Page 91 of Malaise
TWENTY-SEVEN
His smile is nothing short of infectious as I approach the table. The room is long and rectangular, twelve tables set out in two rows of six: plain, plastic, and a hideous shade of greenish-yellow.
We could be meeting in a damn mosquito-infested swamp for all I care.
He’s here.
I’m here.
Everything is right in my world again.
Carver’s hair is messy and in his face, his stubble now a definite dusting across his jaw as he stands and steps out from behind the table. The bright green jumpsuit pulls across his arms where the sleeves end midbicep, the collar a low V showing a peep of his defined and inked chest. His eyes though, the story they tell… he’s missed me as much as I’ve been longing to see him again, too.
“Meg,” he whispers, as though he can’t believe his eyes.
My chest tightens, my palms hot. Is it possible for a guy to become even hotter while stuck in a corrections facility? Looking at Carver, I’m thinking so.
“They didn’t tell me who the visitor was,” he says with a smile, arms wide for a hug.
I wrap mine around his waist, and press my head against his chest. “I’ve missed you.”
Carver’s fingers thread through my hair, holding me firmly, his other arm tight around my shoulders. “Me too, baby. Now give me a kiss before they pull us apart.”
I lean back in his grip, my neck craned to offer it up to him. God, I’d give him a thousand kisses if he asked.
His lips are minty against mine, the taste stronger as he sweeps his tongue teasingly along the seam of my lips before an officer to our right pointedly clears his throat.
Carver’s arms drop away, and I reluctantly loosen mine to let him move back to his side of the table. Never have my hands felt so heavy, my actions so wrong; I wanted to keep hold for hours, days. Not that it would have been enough.
“How you been?” he reaches out to take my hand once I’m settled, and then recoils, clearly remembering the rules. “Have you got your exam results yet?”
I shake my head. “I applied to have my mail held at the post office until I get a permanent address, and I haven’t been back yet to see what’s come in.”
“Where have you been staying?” His eyes darken, the frustration at having not known the answer these past weeks clear in the hard set of his jaw.
“Hostel on Bellbird Avenue.” He’s obviously not impressed, but what can he do?
“You look like you’ve lost weight. Feel like it, too.”
“I haven’t exactly been eating that well.”
“Meg….”
“Money’s tight, Carver, and the supermarket doesn’t have any more shifts.”
It’s there, in his eyes. I know what he’s going to say, or wants to.
“I’m not begging my parents for help,” I answer before he can voice the thought.
“I don’t want to see you starve, either. Why hasn’t Tanya set you up in my room at the house? Is she helping?”
“Yeah, she’s there when she can.” I stare down at my knitted hands on the tabletop. “But I might have got offside with your dad.”
“Hey? How?” He straightens in his plastic chair, shoulders firm. “What’s he done?”
“It’s what he hasn’t done.”
Carver just frowns, those gorgeous baby-blues trained solely on me, nothing else. We could be the only two people in this room for all he seems to care about the other visitors now crowding the space.