Do You Feel What I Feel. a Holiday Anthology, Page 4

  She glances at the light over the confession booth. It’s lit up red, which means her dad is still in there. She wanted to leave the moment it started snowing, knowing that if she doesn’t get out before the drifts gets too deep, her dad will tell her it’s not safe to go. It’s not as if she’s going to tell him—or anyone else—that all she plans to do is walk across the street and climb the stairs to Beth’s apartment above Bitter Ink. Because as much as her brain knows this thing can’t happen, her body insists that it can and refuses to listen to her brain.

  As the light turns green, the bell over the front door tinkles, and her opportunity to duck into the booth before it gets any later is gone. She turns, hoping it’s something quick like a regular customer looking for a box of ammo. They got in a shipment of .22 caliber that morning, and everybody and their mother rush to buy those when they’re available.

  No such luck.

  “Willa! Just the girl I was looking for. Check this out.” Mr. Brockney, her tenth-grade algebra teacher, holds out a gun case. An old one with leather sides and heavy metal teeth on the zipper. Sure, she wants to get out of here, but that doesn’t stop the burst of excitement that settles in her chest. She’s indifferent to the show, but she loves guns. How could she not? She was raised with the constant smell of gun powder in the air and spent as much time watching her dad tear down a firearm as she did learning how to read. She was the only one in her kindergarten class who could read, write, and rebuild a basic revolver without help.

  “Whatcha got?” She can’t help her smile as she sets the pouch carefully on the glass display case and unzips it. The camera is right up in her face, but she doesn’t even care. Something awesome is about to happen. She can feel it, and so can her dad. He sidles up beside her with a smile that matches hers. She doesn’t wait for Mr. Brockney to answer the question before she folds open the side and reveals a set of 1851 Colt Navy revolvers with ivory handles. Just like the pair Wild Bill Hickok had on him when he died. “Wow.”

  “Wow is right,” her dad says, his voice hushed and reverent.

  As old as the case is, the pistols look to be much older.Without documentation, there’s no way to prove the provenance of any gun, but she doesn’t care who the original owner was. They’re beautiful and old, and she can’t wait to break them down and check the production year. Except she’s terrified to touch. She’s good—really good considering her age—but these guns… It’s better if her dad does it. Only he’s not touching either.

  She stuffs her hands in her pockets to keep from doing something stupid. It’s not as if the 1851 Navy is that rare. But the grips… Well, that changes everything in terms of value—historic and financial. She steps to the side to make room for her dad.

  They both know this one is his no matter how much the viewers enjoy seeing her play gunsmith. Something about her long blonde hair and manicured fingers really appeals to middle-aged, beer-drinking, would-be gun experts in the Bible Belt. If one more guy writes to her about how she looks like the Grace Kelly of guns, she’s going to shave her head and pierce something.

  Or not.

  Beth loves her hair even more than Willa hates those letters. She likes to lie next to her, propped up on one elbow, and kiss Willa slowly as she trails her fingers through her hair.

  Willa touches the thick edge of folded paper in her pocket—an origami angel that she found in her desk drawer that morning. There’s writing on the paper—Beth’s writing—but it winds in and out of the form, impossible to read without unfolding Beth’s creation. She scrapes her nails along the outside edge and thinks about what Beth might have written.

  Sometimes, she’s sweet and romantic and says things that make Willa believe in hearts and flowers and happily ever after. Other times, she’s blunt and a little crude and whispers all the dirty things she dreams about doing to Willa next time she gets her alone. The effect then is sharp and powerful and leaves her throbbing and ready to beg rather than lulled into a warm sense of peace and security.

  Willa doesn’t know which she’d rather find tucked into the wings of her angel, so she hasn’t peeled back the edges to find out what’s inside. There’s something else there, too. Something solid and heavy—compared to origami paper—wrapped inside along with Beth’s words.

