Yes, they’d once again cheated death. Together. But everything else had changed. They weren’t reeling like adrenaline junkies, drunk on a prolonged rush, giddy from shooting history-making film footage. He wasn’t an idealist, still dreaming about making his mark. Marty wasn’t a bright-eyed coed, fresh diploma almost in hand. This time she was soaking wet, her skin damp and gritty. Her hair hung in ropes, snagging his fingers. She’d been battered and banged up, even before they’d come close to being sucked directly into the vortex of a twister. She still had a smart mouth and a sharp mind. He was older now, supposedly wiser. And yet he’d never felt so confused. Conflicted about his future, conflicted about taking what he wanted, instead of doing what he was supposed to. He’d learned to master his impulses, but she’d undone all that. He understood actions had consequences, which meant he had no business pushing her like this. But the body pressed up against his was all woman.
