Chapter 26 #2
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Saul,” she whispers.
“I know.” I press my forehead against hers. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t.” Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Don’t apologize. Not for that.”
“I’m leaving in three days.”
“I know.”
“This is complicated.”
“Everything about my life is complicated.” She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are bright. Wet. But she’s not crying. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and then apologize for it. That’s not how this works.”
“How does it work?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been winging emotional attachment since the courtroom orgasm and clearly my decision-making is suspect. But I know I wanted that. Wanted you. And if you apologize for it, I’m going to be personally offended and possibly never make you anything with walnuts again.”
I should explain all the reasons this is a bad idea. The professional boundaries, the timing, the fact that she’s grieving two other men and I’m about to walk out of her life.
But she’s looking at me like she wants me to stay. And I’m so tired of leaving.
“I’m not taking it back,” I say.
She smiles. Small but real.
And when she goes back to her cookies, I stay in the kitchen. Watching. Wanting. Counting the hours I have left.
Day five, we fall asleep together.
It’s not planned. Nothing about this is planned.
We’re on the couch in her apartment, some movie playing that neither of us is really watching. She’s tucked against my side, her head on my shoulder, and at some point her breathing slows and evens out and I realize she’s asleep.
I should move. Should carry her to her bed and go back to the couch where I’ve been sleeping for five nights, maintaining the boundary that doesn’t really exist anymore.
I don’t move. I sit there in the dark, her weight warm against me, and I let myself have this.
Just this. Just her, asleep and trusting, curled into my side like I’m safe.
When was the last time anyone treated me like I was safe?
My ex-wife never did. Even at our best, there was always a wariness to her. A sense that she was waiting for me to disappear again, to get a call and walk out the door and leave her alone with her life.
She wasn’t wrong to be wary. I did leave. Over and over.
That’s the job. That’s always been the job.
But sitting here with Stevie sleeping against me, I’m starting to wonder if the job is worth what it costs.
Forty-four names in my notebook. Forty-four people I’ve helped disappear.
Not one of them has made me want to stay like this.
Not one of them has made me question everything I thought I knew about what I wanted from my life.
Just her.
I close my eyes.
And I fall asleep too.
I wake up to sunlight and the weight of her in my arms.
Somehow, during the night, we shifted. I’m lying on my back now, stretched out on the couch that’s too small for one person let alone two.
Stevie is half on top of me, her arm across my chest, her leg hooked over mine, her face pressed into my neck. She’s wrapped around me like she was afraid I’d disappear in the night.
I don’t move. I barely breathe. I just lie there, feeling her heartbeat against my ribs, her breath warm on my throat, and I let myself want this.
Not just now. Not just this week. Forever.
I want to wake up like this every day. Want her weight on my chest and her hair in my face and the soft sounds she makes when she’s not quite awake yet. Want to be the person she reaches for in the dark, the one she trusts enough to fall asleep on.
I want to stay.
The thought is terrifying. I’ve built my entire career on the opposite, on being able to leave, to let go, to do the job and move on. That’s what makes me good at this. The ability to care without getting attached.
She stirs. Shifts against me. Her eyes flutter open.
For a second, she doesn’t move. Just lies there, looking up at me, awareness dawning slowly.
“I fell asleep on you,” she says.
“You did.”
“You stayed.”
“I did.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Her hand is still on my chest, right over my heart. “Two more days,” she says.
“I know.”
“And then you leave.”
“Stevie...”
“I’m not asking you to stay.” She sits up slowly, pulling away, and I feel the loss of her warmth like a physical ache. “I know you can’t. I know that’s not how this works. I just...”
She trails off. Looks away.
“Just what?” I ask.
“I just wanted you to know that I wish you could.” She meets my eyes again.
“And yeah, I know that’s a lot. I’m apparently collecting men I can’t keep.
But you’re different. You’re...” She stops.
Starts again. “You make me feel like maybe Zoey Carter could actually be a person worth being. And I didn’t think that was possible. ”
I sit up. Take her hand. “I’m going to figure something out,” I say. “More visits. Regular check-ins. I’ll request regional reassignment if I have to. I’m not.” I take a breath. “I’m not going to just disappear from your life. I refuse to.”
“Your job…”
“My job is not more important than this.” The words come out fierce.
Certain. “My ex-wife said I was impossible to know because I was always leaving. Always somewhere else. I let that happen. I let the job become an excuse for not being present.” I squeeze her hand.
“I don’t want to do that again. Not with you. ”
Her eyes are wet. “Saul...”
“I’m not asking for anything,” I add quickly. “I know you’re grieving. I know there are other people you care about. I’m not trying to replace anyone or rush anything. I just need you to know that I’m here. Even when I’m not physically here. I’m here.”
She doesn’t say anything. She just leans forward and kisses me. Soft. Slow. A promise more than a passion.
When she pulls back, she’s smiling. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
We move to the room. I lie in her bed, our bed, maybe, for whatever time we have left, with her curled against my side. We haven’t done more than kiss. But we’re close.
Her hand is tracing patterns on my chest. Absent, idle, like she’s thinking about something else.
“I should be scared,” she says quietly.
“Of what?”
“Of this. Of wanting something again. Of letting myself care about someone who might leave.”
“I’m not going to be gone long.”
“I know.” She props herself up to look at me. “I know you’re not going to disappear. I believe you. It’s just...” She sighs. “I’ve lost a lot. In a very short time. And my track record with men who make me feel things is not great.”
“I’m not Dario or Enzo.”
“No. You’re not.” She traces my jaw with her finger. “You’re something else entirely. Something I wasn’t expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. Someone who’d do the job and leave. Someone who wouldn’t buy me four kinds of chocolate chips because he was afraid I’d be disappointed.”
I laugh softly. “To be fair, I didn’t know which kind you’d want.”
“You didn’t know anything about baking. You went in completely unprepared.”
“I went in wanting to help. The rest was improvisation.”
She smiles. Leans down and kisses me again. “Stay,” she whispers against my mouth. “Tonight. Tomorrow. As long as you can.”
“I’ll stay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She settles back against me. Her breathing slows.
And I lie there in the dark, counting the hours until I have to leave, trying to figure out how to be someone who doesn’t.