  Her dad still has the same awed grin on his face. He wipes his hands against his jeans, licks his lips nervously, and reaches for the guns. Before he makes contact, someone taps her on the shoulder and reminds her that it’s her turn in the confession booth.

  The production crew has been watching the snow as closely as Willa. This is the last day of filming before they break for the holiday, and they all want to get home to their families before the snow traps them here.

  She gives the pistol one last wistful glance, and then—just like always—she does what she’s been asked to do.

  Typically they ask questions about the guns that come into the shop during the week or whatever project or business deal her dad is focusing on, so she’s prepared to talk about the Colt that her dad is salivating over. Instead, the producer asks her sappy questions about the holiday—what she plans to do for Christmas and what she’s hoping to get? At her age, should she really be worried about what she’s getting more than what she’s giving?

  Last year, her family collected blankets, coats, gloves, hats, and boots and delivered them to the nearest homeless shelter in Spokane. This year, they’re gathering similar donations for the foster care program. She hates talking about it, though, because it makes people think she’s nicer than she is. Still, she answers the questions with a smile. And when she’s asked why she does charity work like this, she demurely says, “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  What she doesn’t say is it’s the only way she’s found to bleed off the guilt that builds inside her every time she lets Beth kiss her. Or every time she lets her slide her hand high enough up her thigh to make Willa gasp. Or every time she lies back with a quiet moan as Beth works the buttons of her blouse free. She can’t stop herself from saying yes, but she can’t stop the relentless wash of remorse that follows either.

  Good girls don’t. That’s what her parents taught her. They don’t flirt with other girls. They don’t flood their panties with arousal when given a roguish, careless grin. They don’t sneak out after dark to meet the girl they’ve been forbidden to see. They don’t lie and promise that they’re being good even as they’re still coming down from that luscious, indescribable high from being teased over the edge by an insistent tongue. Good girls don’t do any of the things Willa does.

  Willa’s spent too much time deep inside Beth to think their relationship goes against the will of God. Beth is…everything good and perfect, and she makes Willa feel right in a way she can’t even explain. God has real things to worry about in this sad, limping, angry world. Why would He care if she finds peace in the arms of someone who loves her? Surely God isn’t that petty.

  But even if God isn’t, her parents seem to be. They’re very concerned about “Christian family values,” and that doesn’t leave any room for those “dirty, sinful homosexuals.” And so, right or wrong, guilt seeps into her for hiding something so fundamental from her parents.

  Willa rests her head against the back of her chair and lets out a deep sigh. Her fingers move to the folded angel in her pocket. She’s worried over it so much that the edges are getting that rounded, soft texture that comes from wear. She pulls it from her pocket and stares at it for a long moment. Whatever is in this note isn’t something she should experience inside the confession booth with the camera less than two feet away.

  But the light is off, and that means the camera isn’t recording. She loosens the tucked-in corner of one wing, and the whole angel flutters open in her hands. In the center of the page is a brass-colored house key, and Beth’s strong, flowing cursive fills the page.

  When I think of home, I think of you. And when I th
ink of you, my breath stops in my chest and it’s all I can do to keep from running to you right then. I don’t care where you are, who you’re with, or how far away you are.

  All I want in that moment—and every other moment—is to be as close to you as possible. I want to hold you in my arms and protect you from all the things in life that weigh you down. I want to kiss you and promise to keep you safe from those who want you to believe you’re less because of us, because of what I feel for you and you for me.

  I want to hold you close and cherish you for as long as you’ll let me—for the rest of my life if I get my way.

  For now, though, I’ll settle for telling you I love you. This key is yours to use, or not, whenever you want. My apartment only becomes a home when you’re there too.

  Willa swallows back a gasp and closes her eyes. Beth… She’s unlike anyone Willa’s ever met. She unravels her with a look, a touch, a few words on paper. And makes her forget about every promise she made to herself and her family, the promise that she’ll try harder, be stronger…that she’ll be good.

