The Memory Thief (20 page)

I look around the kitchen, which looks cleaner than it's been in a long time. The countertops sparkle, all of the dishes are put away, and even the front of the stove shines. It's amazing how death and cleaning are inextricably linked. I say as much to J. C., who says, “When you're cleaning, you don't have to think about other stuff, right? It's mindless work, and I don't know about you, but I could do with a little less thinking right about now.”

“I don't know that I am thinking, to be honest. I feel kind of numb.”

“You did great today,” he says, tying the garbage bag closed. “He would have been proud of you.”

“That's nice of you to say. But I don't know that there's any way to do well at this sort of thing, is there? You just muddle through somehow.”

“You're doing a good job of muddling, then.” He lifts the bag out of the trash can. “Let me take this out, and then I'll run home real quick. Unless you need me to do anything else around here?”

“No, I think we're about done. Go ahead.”

So he does. When he comes back half an hour later Gabe and I have changed into our PJs, and we're snuggled together on the living room couch watching Harry Potter, my old quilt drawn up over us. J. C. drops his red duffle bag at the foot of the couch and sits down. “Hey, buddy,” he says. “I'm going to stay over here, with you and your mom, tonight. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Gabe says, sounding drowsy. It's no big shock to either of us when he dozes off midway through the first Quidditch match. I gather him up, carry him down the hall to his bedroom, and tuck him in, turning on his Tasmanian Devil night-light. He doesn't stir.

J. C. and I watch the rest of the movie in silence, lost in our own thoughts. As the credits roll, he turns to me and says, “Where should I sleep? The couch, or your office maybe? You've got a futon in there, right?”

“Actually,” I say, “I was wondering if you would sleep in my room.”

He does a double take. “What, in your bed?”

“If you think it's too weird, forget about it.” I wrap myself more tightly in the quilt. “I shouldn't have said anything. It's just that I've been having these crazy dreams, and I would feel better if someone else was there.”

“If that's what you want,” he says. “Sure.”

“You would?”

“Absolutely, if it makes you feel better. Don't worry about it.” He picks up his duffel. “I'll just go brush my teeth.” And off he trots down the hall. When he comes out of the bathroom, he's wearing a blue Widespread Panic T-shirt and pajama pants. He goes into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water, and I take my turn in the bathroom, peeing, washing my face, flossing and brushing. It seems so ridiculous to me: Aidan is dead, and still I have to floss. You would think the laws of the universe would be temporarily suspended, or something.

By the time I make my way into my room, J. C.'s already in there, lying on Aidan's side of the bed, on top of the quilt, his hands folded behind his head. I turn off the light and crawl under the covers on the other side.

“Thank you,” I say into the darkness. “For everything.”

“My pleasure. Good night, Maddie.”

“Good night,” I answer him, and slip down into sleep like someone pushed me, hard.

The snow is heavy, and Aidan is buried under it. One moment he's standing on a ledge; the next he's hurtling through the air, and then he's pinioned under an unyielding, icy weight. He scratches at it, he kicks and claws, but nothing he does makes any difference. He is paralyzed, he is suffocating, and I am on the surface, digging as fast as I can with a shovel. The handle breaks off, and I start scraping the snow away with my bare hands. I dig frantically, ignoring the cold, but when I find him, it is too late. I uncover his face and discover that he is dead, his eyes frozen wide, his mouth open and filled with snow. I scream and scream, but no one comes.

I bolt upright, my hand over my mouth. The bed shifts under me, and I realize that I'm not alone. For a second I don't know where I am, or who's with me. Then reality filters in. It's the night after Aidan's memorial service. J. C. is here because I asked him to stay.

I can just make him out in the darkness. He is still lying on the other side of the bed, his hands folded on his chest. “You okay, Maddie?” he says as I sink back down onto my pillow, trying to slow the pounding of my heart. He sounds fully awake, like he's been waiting for something like this to happen.

“I had a dream,” I say, but then I can't go on.

One of his hands reaches across the expanse between us and fumbles around until it finds mine. “I'm here,” he says, squeezing my fingers.

We lie there in silence for a little while as I catch my breath. He doesn't say anything else or come any closer, just runs his thumb over the back of my hand in a comforting kind of way. I can hear him breathing, slow and even, and I try to match his pace without much success. Try as I might to purge the dream-images from my mind, I keep seeing Aidan fall, seeing him trapped under a giant mound of snow, trying to claw his way out. It hollows me inside, makes me feel like I might fly into a thousand different pieces.

“Would you hold me?” I ask J. C. Maybe that's a mistake, but right now all I want is to feel someone's arms around me, someone who is grieving as much as I am.

“Sure,” he says after a moment. “Come here.”

