24. Annie #2
“I noticed the distribution.”
She placed my suitcase beside the dresser.
“The bathroom is the same one you used before. The towels are clean.”
“Thank you.”
“And I didn’t put you here because I’ve decided that nothing is going to happen.”
I looked at her.
She crossed her arms.
“I put you here because I haven’t decided what will happen. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and wonder whether I skipped several steps because you were standing in my house.”
“That makes sense.”
“You look disappointed.”
“I am disappointed.”
The admission seemed to surprise her.
“I’m also trying to respect the room.”
“You can do both.”
“I am.”
For a second, neither of us looked away.
Then Ellie stepped back.
“Unpack. We’ll walk before dinner.”
She left.
I sat on the edge of the spare bed.
The flight had been easier than the pillow arrangement.
I opened the suitcase and put my clothes into the dresser because Ellie had once accused me of treating drawers as surrender.
Two shirts.
Jeans.
Toiletries in the bathroom.
The bad hat went on top of the dresser. I looked at it for several seconds before turning the embroidered side toward the wall.
When I returned to the living room, Ellie was waiting by the door.
We walked toward the water.
Pelican Key had not changed. Bicycles leaned against fences, a man washed a boat in his driveway, and two children moved buckets of sand between the beach and a construction project with unclear permits.
A few people recognized me.
One woman smiled and kept walking.
A man outside the marina lifted his hand.
“Welcome back.”
“Thank you.”
That was all.
I looked at Ellie.
“She didn’t ask for a photograph.”
“She has three children. She no longer spends energy unnecessarily.”
At the seawall, Ellie sat with her feet resting on the lower ledge.
I sat beside her, leaving enough space to communicate respect and enough to feel ridiculous.
The last time we had sat there, she had invited me to dinner.
The water moved below us while a small boat headed toward the marina.
“You came out publicly,” Ellie said.
“Yes.”
“How do you feel?”
“Relieved. Frightened. Annoyed that relief was an option.”
“Your sponsor?”
“Still wants to discuss brand alignment.”
“What does that mean?”
“They are examining whether lesbians continue to purchase lipstick.”
Ellie looked at me.
“Do they?”
“I offered to conduct research.”
Her laugh arrived unexpectedly and loosened something in my chest.
“One radio station removed two songs,” I said. “Another added four. Richard has discovered several new types of disappointment.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No.”
The answer did not need thought.
“I regret that it took so long.”
Ellie watched the water.
“You mentioned that Claire wrote after the interview.”
“She said it was brave.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That she deserved honesty years ago.”
“Did she answer?”
“No.”
Ellie nodded.
“She might not.”
“She doesn’t owe me one.”
We let the subject rest.
I was becoming better at recognizing when silence did not need intervention, although I did not yet enjoy it.
After a while, Ellie moved her hands between her knees.
“I want to ask you something, but I don’t know whether it’s the correct question.”
“That has never stopped anyone interviewing me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Ask the incorrect question.”
She took a breath.
“If nobody knew who you were, and none of the photographs had happened, what would you want now?”
“I’d want to date you.”
Ellie looked over.
“Date me.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds strangely ordinary.”
“I have become interested in ordinary things.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
Her expression changed.
“Sorry,” I said. “That sounded worse than I intended.”
“It sounded honest.”
“I meant I don’t know how long I’ll remain fascinated by grocery stores and free afternoons. I know I want you.”
“That part is easier to say.”
“Yes.”
“What would dating look like?”
I rubbed my palm against the rough surface of the seawall.
“Dinner somewhere neither of us works. You visiting me and hating my furniture. Me coming here without pretending I’m somebody else. Calls that don’t require written permission forever.”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually.”
“My life is here.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I understand the words. I may not understand every part yet.”
Ellie looked at me, perhaps surprised by the answer.
“My work involves travel,” I continued. “I don’t want to give it up, and I don’t think you want me to.”
“I don’t.”
“But the schedule can change. It already has.”
“For five days.”
“That was my first attempt.”
She turned back toward the water.
“I don’t want to be hidden again.”
“You won’t be.”
“You can’t promise nobody will make me feel hidden. There will be rooms I can’t enter and events where you’ll be photographed with people I’ve never met.”
“That is true.”
“And sometimes you’ll choose work.”
“Yes.”
The word made her shoulders tense.
I wanted to soften it, but any softer answer would have been a lie.
“Sometimes you’ll choose Reef Rascal,” I added.
“That isn’t the same.”
“It may feel the same to me when I want you somewhere else.”
Ellie considered that.
“Maybe.”
“I don’t know how we do this perfectly.”
“I’m not asking for perfect.”
“You asked several detailed questions.”
“I am trying to understand the level of danger.”
“Romantic.”
“It is romantic for me.”
I smiled.
She almost did.
“I won’t be your public proof that you’ve changed,” she said.
“I don’t want you to be.”
“You might still benefit from people seeing us together.”
“That sounds terrible when you say it.”
“It sounded terrible when I thought it.”
“I might benefit. That doesn’t mean I should use it.”
“And if we’re photographed tomorrow?”
“I won’t deny you. I also won’t decide what we are in front of a microphone.”
“That may not stop them.”
“No.”
She rubbed her hands together.
“I hate that answer.”
“I have several more available.”
“That was not a request.”
The distance between us had narrowed during the conversation. Our shoulders were not touching, but I no longer had to turn fully to see her.
“I’m still angry,” Ellie said.
“I know.”
She looked at me.
I corrected myself.
“I remember.”
“Better.”
“I’m not expecting the anger to disappear because I flew here.”
“Part of me thinks it should be easier now.”
“Which part?”
“The part that wants to kiss you and stop discussing logistical problems.”
“That part sounds intelligent.”
“It has questionable judgment.”
“I brought supporting documentation.”
She glanced at the hat.
Then her gaze returned to my face.
I wanted to touch the strand of hair moving against her cheek. My hand shifted before I stopped it.
Ellie noticed.
“You can ask.”
The words changed the air between us.
“May I kiss you?”
She did not answer immediately.
I could hear the water beneath the seawall and the distant sound of someone lowering equipment onto a boat.
“Are you asking because you want to,” she said, “or because we’ve reached the part of the conversation where people kiss instead of solving anything?”
“Both.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“That was honest.”
“I have wanted to kiss you since the airport. I also have no idea what else to say without repeating myself.”
“That is less romantic than your first answer.”
“It is more accurate.”
Ellie looked down, and for one horrible second I thought I had ruined it by failing to select the elegant option.
Then she moved closer.
“You can kiss me.”
I leaned in carefully.
The first touch of her mouth against mine was almost restrained.
Then Ellie’s hand moved behind my neck, and restraint lost its position in the conversation.
She tasted like coffee and mint. My hand settled at her waist as she turned toward me, familiar enough that my body remembered before my thoughts did.
The kiss deepened.
There was relief in it, and anger, and the desire we had spent several weeks pretending could be handled through communication policies.
When we finally separated, Ellie kept her forehead against mine.
“You’re still sleeping in the spare room.”
“I respect the spare room.”
“You looked personally offended by the pillow.”
“It seemed isolated.”
“There are more in the closet.”
“You mentioned that.”
I kissed the corner of her mouth.
Ellie pulled back slightly.
“Did you ask permission for that one?”
“No.”
“That was reckless.”
“I apologize.”
“You may try again.”
So I did.
The sun lowered while we remained on the seawall, close enough that our shoulders touched.
Ellie had invited me for two days.
For once, I did not ask for more.