  Logically, she knows the words Beth wrote aren’t shocking or new. Beth tells her she loves her in little ways, ways that make Willa’s chest ache with something so bittersweet she can’t quite define it. Still, seeing Beth’s thoughts about her, about them, and about their future together written down in bold, precise words, words no one can misinterpret, brings her to a quiet, but definite pause in the fabric of her life. Something indescribable, yet irrevocable, has shifted inside her until all she’s left with is a clear, simple truth.

  She loves Beth. She hasn’t told her yet, hasn’t been brave enough to give her emotions a place in the world, but it’s been building for what seems like forever. Now she’s reached a point where, if she continues to remain silent, to deny the most pure thing she’s ever known, she’ll drown right along with the tender affection she’s refused to nurture. Until now.

  She draws in a deep, steadying breath, tucks the letter into her pocket, and runs her fingers along the lower edge of her eyes to catch the tears that have started to gather there. She knows what she wants to do, what she needs to do… Now all that’s left is to do it.

  She leaves the confession booth and crosses the sales floor without even a glance at the 1851 Navys. After this, her dad may not ever let her touch it—or any other gun—again, and she can live with that. What she can’t do is live without Beth as a solid presence in her life. She heads straight for the swinging glass door that leads to the street and says over her shoulder, “I’m leaving for the day, Dad.”

  “What…? Willa…”

  He’s still speaking when the door shuts behind her, but she doesn’t turn around. Rather than going to her truck as she normally would, she walks across the street, bold as that in the middle of the day for the whole town to see. She’s shaking; it might be from the cold, but more likely from nerves.

  Suddenly, everything is so clear, and she doesn’t know how she didn’t see it before.

  She steps inside Bitter Ink with a smile. Beth pauses and looks up from the rose she’s tattooing on a woman’s upper arm. Beth’s wearing a ridiculous bright-pink, sequin-covered Santa hat that makes Willa think Beth lost some sort of bet with her boss. They do silly things like that with each other all the time. Last time Beth lost a bet, she ended up with a small tattoo of a dancing piece of toast on her forearm. Willa still doesn’t understand how that happened.

  Willa doesn’t recognize the woman Beth is tattooing, but the woman probably recognizes her. She stopped being anonymous the second her parents signed the contract for that reality show.

  Beth smiles, one of her rare full smiles that lights up her entire face, rather than lazy half smile she favors the rest of the time. “Hey, what’s up?”

  Willa bends close and kisses Beth on the mouth. The woman gasps, and Ava, Beth’s boss, chuckles somewhere off to her left. Beth smiles against her lips and lets Willa set the pace. Willa curls her hand around the back of Beth’s neck, teasing her fingers over the short hair she finds there. She squeezes gently as she kisses her again.

  Willa ends the kiss before she’s actually ready to face the fallout. But things will blow up enough over just this moment. There’s no reason to stay here and make out with Beth any longer.

  “I missed you.” She glides her fingers over the faded scar above Beth’s eye and down along the line of her jaw.

  Beth arches one eyebrow, and her smile gives way to a smirk. “Missed you too.” She looks pointedly past Willa and out the window behind her. “Something you want to tell me?”

  Willa sighs. “Is he watching?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Beth nods and focuses her attention solely on Willa.

  The way she looks at her makes Willa feel cherished, as though she’ll never find a more right place to be than with Beth. Her insides turn to mushy, messy, melty goo that threatens to seep out of her pores, and it’s all she can do to stay upright.

  Yes, her dad is probably pissed. But his anger is worth so little when she compares it to the joy she feels in this moment. She feels liberated. Free. Fearless.

  “He looks pretty pissed off, hon,” the woman getting tattooed says with a full measure of sympathy. Their shared kiss may have surprised her, but nothing about her reaction says it’s a bad thing.

  Willa relaxes a little. “I bet.” She dips her head to kiss Beth once more, then whispers in Beth’s ear. “I got your present. I’m going to head upstairs. Join me after you finish up?”

