14. Colt
14
colt
My hand seared hot when I touched her back. She’s still painfully lovely. The booze-filled evening is ebbing away from my brain, and I’m left with her smell surrounding me. Maggie. Fuck. It might have been easier to never see her again than having touched her untouchable back. Her sweaty face and her hair stuck with dried sweat on her cheek, still stunning. The sweetness a little drained from her face, replaced by pure sensual energy. Her hair is still a study in caramel highlights but a little shorter, more modern somehow. But those damn golden eyes still sparkle like they do in my memory. Maybe not as bright, but it’s there.
Eventually, I have to remove my hand. Although I want to keep touching her forever. I won’t bitch about my marriage or how things should be different. I’ve covered that in therapy, with my friends, and she’s happy and married. She’s different, more beautiful somehow. How is it all still here? All the affecting joy and love? Maybe it’s one-sided but it feels complete and whole. It hasn’t abated one bit. I feel just as intensely for her and about her as I did when I walked away in the parking garage.
I join her side by side as she leads me through the casino towards a noodle shop tucked next to the gift shop and a bank of elevators. “Tell me about him.”
“That’s the last thing I thought you’d say!” She waggles fingers at me.
“We have no choice but to be friends, right?”
“That’s what I was thinking. Look, we’re already playing a dangerous game and I will tell my husband about this little noodle date,” she says in that surprised enthusiastic tone that is so fucking cute it should be illegal.
“It’s a date?” I raise an eyebrow and she turns to me. Her face sullen and the sunshine missing.
“No, Colt. It’s two friends who are going to catch up on their lives but have nothing beyond this. Please don’t flirt with me. That’s not fair or decent and it’s not who you are.”
How I wish I were Law or even Hayden who has skirted the line of impropriety but she’s right. And it’s killing me because she still knows me best.
“Just noodles.”
Her chin takes on a fixed and definite shape. “Just noodles.”
“And there are dead things on my wall!” My cheeks hurt from laughing.
I’m actually enjoying talking about how I’m a chauffeur for my six- and twelve-year-old girls and their insane number of activities. I chat about my boring job and how the Boston Revelers are doing. She’s become a fan. I never pictured her ending up with a hunter. I never pictured her ending up with anyone and had hoped she’d entered a nunnery. But it’s fun to hear about the kids she teaches or her never-ending quest for the perfect hobby.
It’s four in the morning, and we’ve not stopped talking for even a minute. TV, art, scraped knees, and dead things on her wall.
I blurt out. “Can I know you again?”
She cocks her head confused, and it will rip me further if she continues to be this adorable. “You know me. I don’t get it.”
“No, like stay in contact.”
“Oh. That’s a kettle of fish right there. Like in the day to day? I tell you how teaching went. Or if Bon Iver ever makes sense to me. Which he doesn’t. There are people who are crazy for him, and I just don’t get it. If I can’t snap my finger to it, I don’t love a song. I know that might make me a moron but if it’s a slow song, give it meaning and if it’s upbeat, be upbeat. Is that too hard?”
I stop myself from reaching for her.
“Focus, Mags.”
She sucks in a breath. “No one says that to me but Mak. It’s funny. I’ll see my husband tune out, and I’ll catch myself and stop talking. Sometimes mid-sentence, I’ll hear the word ‘focus’ in my head.”
She gets quiet and I pull at the plate in front of her, careful not to touch her.
“Meerkat, what? Talk to me.”
She looks up and it’s all there again. Our longing, desire, love, admiration and distance. “It’s your voice I hear in my head.”
That knocks the wind out of me. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to text you funny pictures of the girls. You’re going to tell me about the latest sporting thing your husband wants you to try. And what’s it like to live with a hunter. And this is where we land.”
She puts her hand out and I take it and we both pretend there’s not a spark when we touch. “Friends. But no pictures. I know you love your girls and that’s so lovely, but I’m not sure I can take seeing the happy family. I saw it once, and I just can’t.”
Guilt pinches my soul. “No pictures with people, then. Good, because I’m not ready to see the huntsman either.” She nods and I get it.
“Deal. And we make up other rules too. No flirting or caring too much.”
She doesn’t want to see my life for real, and there is no way I can see what hers looks like either. But I want… we want to know each other.
It’s a lie that will sustain us. Or me.
There are two fortune cookies on a plate between us. Neither of us reach for them. For my part, I don’t want to know what the future holds or ruminate on the past. I simply want this present, because I know it’s an unexpected gift.