Chapter 30 #2
In another box we find knives and put them in the fire for a second to disinfect the blades before sitting down on the floor and chopping the vegetables.
I get a weird medieval feeling, barefoot on the floor in our robes and throwing vegetables into the cast-iron cauldron as we are.
I add water, oil, and spices, and Wyatt attaches the handle with a fireplace glove to the hook in the fireplace so that the pot can hang over the fire.
“I still haven’t defrosted,” I say, sitting down and holding my hands out in front of the fire.
“How much you wanna bet it’ll go quicker if you come over to me?” The flames light up the devilish glint in his eyes. He pats the space on the rug between his legs. “Just like old times, Ari.”
I hesitate. But I can’t act like that wasn’t exactly what I’ve been thinking the whole time, as if the image of me between his legs—oh-my-God-oh-my-God—wasn’t exactly what I’ve wanted.
“Well, okay. But just because your yeti pants look so soft.”
“Of course. Why else?”
With a pounding heart, I crawl over and move between his legs, then lean back against his tight chest. Every time he inhales, I can feel it in my shoulder blades; every time he exhales, his warm breath brushes my neck.
“Back at Thanksgiving dinner I didn’t want to say it.”
I lean my head back a little to look up at him. “Say what?”
“What I’m thankful for.” He looks down at me, meeting my eyes.
He smiles. “For you, Aria. That you’re doing well.
That I didn’t lose you. Not completely, at least. Even when it’s not…
Even when we’re not…like we were, I am so thankful.
For every conversation. For every touch. Every smile. Everything.”
I can’t look away. His eyes pull me in like two magnets. And I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to explain what his words are doing to me. The butterflies in my stomach are doing loops.
“I’m thankful, too,” I whisper eventually, turning back to the fire. “Above all, for the fact that you’re doing well. That this accident… That it didn’t take you. I wouldn’t have been able to handle that. No idea what would’ve happened to me.”
His warm chest nestles a little closer to my back.
I am highly sensitive to every single one of his touches.
We sit in silence for a while, listening to the crackling fire, the bubbling of the pot, and the violent storm blowing against the wooden walls, enjoying every minute we’re touching thanks to the simple excuse of being cold.
Again and again his hand brushes mine, seemingly at random, as he pretends to want to pick a piece of lint off my clothes, trace the pattern of the rug, scratch my leg, whatever. And I like it. I like it so much.
But at a certain point, neither of us can ignore the fact that we’ve been sitting way too long. The veggies have got to be completely soft.
Suddenly Wyatt gets up to stir the pot. “It’s ready.”
He carefully lifts it out of the fire and places it on a crocheted coaster.
We toast the bread over the fire and eat it by dipping it into the pot and sliding the vegetables on top.
It’s one of those simple moments where nothing’s really happening, and yet it has an overwhelming, almost magical effect.
I could sit here forever, in this tree house, outside the storm and life and everything that makes it difficult.
In here, it’s just him and me and our hearts beating for each other.
Unforgettable. Timeless.
My dish is almost empty when Wyatt points his piece of bread at the corner next to the door. “Look.” He plops the last bit into his mouth, gets up, and comes back with a Tetra Pak carton. “Red wine.”
“What luck,” I say as I push my dish to the side. “Rotgut Tetra Pak.”
Wyatt laughs. “You want some?”
“You bet.”
“One sec.” He takes two clay bowls off the fireplace and hands me one. “We’ve got to slurp it.”
“Nice. Like the Neanderthals.”
“Your parka fits the bill.”
“I know. I feel really attractive, let me tell you.”
He pours some wine into my bowl, and I take a sip. The furry taste spreads across my tongue.
Wyatt takes a sip of his own and wiggles his naked toes before the fire. He looks at me. Tenderness smooths his features as he slides his finger from my right cheek across my nose to my left. “I love this.”
My stomach tingles. His touch makes me nervous. Just to have something to do, I take another sip. I run my fingernails over the hardened clay. My bowl is almost empty, and a pleasant airiness spreads through my head like billowing mist.
“What do you love?” I ask and sink down onto the rug.