  Beth nods; that damn cocky glint sparks in her eyes, and Willa’s breath catches in her chest. She doesn’t know exactly what Beth has planned, but she’s sure she’s going to enjoy it.

  “I’ll be a few hours. I have one more appointment after I finish with Rosie, here.”

  Willa doesn’t respond. She’s said everything she needs to say, both with words and actions. She heads toward the back room and greets Ava on the way. “Okay if I head back there?”

  Yes, she’s going to Beth’s apartment, but to get there, she has to go through Ava’s office area. It’s only polite to ask.

  “Sure thing. You left work a little early today?” Ava smiles as if she knows exactly what it means for Willa to be here so early, and Willa’s face flushes with heat.

  She nods tightly as she passes through the swinging saloon-style doors that separate the front of the house from the back. She takes the stairs one at a time, moving her feet in steady, determined steps. She doesn’t stop until she reaches the top. As she pulls her new key from her pocket, she pauses. Beth never locks her front door since she works right downstairs, but she gave Willa a key, and Willa is going to use it. After this, she may never again. What good’s a key to an already unlocked door?

  Tonight, however, the action means something. She slides the key into the lock, and the symbolism of the moment makes her smile. The door opens easily, and Willa steps inside.

  Beth stares after Willa as she walks away. She’s helpless to do anything else as long as Willa is there, her hips swaying as she moves gracefully across the room.

  Rosie clears her throat, drawing Beth back to what she’s supposed to be doing. Ava laughs outright at that. Beth smiles because she can’t not smile. Yeah, she’s totally cocky, but who wouldn’t be? Willa is…perfection in high heels.

  “You got it bad, kid.” Rosie chuckles.

  “Mm.” Beth hums and takes the opportunity to change her gloves. It gives her a chance to settle herself into the moment and the work in front of her. As always, Willa chased all thought from Beth’s mind until all she can think about is the press of Willa’s lips against hers. It is overwhelming and intoxicating and completely terrifying.

  When she first met Willa, when she first started flirting with her, it was a point of Lothario pride. Her friend dared her to introduce herself, to try to take her home. And so she made her way through the throng of college kids to an
gle her body between Willa and an oversized jock wearing a football jersey. They made sense together, the quarterback and the cheerleader. And she might have held back if Willa hadn’t looked as if she were about to chew off her own arm to get away from him.

  She smiled easily, confident that whatever this beautiful girl’s answer would be, it wouldn’t stop Beth from having fun for the rest of the night. The dude rambled on, apparently unaware that Willa was no longer looking at him with a thin veil of disinterest. Instead, her gaze was focused solidly on Beth, her eyes bright and curious, and a small grin teasing across her mouth.

  “Hi.” Beth leaned in close, lips to Willa’s ear, and spoke in a low whisper. She rested her hand on Willa’s waist, curling her fingers lightly against the exposed skin at her midriff between her top and her skirt.

  Willa drew in a sharp breath at her touch. “Hi.” Her voice was low and sultry and so breathy it barely counted as a word.

  “Come with me.” Beth curled the words up just a tad at the end. She didn’t want it to sound like a question, but she wasn’t the sort to pressure another girl. She wanted to get Willa away from the crowd, sure, but Willa had to want it too.

  She pulled back slightly, reluctant to move out of the soft cocoon of Willa’s long blonde hair. She inhaled deeply, and the sweet fragrance intoxicated her more than the few beers she’d already consumed that night.

  Willa nodded at her, just one stilted movement of her head. Her eyes opened wide, and her smile transformed to something closer to surprise than the easy flirtation of a moment ago. Beth threaded their fingers together loosely and led Willa through the house and out into the cool night air on the back porch.

  That memory, along with every other one they created together in the months since, rolls through Beth. Rosie is right. She has it bad. She nods and tries to focus on the music filling the room and the hum of Ava’s tattoo gun, rather than the feint smell of Willa’s perfume that lingers in the air. She dips her liner into the black ink and says, “Let’s finish this, huh?”