Free Every Time I Think of You by Jim Provenzano Page A

“Let me get some glasses.”

    Shirtless, I headed toward the kitchen, where I foraged in the cupboard for a pair of what Mom called ‘the fancy glasses.’ I heard Everett running water in the bathroom.

    Half-dressed as well, he approached with the bottle in one hand.

    “Dude, you’re all pluvial!”

    “What?”

    He pointed to me, grabbed a paper towel, but before wiping, delicately licked my chest and stomach until his slurps led up my neck to my face and lips. We kissed in the bright kitchen light. I hoped some neighbor might see us through the window. I wanted the world to see us.
    Before I could utter a word of caution, fearing yet another explosion of fluid, Everett deftly uncorked the bottle without a drop of spillage and poured champagne into the glasses. We toasted.
    “To us,” he said.
    “To us.”
    After a few sips, he poured us each another glassful, then drank it down quickly, burping with a comic flair. “I really have to go.”

    “But my parents won’t be back for another hour.”

    “Yeah, but I totally snuck out and I’m already in trouble, no doubt.”

    “I’m sorry.”

    “Don’t be. It was worth it.”

    Silently watching as he dressed, I escorted him to the porch door. To remove the evidence of our little private party, he took the bottle.
    We stood at either side of the open doorway, the winter breeze blasting into the room. With a final appreciative look, he mused, “My big studly giraffe.”

    “My little horny monkey.”

    “I’ll miss you.”

    “Me, too.”

    Trudging out across the snow-laden field, he turned back from a distance to hoist the bottle in salute.

    My arms tightly crossed, I shivered, swaying from the champagne buzz, refusing to close the door until he became a mere speck on the white plain.
     
    Something about New Year’s Day seemed to leave the entire town silent, as if it were experiencing a collective hangover. I didn’t mind. Inside, despite the weather, I felt as warm as summer.
    Mom was up a bit later than usual, preparing a large breakfast of eggs, bacon and fried potato slices. I’d already quietly helped myself to a bowl of cereal, but looked forward to digging in for more. Off in the bathroom, I heard my father singing off-key in the shower. They had returned home about an hour after Everett’s departure, giggling, slightly drunk and, from the quiet sounds I heard through the wall, in a very good mood.

    “So, Everett’s off to his school tomorrow?” Mom asked.

    “Yep.”

    “You’re going to miss him.”

    I blushed. Mothers have a way of seeing right into the very heart of their children, or at least mine did.

    “Yep.”

    I thought I’d skirted around revealing too much, and sauntered away, until Mom said, “Next time he visits, ask him to take off his boots first.”
    I froze, turned around, and followed my mother’s glance toward the living room carpet to see a few tracks of muddy footprints.
    “Right.”
     
    For once, the weather predictors were correct. After dinner, light flakes had begun to tumble down outside, bringing a late helping of Christmas-style beauty to the night. I felt the urge to pull on my boots and go for a walk, when the phone rang.

    “Reid? It’s your friend.”

    A goodbye chat, I thought; emotions disguised for the nearby eavesdropping family members.

    “Hello?”

    “The field; five minutes,” he said, and hung up.

    His figure advanced from far off. My path due south, each step, each soft crunch of snow underfoot, brought him closer to me. His cheeks already flush from the cold, we embraced, chilled skin on skin, and shared a kiss.
    “I love–”
    “Shh.” Another kiss.
    We stood close, hugging silently, before he would kiss me again and walk away, backwards for a while, we two shivering, simply watching each other dissolve into darkness, living by the minute, by the snow flake.

 
     
    Chapter 11
    Winter, 1979
     
    His first letter arrived a week later, followed a few days later by a