I slide across the bed and lie on my side against him, one leg over his and my head on his chest. He puts his arms around me and strokes my hair. I can hear the regular thump of his heart—an athlete's pulse, like Aidan's. It feels very peculiar to be lying in bed with someone else, especially in the dark. It's oddly intimate, like maybe we just finished making love or are about to start.

J. C. must be having the same types of thoughts, because he fidgets under me and I realize he has what feels like an impressive erection. It presses against my leg and I don't know what to do—should I ignore it? Move away? Say something?

The second option is probably the best, maybe in some combination with the third, but I don't want to move, is the thing. It's peaceful, lying here with him, the first time I've felt like a human being in days. I feel safe with his arms around me, secure. With a start I remember Aidan asking all those years ago if I cared for J. C. as more than a friend, telling me that if something happened to him, he wanted to know that I'd be with someone who loved me. Back then I'd thought he was crazy, and I'd told him so. But now, in our darkened bedroom, that long-ago conversation seems prescient, and I shiver.

“I'm sorry,” J. C. says in a rueful voice. “I can't help it.”

I lift my head from his chest. “Do you want me to go back over there?” I gesture at the other side of the bed.

“No,” he says. “Not unless it makes you too uncomfortable. I'm a big boy. Don't worry about me.” His voice is so matter-of-fact that I lay my head back down on his chest, listening to his heart beat. It's picked up speed, belying his calm tone.

He strokes my hair again, running his fingers through it. “I might as well say something, Maddie. I wasn't going to, not now, but this seems as good a time as any.”

“Maybe you shouldn't,” I say. My own heart begins to pound. I'm sure he can feel it.

“No, I need to. Anyhow, I think it's something you already know. And if you don't, you should.”

“Go on,” I say despite my better judgment. My mouth is dry.

“I love you,” he says steadily. “You and Gabriel both. I've loved you for a long time. I'm not trying to … to move in on A. J., or anything like that. But this”—he moves a little bit so I can feel him pressing against my hip—”it's not just the situation. It's because of how I feel.”

“Oh,” I say, which might win the prize for the world's most inadequate response. But truly, I am emotionally drained. Aidan is dead. Here is J. C., lying in my bed with his arms wrapped around me, telling me he loves me. The situation seems so surreal, so turned on its ear, that I don't have any idea how to respond. I don't think I could come up with another strong reaction to anything if my own life depended on it, and Gabe's, too. So I lie still, listening to J.C's heart speed along. I spread my hand out on his chest, feeling his body heat through the cotton of his T-shirt. No wonder he was so conscientious about sleeping on the other side of the bed.

“You don't have to say anything,” J. C. says. He's worked all the tangles out of my hair and now his fingers run through it easily. “I don't expect you to. I just want you to know that I'll be here for you, no matter what happens. Any way you want it.”

I let his words sink in. There is something so familiar about his touch, familiar and yet brand-new. I miss Aidan so much it hurts, like an ache deep in the pit of my stomach. Again I think about that conversation we had so long ago. It feels odd, as if he's given me permission to be lying here like this with J. C. As if it's what he would have wanted.

“Thank you,” I say, and as I speak I realize that I'm thankful for much more than J. C.'s offer. I'm thankful for the way he stayed tonight, how he's acting like a gentleman right now instead of taking advantage of the situation. I'm thankful for how he held me when I had my little breakdown, and how he risked his own life to search for Aidan after the accident. How patient and loving he's been with Gabe. The incredible speech he gave at the memorial service, and the song, and how he stood beside me for hours, holding my hand while I cried.

I lift my head from his chest and look down at him for a moment in the darkness of the room, and then before I can lose my nerve, I kiss him on the lips. You asked me to, I think. You wanted this to happen.

J. C.'s hand stops moving halfway through my hair. There's a moment when his body is completely still. Then he unfreezes and kisses me back, lightly at first, then harder. His tongue slides between my lips and his hand tightens in my hair.

“Maddie,” he says, and from the way he says my name, like a caress and a warning rolled into one, I can tell how much he wants this, how much he's been holding back. I've never heard J. C. sound like that before, without any of his usual cool logic tempering what he's got to say. It ignites something in me, a fierce surge of desire that is the last thing I expected. Oh, Aidan, I think, and my eyes fill.

J. C. slides out from under me, so we're both on our sides, and pulls me close. I can feel him pressing against my belly, but I don't move away, not then and not when he runs his hand over me from my neck to the curve of my hip, careful at first, like he's asking permission. When I don't tell him to stop, he does it again, and this time the flat of his hand brushes against my breast, sending electricity coursing through me. I gasp, and he makes a deep noise, almost like a growl. “Maddie,” he says again, and then he's kissing me, and there's nothing gentle about it.

