Chapter 64
“I don’t know how I can ever believe him,” Cherry had said, “when he says that he loves me.”
That had been a figurative question; Tom almost never said that he loved her. But she’d believed it anyway.
In the beginning, she’d chased him.
She’d worried that he was too polite to turn her down—or too conflict-averse.
She’d read his hesitation as reluctance.
She’d read his hesitation as doubt.
She’d read Thursday, and wondered if it was all a farce.
But then Tom had walked through every door that Cherry ever opened.
She was always the one who made the leap—but Tom always caught her. She always put herself out there first, but he always
met her more than halfway.
At some point, Cherry had stopped seeing Tom’s uncertainty as a problem . . .
Maybe Tom fell in love with her because he needed someone who chased and pushed and opened. Maybe Tom needed a girl who was a verb. That was Cherry. (That was Cherish.)
Cherry never worried that Tom would cheat on her. Before he did.
Cherry never doubted that Tom wanted her. Before he didn’t.
Had he ever truly not?
You sort of stop noticing that someone never says “I love you” when they make you feel loved.
When they make you feel liked.
Tom always seemed so happy to come home to her.
All of the above made it worse.
Every good thing made it worse.
Every good memory was streaked with blood.
Places where Tom had kissed Cherry:
In line, at the grocery store.
In line, at the bank.
In line, at their polling place.
At Meg Jones’s Christmas party, every year under one of the arches.
At every family baptism (on the cheek, usually).
At her grandma’s funeral (on the temple).
In movie theaters, during the movie, if he noticed she was looking at him.
At restaurants, waiting for their table. (With his arm around her, the kiss landing wherever was easiest—her shoulder, the
back of her hand, the top of her head.)
In the kitchen, whenever he moved past her.
In bed, before he rolled over and fell asleep.
In bed, before she got up, before he rolled over and fell back to sleep.
On the palm, during sex.
On her chin, when she was eating something messy.
On her neck, if he wanted to distract her.
Always, without a thought, in front of her family or his friends.
On his sister’s rollaway when they visited her in Des Moines.
On the sidelines, when Cherry came to his rec-league softball games.
On the nose, when she pouted.
On her belly, when she had cramps.
On her belly, when they were having sex.
On her belly, when he wanted to have sex.
On her belly, if they were in bed, and she was half asleep, and he was wide awake.
On her belly, whenever she was taller than him.
Inside her knees, inside her thighs, on the back of her thighs, under her arms, under her breasts, on the soles of her feet—whenever
he felt like it, for no reason at all.
On the forehead, when he thought she was being cute.
On the knuckles, when he thought she needed encouragement.
Full on the mouth once, in the Western Alliance lobby, the day that he’d quit.
Full on the mouth most of the time. Most places. Most days. Like it was nothing. Like it was breathing. Like he got a little
hit of something from it. Like Cherry’s mouth was for kissing the way a dog’s ears were for scratching or buttons were for
pushing.
He didn’t seem to ever think about kissing her, or even realize he was doing it. Sometimes he did it in the middle of a sentence. Sometimes he did it
in his sleep.
That’s who Cherry had been, in Tom’s life and in the world, for years and years—someone who had always recently been kissed.
Someone who was about to be kissed. Someone who walked around with her chin slightly raised and lips slightly parted—ready
for it.