Chapter 19
Nineteen
Maine — Noah Kahan
I ’d woken up in some swanky hotels in my adult life.
Some of the best in the world. With sheets that cost more than a car payment, the room rate more than a modest used car.
In destinations with some of the world’s best views.
Yet nothing in the world beat waking up tangled in Elliot’s arms, the low morning light shining through the windows.
We’d failed to close the blinds, so my bleary eyes were greeted by the rugged Maine coastline I’d come to love.
Obscuring the view were my smeared handprints, evidence of what had happened last night.
That was not the only evidence. There was the room service cart, pushed off to the side, the overturned chair that had obviously fallen at some point, though I couldn’t remember when or how.
My replete body, the subtle flutter in between my legs, hair that smelled of hotel shampoo and Elliot—since we’d moved to the shower after the episode against the windows.
Elliot had taken me to the shower, mindfully washing every inch of me with unhurried strokes then moving to my hair, fingertips working at my scalp better than the top stylists in New York City.
He’d changed my bandage, taking care to inspect how it was healing, redressing it as if I were a bird with a broken wing.
There had been nothing sexual about his touch, and we hadn’t had sex once we’d dried from the shower either. Why would you need to after all of that? Granted, I found that I was sufficiently addicted to Elliot and would not have refused if he had even hinted at wanting another round.
But the toll of the last few days—fuck, the last ten years—had sat heavy on my shoulders, exhaustion weighing down my bones with every step I took toward the bed.
The full belly, the sex, the trauma. Elliot’s tenderness, my growing feelings for the man amidst the shitshow that was my life.
It worked better than Ambien. I was asleep before I even realized it.
And I’d slept like a log. Not once did I wake up to check my phone, respond to emails, fire up my laptop to look for new evidence to save my fate.
No. I’d closed my eyes that night, waking up in the morning, wrapped up in Elliot’s arms.
I didn’t check my phone before my eyes had truly opened, as was my routine. Didn’t jump out of bed for a workout class, coffee, whatever thing I had convinced myself was pressing at 6:00 in the morning.
As of late, I hadn’t had morning meetings, but Jupiter did have a decent set of workout classes at 6:00 in the morning, and I had a bunch of friends and family with babies who didn’t sleep through the night.
So if I found myself without a workout class or without the resolve to continue in my task of bringing down criminals the federal government had been unable to prosecute for decades, I went and picked up a baby from its weary parents and entertained them, fed them, put them down for a nap while their parents got the rest they needed.
On those nights, the ones without Elliot and with a full roster starting at sunrise, I woke often. Despite pharmaceuticals or the help of alcohol. I woke up frequently, in a cold sweat, an overloading, gut-wrenching panic on my chest, fearing that I wouldn’t be able to get myself out of my mess.
On the nights with Elliot, not once did I wake. Unless he woke me. With his mouth. Or his cock. And on those nights, I dove right back into dreamland when he finished with me.
“Coffee,” Elliot murmured against my neck, his stubble brushing against my bare skin.
“Coffee,” I hummed. My head had a slight throb to it thanks to those martinis, but nothing caffeine wouldn’t nip in the bud.
Elliot pulled my naked body back into his, his hand brushing over my navel before plunging right between my legs.
I threw my head back into the crook of his neck, inhaling in rapture at the way his fingers worked me.
“Not before I make you come,” he growled in my ear.
“You’ll hear no argument from me,” I rasped, tumbling into the addictive limbo that was Elliot’s touch.
Nothing else in the world existed.
We had coffee and breakfast on the balcony, sipping and eating with a quiet contentment that should’ve only been established after years together.
Yet like everything with Elliot, it felt natural.
Sitting wordlessly on a balcony without a device in my hand or at my ear was not natural for me.
My spine tingled with the need to be hunched over a laptop, doing something, but I resisted the urge, glancing over to Elliot’s relaxed posture, trying to mimic it.
Once I’d let myself take a few slow and measured breaths, I’d actually kind of enjoyed it. Not something I’d do every day. But I knew we weren’t going to be there, on that balcony, in that hotel, away from the world. I was free to be the version of myself I knew I could never sustain.
