Free Second Chances by Abbie Williams Page A

turned left into a trailer court whose gravel road curved through an opening in a tall, wrought-iron fence. The sprawling place was actually quite cozy in the darkness; most of the trailers had lights glimmering, whether from within, or solar-powered yard lanterns, or here and there strings of twinkly white lights framing window sills, reminiscent of Christmas. After a moment Bly braked before a yellow double-wide and as I studied it from my seat in his truck, I realized this was his childhood home; my heart beat harder just imagining him growing up here. Not that my own home was so fancy, or spacious, and I was certainly no snob. But still. It hurt a little to think that all of his childhood memories were centered around a place called Gatehouse Court, where the yards seemed to consist of slim borders of scraggly grass that stretched the space of three steps to meet the gravel road which wound through the entire place, where you could probably hear every fight and smell every joint being smoked by neighbors whose homes were roughly five feet from your own.
    I climbed down after Christy, noticing how she had made the place homey. Tiny Chinese lanterns glowed in candy colors where she had hung them from the Sunsetter-type awning over the front entrance. On either side of the cement steps rising to the little porch, huge terra cotta pots were overflowing with bougainvillea in brilliant magenta. There was a woven green welcome mat and two cats who met us as Christy unlocked the door and clicked on a light; its golden spill illuminated a space that was minuscule and tidy. We entered into the front room; the kitchen was just around the corner to the right, while a short hallway to the left no doubt led to bedrooms. A television set with a bowtie antenna perched on a kitchen table covered by a fringed, sage-green tablecloth, sharing the space with a stack of mail and a trailing ivy in a squatty, indigo-blue pot. The floor beneath our feet was carpeted in an atrocious brown-and-orange fleck, and there were framed pictures everywhere; I curbed the urge to go and look at every one of them. As Bly entered behind me, the space seemed 10 times smaller. I could not imagine my 6’4” lover inhabiting this place. He practically had to duck his head to get in the door.
    His hand was warm on the small of my back, and I was all at once exhausted. I wanted to curl up with him in his old bed, which was no doubt far too tiny for the both of us, but I didn’t care. He would curve around so that I fit against his chest and wrap his arm and one leg over me, and I wanted it so much that I could hardly tear my gaze from him. My limbs felt heavy and my nerves on edge; I knew he had to leave, and the thought made tears prickle behind my eyelids. Pull it together , I scolded myself. Dammit, Joelle .
    Christy bustled down the hall, away from us, calling over her shoulder, “Joelle, have Junior put your things in his old room. I’ll be right back.”
    But the moment her bedroom door clicked shut Blythe enfolded me in his embrace and held tight, resting his chin on the top of my head and letting me cling to him. He smelled so good, indefinably himself, and he understood that I needed holding right now, more than anything.
    â€œIt’ll be all right,” he whispered after a moment, tipping his lips to my ear. He brushed hair from my neck and kissed me lightly, and I quivered. “Don’t worry. I can tell you’re worried.”
    I rubbed my hands over his ribcage, which was so tough and solid beneath my palms. I lifted my chin and he kissed my lips, again with gentleness and yet so much repressed passion that I trembled in his arms, and felt him grin against my mouth.
    â€œBlythe,” I murmured, clutching fistfuls of his t-shirt now; knowing that his mother could come back around the corner at any second was the only thing that kept me from ripping it from his chest.
    He kissed me again, this time much more deeply,