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Authors: Rowan Coleman
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talked about everything and nothing as she looked at him, drinking him in like a thirsty person stumbling across an oasis in the desert. The light in his eyes as he watched her, the slope of his back as she shifted position, the set of his chin, the line of his nose. She wasn’t able to stop looking at him and talking to him, about everything: school, her parents, her home life, her favorite books, music, films, her hopes and dreams—things she hadn’t even told Alison. And he listened. And not only could he hear her, he wasseeing her . For the first time in her short life Catherine felt like her own person and not just Alison’s friend or a neglected daughter. She experienced what it was like to be truly seen.
Jimmy had asked her to remember the last time she’d been in love. Looking back, Catherine realized that she had been in love with Marc before they had even known each other half an hour. It had taken less than thirty minutes to happen and how many years to shake off? Catherine wasn’t sure she could answer that yet.
“So how about you, how have you ended up drifting from town to town?” she asked him at last, desperate to know more about him. “Why did you end up in Farmington?”
“You’re here,” he said to her, the roll of his Midlands accent washing over her. “That’s a good reason to come here and it’s a better reason than the one I’ve got. I follow the work. I’ve not got any skills, or degrees. I’ve not got a lot going for me.”
“You have,” Catherine retorted automatically. “I mean, you just probably don’t know that you have.”
Marc shifted his position once again, crossing his legs.
“I don’t know,” he said, with a one-sided smile. “I think the best thing I’ve got going for me at the moment is that you are talking to me. I like you, Catherine, you’re different.”
“I know,” Catherine replied in dismay.
“It’s a good thing,” Marc told her. “Most girls I try and talk to either won’t have anything to do with me, or if they like the look of me they turn themselves into idiots flirting and pouting and showing themselves off. I’m not saying I don’t like it when a pretty girl flirts with me, but well … I don’t know the last time I really talked to anyone, the last time anyone ever really cared about what I’m thinking or feeling.”
“Me either,” Catherine said, afraid to move in case she caused one second of the remaining time she had with him to fall away before she was ready.
Marc knelt and pulled his T-shirt on over his head, then walked over on his knees and stopped in front of her.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “Got to put my head down.”
“Okay,” Catherine replied.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked, and Catherine felt as if lightning had just struck in the center of her chest, leaving a gaping, burning hole.
“Yes,” she said, unable to manage any dissembling.
“Can I meet you here again tomorrow at the same time?” Marc asked as he reached out and picked up her right hand.
“Yes,” she said again, her voice fading.
He pulled her gently toward his body until she was kneeling opposite him.
“Can I kiss you, Catherine?” he asked her, quietly, almost shyly.
“I …” Catherine froze for a moment, her lips felt numb and immovable. “I don’t know … how to,” she finished painfully, dropping her chin to her chest and closing her eyes.
The next thing she felt was the rough surface of Marc’s palms against the skin of her cheek, drawing her face back up to look at him.
“I do,” he said.
What she had felt first was the gentle pressure of his mouth on hers, the sensitive exploration of his tongue between her lips. And then she remembered his arms encircling her waist and the heat from his body radiating through the thin cotton of her sundress and penetrating her bones. Finally, as Catherine began to return his kiss, she realized that her arms had crept around his neck, the
Jimmy had asked her to remember the last time she’d been in love. Looking back, Catherine realized that she had been in love with Marc before they had even known each other half an hour. It had taken less than thirty minutes to happen and how many years to shake off? Catherine wasn’t sure she could answer that yet.
“So how about you, how have you ended up drifting from town to town?” she asked him at last, desperate to know more about him. “Why did you end up in Farmington?”
“You’re here,” he said to her, the roll of his Midlands accent washing over her. “That’s a good reason to come here and it’s a better reason than the one I’ve got. I follow the work. I’ve not got any skills, or degrees. I’ve not got a lot going for me.”
“You have,” Catherine retorted automatically. “I mean, you just probably don’t know that you have.”
Marc shifted his position once again, crossing his legs.
“I don’t know,” he said, with a one-sided smile. “I think the best thing I’ve got going for me at the moment is that you are talking to me. I like you, Catherine, you’re different.”
“I know,” Catherine replied in dismay.
“It’s a good thing,” Marc told her. “Most girls I try and talk to either won’t have anything to do with me, or if they like the look of me they turn themselves into idiots flirting and pouting and showing themselves off. I’m not saying I don’t like it when a pretty girl flirts with me, but well … I don’t know the last time I really talked to anyone, the last time anyone ever really cared about what I’m thinking or feeling.”
“Me either,” Catherine said, afraid to move in case she caused one second of the remaining time she had with him to fall away before she was ready.
Marc knelt and pulled his T-shirt on over his head, then walked over on his knees and stopped in front of her.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “Got to put my head down.”
“Okay,” Catherine replied.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked, and Catherine felt as if lightning had just struck in the center of her chest, leaving a gaping, burning hole.
“Yes,” she said, unable to manage any dissembling.
“Can I meet you here again tomorrow at the same time?” Marc asked as he reached out and picked up her right hand.
“Yes,” she said again, her voice fading.
He pulled her gently toward his body until she was kneeling opposite him.
“Can I kiss you, Catherine?” he asked her, quietly, almost shyly.
“I …” Catherine froze for a moment, her lips felt numb and immovable. “I don’t know … how to,” she finished painfully, dropping her chin to her chest and closing her eyes.
The next thing she felt was the rough surface of Marc’s palms against the skin of her cheek, drawing her face back up to look at him.
“I do,” he said.
What she had felt first was the gentle pressure of his mouth on hers, the sensitive exploration of his tongue between her lips. And then she remembered his arms encircling her waist and the heat from his body radiating through the thin cotton of her sundress and penetrating her bones. Finally, as Catherine began to return his kiss, she realized that her arms had crept around his neck, the
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