Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

I was lost. No longer in control . . . if I ever had been.

I could do nothing to stop the rising bliss, had no choice but to ride it as it crested and broke, my hips bucking as I came seconds before she did, her head going back as she let out a small scream.

Haven fell forward, her slick skin meeting mine, both of us shaking in the aftermath. Our hearts slammed against one another’s, her breath gusting over my skin and cooling the perspiration that had gathered at the base of my throat. I brought my arms around her and held her close, our bodies still connected. My lips feathered along her hairline as I murmured her name, kissing and soothing her because I sensed that she needed it in some way she would not ask for. We stayed just that way for long minutes, our hearts slowing and reality descending.

“Hallelujah,” I whispered, turning my head and kissing her temple. I felt her smile against the side of my throat.

And though I said the word with some amount of levity, it felt apropos in a way I couldn’t quite describe. There had been something almost . . . sacred about what I’d just experienced. But in the moment, my brain was too clouded with pleasure to think too deeply on that or anything else.

“Hallelujah, indeed,” she whispered back.



**********



I brought the blanket up over her shoulder and she snuggled in to me. “I love this sexy, green thumb,” I said, picking up her hand and kissing the aforementioned thumb, closing my lips around it and sucking gently.

She laughed softly and I smiled, holding it against my lips for a moment, my vision going momentarily hazy as I recalled the bliss of her lips around a different part of my anatomy. But despite the arousing picture in my mind, my body was heavy with satisfaction and I didn’t think I could have moved if a tornado siren went off, warning of imminent danger.

I could see the news print now.

They were swept away, right along with The Yellow Trellis Inn, paralyzed from too much mind-blowing sex. Or that’s what reports from the other guests say it sounded like anyway, right before the rest of them dove into the storm cellar to save themselves.

I turned my head slightly, my gaze falling on the plant next to my bed, the one I’d talked to on the first night I’d arrived here. Something about the memory of that night brought a measure of what I could only call melancholy. I both hated and longed for the time before I knew I faced certain emotional disaster. A storm was coming. I smelled it in the air like the metallic tinge of an approaching lightning strike. “How will you bear leaving all your plants behind?” I murmured.

How will you bear leaving me behind?

She breathed out a soft breath. “With happiness. I’ll know I leave a piece of myself behind, and that a small corner of the world is better because of it.” She paused. “Maybe you’ll check on the ones here now and again . . . make sure they’re doing okay.”

“I will,” I said softly.

I rubbed her thumb idly along my bottom lip, not wanting to consider that time. The time when she’d no longer be here. “You’ve left your rescue plants everywhere along your path, haven’t you? Even in the place you started out.” Your home. The one that puts sadness in your eyes.

She paused for what felt like a long time. “Yes,” she finally said, as though that one word had required her to muster up something, and what, I had no way to fathom.

Part of me wanted to question her until she opened up, and another part of me knew that was a very bad idea. Still, I didn’t seem able to stop myself from wanting to know more. “Tell me more about it. Your home.”

Again, the pause.

“What’s to tell? We didn’t have things like plants in my apartment growing up. Like I said before, we didn’t even always have food. My mom . . . she struggled with addiction. She’d promise to stop . . . but it never stuck for long. Few of her promises ever did.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, Haven,” I said, running my hand along her arm, wanting to comfort her from something that had long passed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

But she shrugged. She felt different suddenly. Closed off. Stiff. And I was sorry my question had done that.

Again, I was conflicted. Part of me wanted the easygoing teasing back. But another part wanted to probe her—force her to share herself with me. Let her know I could handle it.

That desperate feeling rose up, the one that had always tried to control when I felt scared or needy.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m fine now. It’s fine.”

I smoothed a curl back that had fallen over her cheek, but it defied me, bouncing back to where it had just been, resistant.

“Once she went an entire year without using,” Haven said, almost breathless suddenly. “Men had always come and gone. A few of them were decent. The one she was with that year—Johnny—taught me to play checkers. He always had orange Tic Tacs. I can still taste them when I think of him. Anyway, I learned not to get too attached to any of them because it never ended well for me.” She stopped short, a small cringe passing over her expression, her mouth puckering as though she tasted that long-ago orange-flavored memory of someone who had been kind to her, perhaps made her feel she mattered, and then left anyway.

My throat felt tight. Stop pressing. She’s not staying. You won’t benefit from digging up her secrets. She gave her head a slight shake, turning toward me. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Can we rewind a little bit?” She smiled, though it was fleeting.