Elliot didn’t mention leaving the room, didn’t display any kind of urgency as the morning grew late. He didn’t stop me when I called to extend the reservation to another night.
We didn’t overtly speak about the arguable ridiculousness of staying at a hotel less than forty minutes away from the town we both currently resided in.
He seemed to understand that I couldn’t go back there yet, and was not only willing to stay with me, no questions asked, he acted as if such a thing was normal.
We ate room service. We fucked. We watched old reruns of TV shows. It was the best day of my life.
Elliot didn’t push me, didn’t order me to do anything that wasn’t sexual. But there came a point when even his stamina found its limit. And I’d grown bored of TV and avoiding the elephant in the room.
I hadn’t gone as crazy as actually deciding to tell him the full truth and nothing but the truth, but I needed to release the pressure I was feeling at the base of my skull that had nothing to do with my hangover.
We were perched on the sofa, TV still running, me wearing his tee and panties, him in nothing but boxers.
Without even trying, he looked like he could be selling underwear on a billboard in Times Square.
Not for the first time, I marveled at his rugged beauty.
The ease in which he carried himself. Everything about him was captivating.
Soft and hard at the same time. Masculine yet nurturing.
He deserved answers. He certainly didn’t deserve to be shot at in his backyard because of who he chose to warm his bed.
“I’ve often wondered why I’m like this,” I said, looking out the window. The sea was calm today. The ocean inside of me was raging.
“I come from a disgustingly normal family.” I gripped the stem of my glass and kept watching the sea.
“Not perfect, no one is. My parents have gone through rough patches, there have been money problems, fights.” I waved my hand dismissively, even though some of those fights were cemented in my memory.
My parents had made an effort to keep us out of their relationship.
Rowan and Kendra were younger than me, not by much, but young enough to be asleep on the rare occasions when my parents raised their voices.
That or they were distracted on the even rarer occasions when they fought while we were awake.
But I stayed up late, was not easily distracted, and was hyperaware of anything that could disrupt the peace in our lives. Something in me, even then, was bracing, waiting for impact. I took on every fight as a harbinger of divorce, an omen of destruction that never came.
“Nothing insurmountable, nothing unforgivable,” I told Elliot, now old enough to understand that the fights my parents had were nothing but releases of pressure in a happy and healthy marriage.
“There was love in our house, we were accepted for exactly who we were. No one set impossible standards for us. Yet I came out setting them for myself. Constantly pushing myself, knowing that I was going somewhere different.” I turned to look at Elliot.
I was drinking a seltzer, needing something to do with my hands. I lifted it to my lips, barely even tasting it.
“I convinced myself that the absolute worst life possible was a quiet, peaceful life in a small town.” I let out a bitter laugh.
“And look where I am.” I spread my hand out at the ocean, not referencing my exact location but rather the point I was in life.
“Living in my brother’s house in a small town in Maine, with a fisherman boyfriend, somehow happier than I ever was in my penthouse in New York and the life I deemed so important. ”
Elliot stilled when I said that. He had respected the distance I put between us, as he often respected many of the choices I made.
Until he didn’t want to, that was. Until he somehow sensed that I didn’t want him to either.
He was that attuned to me. The way he watched me…
Always with an intensity making him able to spot the smallest of tells of my discomfort. My need for his comfort.
He took the drink from my hands and set it on the side table. His hands immediately went to the sides of my face, caressing my jaw. “Say it again,” he whispered.
I blinked, shocked at the intensity in his expression, at the way he was holding me.
“Say what?” I asked, genuinely confused.
I’d said a whole lot just then, and I couldn’t understand what might’ve elicited his reaction.
I didn’t let it slip that I was falling in love with him, did I?
I hadn’t properly admitted it to myself.
Admitting it to him would be a deadly mistake, considering I was still planning on ending things.
I just kept amending the date. Because I was selfish and greedy.
But I was also committed to not letting him ruin his life.
Letting me ruin his life.
He stroked the side of my jaw with his thumb. “That you’re happy,” he whispered, eyes roving over my face.