Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Daphne
M ercifully, the waitress saves me from answering the question. She drops off our plates and three kinds of hot sauce and takes her leave.
I taste my curry, so I don't have to answer. It's not as good as the place where I normally order takeout, but it's good all the same. The subtle mix of flavors that comes with a traditional green curry. Lemongrass, ginger, Thai basil, makrut lime leaves, and the chili peppers that bring just enough spice.
Perfect. I scoop a piece of chicken, stir-fried eggplant, and bamboo shoots over my rice and cover them with the light green sauce.
Jackson waits as I take a bite, add a few chili flakes, taste the food again. It's better a little spicy. But I don't want to add too much. I don't want to overwhelm myself or the flavor.
He tries his food. Adds more chili. Finds it just right.
And he waits.
And waits.
And waits.
The perfectly fried eggplant and the crunchy bamboo shoots don't save me.
So I swallow my bite, then a sip of water, and I begin. "I think it started after you got that trench coat." This is what I want. Honest conversation where we explore our desires. It's a little awkward, yes, but I can do it. I'm capable. "I imagined this entire scenario straight out of a 1940s movie. Where I was the femme fatale and you were the detective investigating my husband's disappearances. Sometimes, you thought I was hiding something under my clothes, so you tried to undress me."
His eyes stay fixed on mine. They stay wide with interest. His whole body stays tuned to mine.
He's interested.
He's game.
The knowledge helps, but not enough. I have to look at my food to continue. "Other times, you were trying to win me over with your body. And sometimes, you were questioning me, and trying to keep it serious, and I was trying to distract you with my body." I stop fighting my blush. I let my cheeks turn red. My chest too.
I finally look him in the eyes.
His gaze is even more intense. As if he's about to jump across the table and take me here.
I want to soak it in forever. And I want to run from the intensity of it.
This is why people don't face their desires. Because it feels so fucking vulnerable. I'm fully dressed, but I feel like I'm standing on this table, naked, inviting everyone to look at the most sensitive parts of my body.
"Let's try it," he says. "After this."
I shake my head.
He raises a brow. "No?"
"No… We need to try one of yours next." My cheeks stay red, but I push through. "It's only fair."
"What if this is one of mine?"
"Is it?" I ask.
"It's close."
"Tell me how it's different. No. Tell me something totally different," I say. "Something we haven't said or done."
"Something that makes me blush," he offers.
I nod. Yes. Exactly. I know he'll never look as awkward as I do—he is far too cool, far too experienced—but I need something. Some of the same vulnerability.
"The blush is sexy as fuck, Daph. I hope you know that."
In response, my cheeks redden.
He smiles. "It means a lot that you're willing to be vulnerable with me. It's flattering, yes, but it's more than that too. It's…" He trails off, unable to find the right word.
I'm not sure what it is either. Intimate, maybe. Caring. Loving. Close. Something like that.
Something I can't really examine.
How can I crack myself open if I leave in three weeks?
How can I turn down the opportunity?
He doesn't know why this ends in three weeks. He doesn't know I'm leaving. It feels wrong to withhold that information, but I can't tell him. Not until I tell Cassie and Damon.
My parents are the only people who know. And not because I told them. Because Mom is friends with one of the doctors in the program. Because the doctor congratulated her.
I can't complain about the access to opportunities, but it would be great if I worked in an industry where I had no family ties, where I could do whatever the hell I want without worrying news would get back to my parents.
"It is intimate." I take another bite. I try to focus on today. Right now. The fun of whatever I'm doing with Jackson. I just need to make sure we're on the same page. Then I can let go and enjoy. "This isn't what I imagined for my wedding, but I am glad we have three weeks together. I doubt it's the marriage you imagined either, but I… I want to enjoy it."
"Me too," he says.
"I never thought I'd marry someone," I say. "My parents are happy, and they're independent, in their way, too, but they're tied to each other forever. I didn't want that. I'm not sure I do now."
He nods with understanding.
"I always figured I'd have to choose between my autonomy and a family. That's how it goes for women. Maybe for everyone. So I… I choose this. A life that's all mine."
