Chapter Forty #3
I turned onto my side, facing him, and then scooted my spine against the wall.
I patted the empty space between us. He climbed in.
His skin was still radiating a blissful warmth, and my vision had adjusted enough to the darkness that I could see him better now.
His features were miraculously familiar, but they also contained a new openness.
It was as if there was more of him than there had ever been before.
He was studying my naked body with wonder and disbelief.
I couldn’t resist a coy smile. “So you do like me.”
“Ingrid,” he said, his expression collapsing. “I have always liked you.”
My gaze turned downward. “So what changed?”
“Between now and… January?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing.”
I looked up sharply.
“Ingrid.” His voice cracked as he spoke my name again. “I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. It’s possible that I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.”
A wave of happiness crested inside me—and then crashed onto the familiar rocks of sorrow and confusion. “But you rejected me. You told me no.”
“Because you tried to kiss me at work. With no warning. While you still had a boyfriend whom you planned to marry .”
“There was warning,” I said meekly.
“I assure you, there was not.”
“The marriage wasn’t definite.”
“It was on the table.”
The ugly heat of shame spread through me again. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You were going through something.”
“I’m still sorry.”
“I know.” He gave me a sad smile before groaning.
“If only you knew how many nights I’ve lain awake, wondering if I’d fucked up and lost my chance with you forever.
But I wanted you to want me , not just any warm body.
I didn’t want to be a fling. And then after you and Cory broke up, you said you didn’t want to date anybody for a long time.
You were grieving the end of your relationship.
I didn’t want to step in at the wrong moment.
I couldn’t handle being a mistake that you might regret later. ”
“So… you were waiting?”
He nodded. His expression was fearful and hopeful.
“Macon,” I said. “I was at your front door two minutes after that text because I was already on my way there to tell you that I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. And it’s possible that I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.”
His eyes closed. Tears reflected the dim moonlight.
“When Cory and I made our stupid, absurd plan, you were the first and only person I thought of. I did want you specifically. Desperately. But you’re right, I didn’t think about what would happen to you after that month was over.
I didn’t understand the position I was putting you in.
And I didn’t understand that this intense thing between us was love. ”
“What did you think it was?”
“Lust.”
He laughed, wiping his cheeks. “It was that, too.”
“When did you know?”
“I didn’t know that you loved me. But I suspected. I hoped.”
“When did you fall in love with me?”
“Immediately,” he said. “And gradually.”
The warmth of recognition poured through my body.
“When you arrived at work,” he said, “you were… so much prettier than your predecessor.” We laughed again.
My predecessor was a retired woman with four grandchildren.
“And you radiated sunshine. Actual sunshine, not like those awful people who force their optimism onto you. It felt good to stand in your atmosphere.”
I beamed, but he grew serious.
“You were also young.”
“Too young?” I asked.
“Maybe. Yes. Probably.”
“But not anymore?”
“No.” But then he sounded worried when he asked, “Am I too old?”
I leaned in to kiss him. “No.”
“I mean,” he said, a minute later, “it’s not like I’ve been pining for you this whole time. I had Dani, and you had Cory. I was happy to be your friend.”
I kissed him again.
“There was a little pining,” he said into my mouth, and I smiled against him.
“A lot of pining,” he said heavily after another minute.
“Hey.” I pulled away from him. “Can I ask you something?”
His brow rose with amusement because we were already past asking for permission.
“Why did you and Danielle break up?”
“Ah.” He grew serious again. “You mean, was it because of you?”
I must have looked hopeful because he gave me an apologetic smile, as if he was letting me down gently. “No. Our differences became clear during lockdown. We couldn’t stand each other by the end. We parted on decent terms, but we’ll never be friends. We don’t speak.”
“Oh.”
My disappointment made him smile again, even though it was unfair of me to feel that way.
“ However ,” he said, “the pandemic—working together at that call center—did make me feel closer to you. And I think that’s when I began to hope.
” His fingers threaded through mine and took hold. “So perhaps you did play a role.”
“Do you still talk with your other exes?”
“Occasionally. They’re both married with children, living lives I’ve never wanted.”
“I don’t have any other exes.”
He hesitated. “You don’t count any of those guys from earlier this year?”
“Oh my God. No .” I laughed, but I could see that his mind had already arrived at the follow-up question. “You’re wondering how many of them I slept with, aren’t you?”
“It’s none of my business.” But then he grimaced. “Also yes. And no.”
“Two. The two you can guess,” I added.
“So we’re even.”
He was telling me that he’d only ever slept with his three girlfriends, which was what I’d suspected. It also meant he hadn’t been with anybody since Dani, which was also what I’d suspected. A powerful yearning rose within me again. I closed the gap between our bodies.
Our first time had been quick. The release of our suppressed feelings had resulted in an atomic detonation. Slowing down the explosion would have defied the laws of nature.
Our second time was religious. Contemplative and meditative and languorous, we moved together in awe that this had finally happened, that it was happening, that it would continue to happen.
Our bodies listened and responded, ecstatic with each new revelation.
Worshipful of the deep communion. And the universe opened up before us, bathing us in a brilliant and shimmering light.