Chapter 8 That Counts as Taking It Slow, Right?
“THAT COUNTS AS TAKING IT SLOW, RIGHT?”
The Friday morning after the kiss during improv practice, Paul called and asked if he could come to my place.
“I have a few more improv books for you,” he said. “If you’re still willing to read them. I told you last night that I would bring them.”
“Of course,” I said. “I really liked the other ones.”
“Can I come by now?” he asked. “I know you’re at work right now.”
“Of course. Anytime. I just have a meeting at 2 p.m.”
It was a Friday and Paul was still off work for the summer, so I knew he would probably be over soon.
I also knew Paul was probably using the books as an excuse to talk about what had happened, and I began to get nervous as I waited for him to arrive.
I was supposed to be researching the impact of a change in interest rates on rental markets.
Instead I walked back and forth around the living room practicing alternate versions of the upcoming conversation, varying between readying polite responses to his lack of interest and throwing his obvious interest in his face.
Then I imagined us admitting that we were madly in love, which gave me the push I needed to open my work laptop to distract myself.
When he arrived, he had several improv books in hand, and he waved off an offer of coffee or tea and sat down at the table and spent a few minutes walking me through each of the books. I could sense that he was nervous, too.
“So last night…” he began at last. We were now seated an arms-length away from each other on Charlotte’s sofa.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said.
“You? No. Why are you sorry, I was the one who…” He trailed off.
“My essay on consent in improv isn’t finished yet.”
“Ah, right.” He smiled at his hands. “I kissed you,” he said firmly. I could feel my face warming.
“I’m pretty sure I kissed you back,” I offered, and watched his expression for any indicator of what was coming next. He was giving me nothing. I felt like he was a clever murder suspect on a police procedural, and I was the cop examining his face for clues.
I waited as he stood up and walked to the window, then started to pace around the apartment looking at Charlotte’s fishing boat photos. None of that seemed good.
“The thing is…I uh…finalized my divorce six months ago…”
“I know.” I tried to sound gentle.
“It had been a long time coming. She left me almost a year before that. And the whole thing was really messy. It messed with my head.”
I put up my hand. “Okay. I’m going to stop you right there. We don’t have to do this.”
“Don’t have to—”
“If you have some long speech about how you can’t date anyone right now, because you’re emotionally fragile, but then as soon as you meet someone you actually like…I don’t need to hear about why you haven’t asked me out. It’s okay if you just like me as a friend.”
“Hmmm.” Paul’s face was unreadable.
“No, I’m sorry, I guess I’ve heard some version of this enough times in my life that I don’t want to put either of us through it. Because I really like you, and I’m having fun spending time with you and I didn’t demand that you to explain yourself to me.”
He came closer, sitting opposite me. “What if that wasn’t what I was going to say?”
A moment passed. I took a breath and then laughed. “Fine. Go on.”
He leaned forward. “Okay, well, I was going to say something more like, I just got divorced and you are the first person I’ve really liked since then, but I have a feeling that if I let myself get close to you, and then you leave in a few weeks, it’s pretty likely that I’ll get my heart broken.”
“Oh.” My voice sounded small in my own ears.
“Not exactly what you expected me to say?”
“Not precisely,” I said quietly. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that because no one ever falls in love with me.”
“Abby, I’m being serious. You’re not the kind of person I’m going to be able to date casually and then watch you leave.”
“Most guys think casual is the only way to date me, so…”
“That’s not what I think.”
“Oh,” I said again. A moment passed.
“So I do want to kiss you. I want to do all of this. I was just hoping to find out whether you’re leaving the country before I do.”
“I don’t know if I’m leaving.” My voice sounded a little wobbly. “I applied for…I mean, I sent in stuff to the Canadian government, for a work visa, but the lawyer wasn’t optimistic, and if something comes up with Laura, or work…I don’t know, Paul. I wish I could say for sure.”
“You met with a lawyer?”
I nodded. “An immigration lawyer. He wasn’t sure how it would go. I started the paperwork, but I can’t promise anything.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s okay. I don’t—it doesn’t necessarily sound to me like you’ll stay, honestly.”
“But I want to.” As soon as the words were out, I knew that I meant them. It was a strange feeling to know that I wanted to stay.