"There's nothing wrong with that."
"It's a strange thing to say to my husband. Harsh."
"It is," he says. "But that doesn't make it less true."
"Is that always how it goes for you?" I ask. "The truth is best, even if it hurts?"
"Yes. Do you disagree?"
"Does anyone ever admit they disagree?"
"Not usually," he says. "Most people want to believe a sugar-coated version of reality is the truth. But I don't blame them. The truth is painful."
"You sound like a philosophy major."
"I am a lawyer," he says.
And a lot of lawyers major in philosophy undergrad. But he didn't. He majored in economics. It suits him. As a man who understands money and systems. Who wants to know how the world works.
But when I think of economics majors, I think of accountants and spreadsheets and people who wouldn't know fun if it slapped him in the face.
He does worry about that.
And it is true in certain ways. He doesn't exactly let go. He's not letting go here. Not yet.
He's still in control of his desires, his needs, his secrets. And I love the sense of that—of letting him take charge—but I want the rest too. I want us on even ground.
I will ask again.
After I cover all this. "Is that your guiding value? Honesty?"
"If I have to pick one." His eyes meet mine. "You?"
"Knowledge, I guess." I try to be honest, but I'm not as good at it. It's just easier said than done. It's easier to tell myself Damon and Cassie want to know you're leaving than to actually tell them. "I admire that."
"That makes us a good match. If you want someone to tell the truth and I want to tell the truth."
"But you still haven't volunteered an answer to my question," I say.
He nods that's true , but he doesn't offer a confession. There's a stiffness to his posture. One I don't want to challenge. Because we aren't really life partners. We're only in this for a few weeks.
Instead, I ask, "How did you imagine your wedding?"
"The way I imagine dates," he says. "Whatever the woman I married wanted."
"You don't strike me as agreeable," I say.
He chuckles. "See. You are honest."
"Yes, but I knew you'd take it as a compliment too."
His smile widens. He nods you're right, I do . "I'm not. I like what I like, and I don't compromise the way some people do. I won't go to a restaurant I hate because someone else likes it. I'll find one we both like instead. I can do that easily, because I pay attention. I notice what other people need and I try to supply it, as long as it's not in the way of what I want."
Agreeableness versus conscientiousness, in psychology terms. I only grasp the difference through that lens. And I see hints of it in his behavior.
He doesn't have a romantic vision of a wedding—most guys probably don't—so he's happy to give his bride what she wants. But he'd never agree to honeymoon at, say, the Mall of America because he'd hate it. What would he like though? "What about the honeymoon? You must imagine that?"
"Mostly the bedroom," he says.
My lips curl into a smile. "And hotel rooms look the same everywhere?" The image forms in my mind. Jackson in a big, beautiful room, a Just Married sign hanging over the four-poster bed. A blue bondage rope in his hands. This is how I wanted to tie you down.
He nods as if he's sharing my vision. As if he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Somewhere with nice weather and a beach."
A suite in Hawaii. Jackson on the balcony in one of his linen shirts, watching the sun set over the Pacific, his arms wrapped around his bride.
His arms wrapped around me.
I swallow hard. I sit up straight. I have romantic visions of him sometimes. I certainly did when I was younger. But they're not appropriate right now.
There's no future for our romance. Only the next three weeks. "What else do you see?"
"Besides a woman in a hot pink bikini?" He doesn't say like the one you wear, but it fills the space anyway. He's picturing me.
Of course, he's picturing me. We got married last night. We're on our honeymoon now. "Maybe we should do it. Book flights to Hawaii. Hide from our families in a hotel room."
"Say the word and I'm there."
It's tempting. One week away from the world, only the two of us, in a hotel room, falling in love as we fall into bed again and again.
That's why I can't do it.
I can't do it to myself. And I really can't do it to him.
I shake my head. "We shouldn't."
"We always do what we should," he says. "Aren't you tired of it?"
"Look what happened when we tried to rebel." I hold up my left hand. "We have to face it. We're not good at letting our hair down."
