or what little anyone knew. There were some efforts to find out who your mother was, for obvious reasons. Your father was officially dead, and someone thought it important to make another attempt to locate your mother. There wasn't much in the file. I'm not sure why the school even had a copy except that you are a legal ward of the state, at least you were until you turned eighteen. There was an officer's name on the file. I made note of it, I don't know why. Maybe it was the odd name, Izzard. Does that ring any bells?”
I nodded, resuming my meal. “He was one of the officers who initially found me, so to speak, after my dad went missing.” We ate in silence. “They called me. The lab, in Reno? They called. The results are back.”
Wilson stared at me, his fork paused on the way to his mouth, prompting me to continue.
“They want me to come back. They said they have a match. They will show me everything. I've known for two weeks now. Part of me wants to get in the car right now and head to Reno. Part of me can't wait. But the other part, the part that belongs to Jimmy? That part doesn't want to know. He was all I had, and I don't want to let him go. I don't want to know something that will change the way I feel about him, that will change our history.”
I thought about how that small act of kindness to a hungry little girl had brought destiny to Jimmy Echohawk's doorstep and how he had paid for his compassion in a way only Karma can craft. One small act and he opened himself up to a mother's desperation and found himself in a position where he became responsible for a child who was even more alone in the world than he was.