The Last Bridge by Teri Coyne Page B

himself and then rolled closer to me. “Do you understand that?” I nodded and put my hand out to him as if to pull him to shore. He didn’t take it.
    “He cheats on her,” he said, pounding the bed. He fell back.His left hand was inches from mine. I reached for it and placed it between my own. His palms were dry and cold. I rubbed my hands against them, trying to bring life back.
    “He lies to his business partners. Cooks the books.”
    As I held his hand the rawness of his voice began to thaw and the familiar, gentler tone slowly returned.
    “It’s okay,” I said calmly.
    “I’m poison,” he said, pulling his hand away. “Stay away.”
    I resisted the urge to laugh, not because it was funny but because it was absurd. If Addison was poison, he was not lethal like my father. Most of what I knew about men was dangerous, but this one thing I trusted. If Addison was poison, I might be his antidote.
    The sun had set. Grandma’s lace curtains floated in the air, buoyed by the warm evening breeze. Addison had turned away and rolled back into a ball facing the wall. I thought about doing what he asked and leaving, but I also thought about doing what he needed.
    I eased down next to him with our backs touching and closed my eyes, hoping this was all I had to do. Addison didn’t move.
    After a few minutes, I rolled slowly around and fit my body over his. I put my arm around his waist and found his hand trembling and laced my fingers in it. “Turn around,” I whispered.
    He rolled slowly toward me. The tear-streaked bristles of his beard brushed my cheek like wet sandpaper. I smiled. “See,” I said, “I’m not afraid of you.” I wiped the tears off his cheeks.
    His hands moved to my face and traced the soft spot between my chin and ear. I felt a coil of heat deep beneath my pelvis as his fingers traveled back toward my neck and up into my hair and then pulled me to him.
    My eyes closed first and then there was the warm rush of his mouth and the overwhelming sensation of being engulfed. Instead of pushing away, I moved toward the feeling and was shocked by the urgent groan that came from my throat.
    For all that he had failed at, Addison had mastered kissing, andalthough I did not have anything to compare it to, I sensed that few experiences in my life would ever measure up to the intensity of that moment.
    He rolled on top of me, and for a moment, I imagined how nice it would be to spend the rest of my life kissing him, until I felt his hand on my thigh moving toward my underwear. I pushed him off me and jumped up.
    Addison sat up. “I’m sorry, I …”
    I adjusted the skirt of my dress, pushing the memory of his hand away with my own shaking hands.
    “I don’t know what I was doing,” I said, looking toward the window, which faced the house.
    “What happened?” He came toward me with arms outstretched. I left him.
    The house was silent when I came through the back door. Mom had put away the pie and bread and left a set of dirty dishes in the sink. Dad was passed out on the chair with an empty bourbon bottle next to him. Wendy and Jared were in their rooms.
    At four I rolled out of bed and slipped into the bathroom, careful not to creak the floorboards. I was unable to sleep. It wasn’t my mind that kept me awake; it was my body. In the short time I had been with Addison, my senses had recorded every detail of the kiss, from his orangey-musk smell to the wet cinnamon taste of his mouth to his smooth hands on my neck and face. The moments replayed over and over, rendering me more awake than I had ever been.
    I avoided the bathroom at all costs on most nights. If I could help it, I would hold it until I heard my father go downstairs for his morning coffee. Some nights I couldn’t wait, and I’d make my visit as short as possible. It wasn’t the bathroom that was dangerous; it was passing my parents’ bedroom.
    Once I was in the bathroom, I’d put my ear to the door to listenfor any movement. After a