He smiles probably not . "What do you imagine? For your honeymoon?"
"Besides a naked man with a six-pack?"
"If you can envision anything else." A teasing tone slips into his voice. One I want to capture and hold close.
"A beach, I guess. A pool where we can tease each other or hang out and talk all night. That's always felt like an intimate space to me. I'm not sure why."
"The one in your backyard," he offers.
I nod.
"Did you have fantasies around it?"
"Yes, but you don't get any more info until you share yours," I say.
He nods fair enough , but he doesn't shift to sex. He stays on the subject of post-wedding vacations. "I see a pool in my honeymoon too."
"There's one in your backyard too," I say.
He smiles that same teasing smile. He sits there, studying me, as if he's trying to decide if he wants to dive into sex or love. As if he's not sure which topic is more loaded.
But that's silly.
Of course, it's love.
Jackson's voice softens. "I always assumed I'd get married. That's what men like me do." When he catches me staring at his watch, he nods. "Men with designer watches, who have high-powered careers. They always have a wife and kids. I thought I would. I thought, one day, I'd wake up and want that life. But I'm not sure I ever did."
He didn't.
So he wants to end this too.
Good. That's good. I'm not breaking his heart. He wants to go back to his life too. This is just to help with his job.
Sure, he didn't spell that out, but it's there, implied by his words. And, sure, it's what I want to hear, because I want to know I'm not ruining his life, but—
Fuck it. I'll take it.
I'm not breaking his heart.
A happy ending.
"No," He says. "I do want a family one day. But I don't know what it will look like anymore. I don't know if I'm marriage material." He holds up his left wrist. "Yes, I have the watch, and the money, but I'm lacking something else. Women love me at first. Then they find out I'm missing something and they leave. There's no anger, no horrible incompatibility, no cheating. Just the women saying you're a great guy, Jackson, but I don't think this relationship is going anywhere ."
"I'm sorry." I swallow another sip of tea.
"Don't be. They're right. They always say the same thing. They ask if I love them and I can't say yes, so… why would they stay?"
Really? It's hard to imagine Jackson withholding affection. But then it's also hard to imagine him lying if he didn't feel something. "You've never been in love?"
"I don't know. I thought so, a few times when I was younger, but was that love? Or just what I'd heard in a pop song?"
"You sound like Cassie," I say.
"Cassie would say love isn't like most pop songs. And she's right. It didn't feel like one of those songs. I never had that all-consuming drive to give myself to someone. To take all of them."
"Maybe the songs are the problem," I say. "Maybe we have misguided ideas about what it means to love someone."
"Maybe. Or maybe the women are right. I always choose something else over them. They want to come first outside the bedroom. They deserve that. But I can't give it to them."
"I know what you mean," I say. "I've loved boyfriends before, but I've never loved them more than work. I never felt that same pull to discover every single nugget of information. I never felt like I could spend my entire life studying them and still find more."
"Is that how you define love?"
"Of course not. I'm a scientist. I know love is a chemical reaction, in our brains, one a lot like addiction. And there's the bonding from oxytocin. We'll feel that if we stare into someone's eyes or touch them skin to skin. Or orgasm with them."
He raises a brow back to sex already , but he doesn't say anything to call me on it.
"But that doesn't really explain it, does it. It's like saying marriage is a legal contract. It's true. But it's not the whole story."
He nods that's true . "We're already married to our jobs. We don't have room for someone else."
"Maybe." It's the most obvious explanation. And it certainly fits my life right now. I choose work, my passion, over friends and family. I'm leaving the state. I'm moving to the other side of the country. That means something. But it doesn't have to mean I'm incapable of truly loving someone forever. "We have three weeks, right? If you really do want this for real one day, we can practice. Try to see what it means, to really count on someone, let them help you."
"How does that work?"
"I'm not sure," I say. "Maybe we just try. Or we could go back to talking sexual fantasies. That's less awkward."
He smiles as if to say far less awkward .
"And, well, you didn't tell me yours yet. So… whenever you're ready. I'm here. I'm waiting."