Kiss Off

Chapter 6

It's hard to breathe through the dust. I blink, working to orient myself but it's too dark to make out any of my surroundings. There's debris everywhere, but I manage to push most of it off of me and thank God that the majority of the rubble hadn't landed a couple of inches to the left. It would have crushed my legs completely.

I grunt into standing, coughing when I inhale a cloud of soot. I can't see anything and I find myself growing frustrated by my helplessness. Dropping back to my knees, I dig around the fallen planks of wood until my hands land on the familiar material of my backpack. I rummage through the pockets until I find my phone and flick it to flashlight mode. I have to work quickly because I don't know how much time Bryson has left—if he's not already gone—and my phone battery isn't going to last long.

Climbing over wreckage, I cough into my fist before yelling for Bryson, frustration tinging my words at the thought that, somehow, my measly backpack managed to stay by my side even though Bryson didn't. Yet, my voice is swallowed up by stillness. There's no groaning of the old, broken structure; there are no whispers of dwindling winds; and there's definitely no weak, miserable response from Bryson.

I fight down the panic. It's possible he didn't hear me. Or maybe he's unconscious. I'd much prefer that scenario to the image of his cold, silent body bleeding out into the soil. Images of blue lips, stiff fingers, lifeless eyes... they flash through my mind, urging my feet to move quicker. He can't be dead.

"Bryson!" I scream, my voice wobbly but fierce. "Bryson!"

And then a ray of light filters down into the pit and I spot Bryson in the far corner of the room as he struggles to push himself into standing. The hint of sun streaming down through the gaps in the floor above is a welcome change. The dark clouds must have been yanked into the swirly arms of the tornado, allowing the unconcerned sunshine to kiss the earth again. If only I could feel its warmth. Down in the hole of this now very dilapidated home, it feels like we are miles out of reach of civilization.

"Bryson," I breathe out frantically in a puff of relief as I climb my way to him. "Are you okay?"

He's standing by the time I reach him, using one hand to prop himself up against the wall. His head is bent and it's almost like he can't even hear me. He hasn't acknowledged my presence at all. Until I touch him.

He jumps, spinning to face me and then clutching his head with both hands as he closes his eyes. I can practically see the pain seeping from his dirt-covered skin. Something is wrong, but he brushes it off as he straightens his shoulders and opens his eyes. One single beam of sunlight slices through his mossy gaze, making them almost glow yellow. And with a single blink, he's pulled the shutters down over his own internal agony. His warm hand finds my cheek and he takes a moment to examine me.

"You're here," he whispers, pulling me into him and circling me with an embrace that carries more intimacy than a kiss between lovers.

His heart is pounding through his thin sweater and I think my skin is going to liquefy under his searing heat. But he doesn't let me go. Even when he pulls back slightly to get a better view of my face, he doesn't release me. He remains torso to torso with me, one hand wrapped around my waist as the other pushes loose strands of my hair away from my eyes.

"I can't believe you're here."

His words are unnecessary. I can see his disbelief shimmering from his eyes. He thought I was gone. He thought he'd failed me.

"I am," I say softly, resting my cheek against his chest.

"Are you hurt?" he inquires, pulling away now so he can inspect me from head to foot.