It is so strange, kissing someone who isn't Aidan. I'd forgotten how J. C. kisses like he's carrying on a conversation, waiting for me to answer before he responds. He moves his hand under my tank top in a questioning kind of way, and when I don't stop him he slides it up and cups my breast in his hand. “Oh,” he says in a voice I've never heard him use. Then he jerks back as if I've burned him. He is breathing hard. “Maddie. What are we doing?” he says. “Is this what you want?”

I don't answer him, because how can I? What would I say? Instead I get up and lock the door. Then I crawl back onto the bed, where I take off my tank top. That seems to be answer enough, because he pulls his shirt over his head, then kisses me, his mouth greedy, running his hands over my bare back. He trails his tongue down my neck to my breasts, slower now, then follows it with his hands. I look down at his dark hair and I think, This is crazy. I wonder if I'm dreaming, but I know I'm not.

I trace his tattoos with the tips of my fingers, like I've wanted to do since I met him. Truth, and harmony. Then I reach over and turn the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness again. His arms go around me and he presses me backward, into the pillows. My pants are off, then his are, too. He makes a choked noise, and I wonder if he is crying. I run my hand across his face, and sure enough there are tears there. But before I can say anything about it, to ask him if he wants to stop—because surely we should stop this, this can't be good—he pulls me on top of him, so that my face is right over his. His fingers trail down my body, find me, and slide inside.

“J. C.,” I say. “If the avalanche—if you and Aidan had both—I don't know what I would've done.” My voice shakes.

“Hush,” he says. “I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Promise me.”

His fingers move faster now. “I promise,” he says. “I'm right here.”

I reach between us and grab his wrist, pulling his hand away. I wrap my fingers around him. “Oh God,” he says. He rolls us over then, so he's on top of me. He spreads my legs with his hand.

“J. C., please,” I say, and I don't recognize my own voice.

His mouth covers mine, and then his hand is gone and he enters me, as smoothly as if we've been doing it for years. For a moment he doesn't move. He traces my lips with the fingers that were touching me. I open my mouth and taste myself on my tongue. “Please what?” he whispers, and I realize he is teasing me.

To my horror, tears start running down my cheeks again. “Please don't leave me,” I say. Am I talking to him or Aidan? In the moment, it doesn't seem to matter.

I try to hide my face, but he's having none of it. He kisses away my tears, he strokes my hair. I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his back, and hold on tight. His hand slips under me and he lifts me off the bed, then pulls me up so I'm sitting on his lap, one leg on either side of him. I lay my head on his shoulder and he takes my hips to guide me.

“Look at me,” he says, and so I do. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness now, enough so that I can see his face. His eyes are open, staring into mine. “I'm here,” he says again. He encircles me with his arms and moves inside me, as if to eliminate any trace of doubt. “I'm right here, Madeleine. I'm not going anywhere, I promise.”

He kisses me again, and God help me, I believe him. Inside me something breaks away. I let him move me, and then I'm moving him, pushing him backward onto the bed with a violence that surprises me. I bite his nipples, dig my nails into his shoulders, but he doesn't stop me. Instead he rolls me over and pins my wrists above my head. He kisses me until I can't breathe, and then he closes his mouth on my throat, on my breasts. “Open your eyes, Maddie. You stay with me,” he says, and when I obey he pushes inside me, rough, then again. The pleasure that bursts through me then is so great that I scream, I can't help it, and he lets my hands go and claps his fingers over my mouth. Then he's burying his face in the pillow, biting it I think, so he won't make any sounds of his own. He shudders against me over and over. Then he is still.

I feel as if I've been hit by a truck. J. C.'s body is soaked with sweat, and after a moment I realize that mine is, too. I run my hand over his back, and it comes away wet. I wipe it on the sheets, which I realize with some distant part of my mind, I am most definitely going to have to change.

We don't say anything for a long time. I lie there, listening to hear if we've woken Gabe up, watching the ceiling fan revolve, and waiting for the wave of guilt to hit. But all is quiet from down the hall, and though many emotions are coursing through me right now—in fact, I'm not sure that I could even name them all—guilt is not among them.

After several minutes J. C. rolls to his side, props himself on an elbow, and looks down at me. “You okay?” he says.

I nod, because in this moment at least, it is true. “Are you?”

“Hell yes,” he says, with such vehemence that it makes me smile. “I've wanted to do that for years. And it was even more amazing than I'd imagined. So … yes.”

He wraps his arms around me and kisses my neck, like the period at the end of a sentence rather than a prelude of things to come. In the warm circle of his arms, I feel the last of the tension drain out of my body. I close my eyes and drift down into the first sound sleep I've had since he called me from Alaska to tell me Aidan was dead.