A grin creeps onto his face as he moves the utensils to one side to lie down next to me.
He stretches out on the woven carpet and crosses his arms behind his head.
The sweater stretches taut over his biceps.
I see him take a deep breath, as if trying to taste this moment on his tongue and not let it melt away.
Then he opens his eyes again and looks at me.
“The way your freckles dance every time the fire casts light across your face.”
I stare at him, in my Neanderthal dress, with the now-empty Neanderthal bowl, and catch thoughts swirling around my veiled mind, telling me Wyatt is everything, Wyatt is spring sunshine and autumn whispers, warm tingles on my skin, and the delicate crackle of golden-brown leaves.
“Your wound,” I whisper, driven by the wine that’s starting to make my limbs heavy. I take a deep breath. “Can I… Can I see it?”
There they are again. Those two weird little words.
CAN I.
Wyatt blinks. He hadn’t expected that. But then he nods, straightens up, and pulls his sweater over his head.
His hair is standing up straight, but I can only stare at that for a fraction of a millisecond because, sorry, there’s a naked body here, his naked body not even seven inches away.
The light of the flames is coloring him with golden flecks.
And, my God, those muscles! Wyatt was always well-built.
That’s how hockey players are; they’re broad and strong and sexy and hard (in many ways, let me tell you), but he wasn’t this buff, not this well-defined.
Wyatt is aware of his effect on me. His eyes are sparkling. “You like what you see.”
Clearing my throat, I ignore this and point to his left arm instead. “That one, right?”
Just a single question, a single gesture, and Wyatt’s confident grin gives way to a look of fear. He nods carefully.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper, gingerly laying my hand on his shoulder, where I begin to identify the hurt muscle groups with my thumb. “I’ll be really gentle.”
Tiny drops of sweat begin to form on Wyatt’s neck.
My thumb runs along the levator muscle up to the shoulder blade, and when he draws in a sharp breath and gasps, I know immediately that the hardening there is the crux of all the trouble.
I stroke the muscle with slow movements; over and over I massage the clearly noticeable trigger points.
With every passing minute, he breathes harder.
“You’re the first,” he says at some point, as I make my way up from his shoulder blade to the tender muscles of his neck.
I span his head by placing the tips of my thumbs on his temples and lightly tilt it to the side.
Then with the outer edge of my hand, I move down the sternocleidomastoid muscle of his neck and the scalene muscles on each side.
“The first?”
“The first that can touch me there.”
Realizing what that means, I hold my breath. “No therapist was able to help you?”
He shakes his head. “That’s why I started trying to treat myself.”
“That’s why you couldn’t play.”
Wyatt nods. I tell him to tilt his head forward and begin to stroke the muscles at the back of his neck along his spine with firm pressure. “I can help you. If you want me to. I’ve had a ton of practical seminars and exams.”
My fingers slide off when he abruptly turns his head. He looks at me wide-eyed. “Really?”
I nod.
Wyatt’s shoulders slump.
“Thanks, Ari.” He lets his forehead sink onto my shoulder in relief, his warm breath tickling my neck.
And as I take in his scent, I wonder for the very first time whether I might have made a mistake not listening to him back then.
Maybe there really was a reason for what he did to me.
Maybe I could have prevented his alcohol and drug escapades if I’d listened.
The harshness of these thoughts hits me violently and overwhelms me. For the very first time I think about the fact that it might not be his fault we broke up, but mine.
This feeling is destructive. It’s destructive, and it’s ugly, so ugly that I can’t stand it a second longer.
My hands rest on his shoulders. I release him with gentle pressure, sit down in front of him, and look him in the eyes. “What happened? Between you and Gwendolyn, I mean.”
Shock crosses his face. Now I know that any sense of ease is gone. When he exhales, his chin shakes. He’s going to tell me. Of course he will. For two years he’s been waiting to do just that.
“Jared came up. From the minor league. He took me to a party where I ended up drinking a lot, a hell of a lot. I was out of it. At some point, I’d smoked some weed because I simply didn’t want to think or feel anything anymore.
And then, at some other point, Jared talked about having some E if I wanted it. ”
“E?”