“My mother,” Paul began, “I take care of her. It’s not always easy.
But she’s the only family I have, and she needs me, so if your sister needs you, I understand.
If things don’t work out for your sister in Atlanta, and you have to go be with her, I mean, even if…
you may just want to see your niece more.
I wouldn’t want to stop you from the thing that would make you happy. ”
I looked at the floor, trying to find the words. “Our mother was an alcoholic, so Laura and I always relied on each other. And now she doesn’t need me, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I keep assuming she’ll need me, but it may be wishful thinking.”
“You want her to need you.” He looked like he was trying to puzzle out something.
“I want to be there if she needs me,” I said. “But I really like it here. And I like you. Kissing you was nice.” I felt like an idiot, confessing to that.
“Nice.”
“Wonderful.” I hated myself for saying the words. I couldn’t pretend it meant nothing, now.
“I just don’t think I can do it anymore,” he said softly.
“Okay.” I tried not to look disappointed.
“I mean, I don’t think I can stay friends.
” He came closer. “I just can’t anymore.
” He put one hand against my cheek, and then he leaned over, his lips brushing mine, then deepening into a real kiss, pushing me backwards.
We were sliding together onto the sofa, my back scattering the pile of Charlotte’s nautical pillows.
Now that I finally had him in my arms, I wanted to kiss all of him.
His neck, his cheeks, his shoulders. One of his hands slipped behind my head, cradling me as he kissed me again.
Then he paused and breathed out a little laugh against my neck.
“What’s funny?”
He pulled back a few inches to meet my eyes. “You really thought I was going to come in here and give you a story about why I couldn’t date anyone right now?”
I looked up at him. “I assumed.”
“That’s what you were assuming the other night?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Because your ex-boyfriend gave you a line about why he couldn’t get married, and then changed his mind?”
“I was trying to be logical.”
“Logical.” He kissed me again. “Abby,” he whispered. One of his hands slid under my shirt, gently gliding along my ribcage. I could feel him against me, my body aching to get closer. He released me gently, resting his lips against my neck, breathing in and out.
“You’re going to break my heart,” he whispered. “But okay.”
“Okay?” I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Okay.” He gently slid away from me. “Maybe we can take it slow.”
“Slow,” I repeated. That hadn’t felt slow.
“A contained explosion.”
“How do those work?”
“The hell if I know. It sounds good in theory, though, right?”
I understood him too well, for the first time. The problem had never been whether he liked me. It had been that this was inevitably going to end.
“We can take it slow.” My voice sounded faint. He reached over and laced his fingers through mine, then squeezed my hand. I leaned toward him to take another kiss, this time because I wanted one, and it caused a chain reaction to another, and another, and another…
He finally caught his breath, head against my shoulder, and then stood up, running a hand through his hair and facing away from me. “Okay, well I brought you the improv books…”
“You did.”
“I did,” he repeated. “And you have work today.”
“I appreciate your respect for the demands of capitalism.”
He gave a little laugh and then headed toward the door.
I walked after him. He put one hand on the handle and then took it off and put it around my waist and kissed me again.
His whole body was flush against mine, glowing with heat.
One hand traced down my arm like a slow-moving electric current.
When the kiss finally tapered off, he smiled a little.
“That counts as taking it slow, right?”
“Snail’s pace.”
“Perfect.”
He gave me a warm look and then slipped outside, and I stood there, trying to breathe normally, one hand pressed against the closed door for support. My legs were about to collapse beneath me.
Paul was absolutely right. That was not how I had expected that conversation to go.
He called me that evening a little a little after 7:30.
“Hey, it’s Paul.”
“I know.” My voice sounded higher pitched than normal, like I was sixteen again, twisting my fingers through the phone cord in my mother’s kitchen.
“I wanted to call you after work, but it turns out that I’m dealing with some stuff for my mother tonight. She started some trouble with the neighbors and I’m trying to diffuse it, but do you have any time this weekend?”
“Yeah, I think so. I can probably squeeze you in between the goat yoga and laser tag.”
I heard him laugh. “Great. Shuffle around the schedule and see what you can do.”
“Or you could come over tonight, after you finish the stuff with your mother.”