His fingers trailed down my hair, tracing my ears, lips, and chin. Collarbone. Elbows. Fingers. Breasts. I'm breathing shallowly, evenly, flat on my back in the quilts, having invoked my non-slip grip, as they call it, goosebumps on top of goosebumps. He is all eyelashes and desire and yet he's made no move to change position. He finally puts his head down in frustration against my ice-cold skin.
I can't make you warm, Bridget. Why can't I make you warm?
***
In my dreams Jacob and Ben have squared off in the snow again. Ben is not as strong or as emotional but he has so much more to lose. His pride. His stake in our friendship. His place in my life.
You fight like a girl, Preacher, he laughs and gives Jake a shove. Jake returns the favor with a roundhouse and Ben hits the ice, crumpling like paper, unable to defend. But the smile never leaves his face. Why don't you take some of this enthusiasm out on him? He points into the house where Lochlan sits in the center of the couch, one arm flung out wide, the other flipping the zippo half-strength so he doesn't ignite it, and I am curled up in that open arm, watching a movie from the thirties, parroting the dialogue while he tries not to smile at how I sound in my starlet voice.
Jake looks at the window just long enough to miss Ben's return throw and takes one right on the jaw. He staggers and goes down on one knee and the opposite hand, putting up his other hand in a motion to stop.
I don't need to be able to fight, Benjamin. I only need to know how to love. And that, he points back through the window, is something I don't even think I could begin to challenge.
