Kindred by J. A. Redmerski Page A

“I will wait forever for you and I mean that.” His eyes are smiling again and I prepare for what he’s about to say because I’m getting that playful feeling from him. “But believe me,” he goes on, “the way you are when we’re alone like this… I-dun-no , Adria.” He’s grinning hugely, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “I doubt ‘forever’ will come before you decide to take complete advantage of me.”
    My mouth falls open and I suck in a quick breath.
    He’s grinning from ear-to-ear.
    “Take advantage of you ?” I say, unbelieving, but loving every second of this.
    “You scare me sometimes, girl,” he says, the grin getting darker, more playful. “Sometimes I worry you’ll throw me down and not let me up. I’m kinda…traumatized.” He’s trying so hard not to laugh.
    I shove him playfully. “You’re so full of shit!” I say and we both laugh.
    Isaac scoops me up into his arms again and holds me straddled around his waist. With my hands dangling over the back of his shoulders, I give him one last hard, quick peck on the lips and then slide out of his grasp.
    I can’t do this forever; play the sexually timid virgin card. I don’t want to! I’m afraid of him, yes, but nothing can change the fact that I still want him.
    I thought he would distance himself from me all over again a week before every full moon like when we first met. I thought he would hate himself for losing control that night three months ago in Vaughan Woods and nearly killing me. I prepared myself for a little bit of blame, but months later and he has hardly talked about that night at all. And I’ve avoided going too deeply into what happened because of my own guilt, because I screwed up. And I always thought his silence indicated a hidden disappointment and maybe I should just leave it alone.
    But not anymore.
    The silence has begun to feel like the first layers of a divide between us. My humanity is enough of a divide.
    “I guess it’s a good thing we’ll be back from Portland before the next full moon, huh?” I say, opening another tightly sealed can of worms.
    He goes back to whatever he was looking for earlier, now sifting through a box of unpacked stuff sitting on the floor next to the nightstand.
    “I guess so,” he answers not looking at me.
    “Isaac,” I say, raising my voice only enough to let him know that my words are important and I need him to hear them, “We need to talk about March.”
    With his back to me, I see his head tilt upward and he sighs deeply, pulling both hands to the back of his head. He holds them there, his fingers interlocking.
    “Please,” I say, desperate and nervous he won’t want to.
    Finally, his arms fall back to his sides and he turns around to face me.
    I wait, hoping he might be the one to start even though I know it should be me, and when he doesn’t speak up, I say, “I know I shouldn’t have—”
    He puts a hand up and walks toward me. “If we’re going to talk about it then you have to agree, no apologies, okay?”
    I simply nod my answer. I’m surprised that already it’s turning out exactly the opposite of how I expected it.
    He motions to the bed. “Let’s sit down.”
    I walk over and we sit on the side of the bed together.
    “I admit that night was a close call,” he says, “but it didn’t end badly.”
    “But it could have,” I remind him.
    “Yes,” he says, looking right at me, “but it didn’t.”
    I’m not following him. Something is off and I detect it immediately. I’m not the oblivious human girl I was before I met him.
    I fully expected Isaac to trust himself less with me, that he would tell me that because of that night, he can never forgive himself. I still expect him to look me in the eye and tell me that if I ever try to pull something like that again that he will never forgive me .
    But I’m not getting any of that from him.
    “Isaac,” I say and I hesitate, “how can you be so confident?”
    He doesn’t answer and I