Mayluna

62 EVIE

E VIE

Two weeks later, after having barely traveled much in years, I found myself back in London. I took a car from the airport, and when I pulled up to the driveway of his house, Carter was at my door, pulling me into his arms.

“You didn’t run,” he whispered.

“I didn’t run,” I replied.

“After we said goodbye, I wasn’t sure what would happen. Thank you for coming. I know it wasn’t easy on your end.”

“You’re still fairly irresistible,” I whispered back.

He grinned and leaned his forehead against mine before searching my eyes. He kissed me gently, then took my hand. “C’mon. Let’s get you settled in. I’ve only got you here for two weeks, and I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Just as I was about to step inside, I hesitated again, glancing behind me toward the set of wrought-iron gates that I’d passed through on the way in and the vintage Mercedes parked nearby. I raised an eyebrow at him.

“There’s not going to be a supermodel or three relaxing on your couch, is there?” I asked with only half a laugh.

He smiled and placed a reassuring hand over mine. “Very funny. No. Just the dog.”

“Mandy?” I asked hopefully.

“No, she died a few years ago, I’m afraid. But Marvin will love you too. C’mon.” As he opened the door, we were greeted by a very friendly golden retriever bounding up to us. Instantly, my jaw dropped as I took in the scene of Carter’s home—an enclave behind a hedgerow in leafy Hampstead Heath.

The walls were a deep charcoal gray and white, and a massive fireplace took up the far wall of a sitting room, flanked by two tall french doors that opened up to a tiered garden.

An original Larry Rivers painting hung above the mantel.

On a distant wall hung a Chagall, which I imagined was original, as well.

“You used to have a couple of posters, I remember. Traded them in for the real thing, I see?” He seemed to enjoy that I’d remembered this detail and smiled with a mix of sheepish pride.

A print of the Chagall— Blue Lovers —had once hung over his bed with tattered corners affixed with tape to the chalky white walls in their Camden Town flat when we were younger.

I walked over to a long wall of shelves, displaying an array of awards and photos of him alongside celebrities and heroes, casually intermixed with rows of books, many of which appeared to be rare first editions.

I ran my finger over the rough cloth binding of one and drew back, almost afraid to touch it.

“I collect them now,” he said, appearing behind me.

“They’re lovely.”

“So the bedrooms are that way and the main bathroom through there.” He gestured from where he stood, watching me closely. I knew how incredibly surreal it must have been for him to see me there, as I knew it would feel the same if he had been in my home.

On one hand, I found myself enjoying the adult, sultry vibe of the space, but then, just as fast, imagined my children running through the extravagant surroundings.

I saw fingerprints and heard the sound of the kids’ shows blaring from the television.

I wondered if he had yet realized how different our worlds were and suspected not.

“Are you going to say anything?” he asked after a few minutes had passed.

“It’s stunning.”

“But?” He could always read me in an instant.

“It’s just different from my life. It’s hard to adjust to, that’s all. We’ve missed so much.”

He nodded, understanding. “I’m a different person when you’re not in my life.

Evie, I always knew that. It was part of why I so desperately, so obsessively loved you and wanted you with me.

Because I was afraid that without you, I would lose sight of myself and drown in all of this, and in many ways, that’s exactly what happened. ”

His words resonated with me. Without him in my life, in many ways I’d lost sight of myself as well. We made each other feel at peace in our own skin.

He pulled me over to a sofa with ivory fabric and black pillows.

I sat gingerly, feeling the expensive fabric beneath my fingertips.

He leaned back and surveyed the room. “But—now that I look around, I think it could use a feminine touch. Bit of warmth? What do you think?” He gave me a slight, mischievous smile.

“What do I think?” As he’d been talking, a smile had begun spreading across my face. “Hmm ... what I think is that it’s finally just hitting me that I’m here. I’m in your house! You live here, and we’re sitting on your sofa. I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

He smiled broadly. “I’m going to keep you prisoner here, you know.” His eyes sparkled, a momentary break in the sadness that seemed etched into his face. He took my hand and pulled me into him and kissed me.

“Huh. I see. Prisoner, you say?”

“Any complaints?”

“None whatsoever.” The thought of the nearby bedroom and the time spread out before us settled into a low throb deep inside. When he ended the kiss and pulled away, his eyes were dark with heat, and I knew he was thinking the same thing.

“Hungry?” he teased.

“Famished.”

That evening, after a small dinner we prepared together, we sat close on oversize burgundy floor pillows arranged on the floor in front of the marble fireplace.

We spoke for hours, catching up on years lost. I lay with my head in his lap while drops of rain tapped the windows in a lullaby.

I watched the flames dance in the fireplace and along the dark walls.

I could feel the heat of him behind me, and I turned my head to see his eyes were closed while he ran his fingers through my hair.

I watched him breathe, adoring everything about him.

Sensing me watching him, he opened his eyes, returning my gaze.

Our whole past was there. The love. The loss.

And then slowly, an unspoken shift.

I reached up and ran my hand along his chest, down his stomach, to remind myself that it was real.

That he was here. I sat up, raising my face to kiss him.

Lightly at first until he placed his hand behind my head and the kiss deepened into a pool of heat.

He pulled me onto his lap and cradled me close.

“Not a day has gone by when I haven’t thought about you.

” His whisper was warm on my mouth. “What it felt like to touch you, to feel your skin. The way you tasted.”

He was so much a part of me that I’d been lost without him for all this time.

His face was lit from the side by the yellow glow of the fire, and the veil was dropped between us.

No pretenses and no walls to hide behind.

No fear of what the future held. It was so familiar in some ways, so like the way we’d been when we were younger.

But there was a deeper intensity to it, as if we were trying to make up for years of lost time, every move deliberate and savored, until finally, he lifted me up and carried me to the bedroom while time and years faded away.

The sun had just begun to cast a glow into the room when I lay beside him, resting peacefully with my head in the soft spot of his chest as he cradled me beside him.

The gray bed dominated the center of the room with a massive upholstered headboard and black nail-head trim.

Another fireplace warmed a corner, lit by Carter during the night.

Several expensive-looking guitars sat beside a large, dark linen chaise.

“I have dreams about you sometimes,” I told him.

“It’s weird how real they are. Sometimes I close my eyes and feel you.

Whisper that I love you when no one can hear me.

” I thought of how many mornings I’d woken with the feeling of such profound disappointment that the dreams I’d been having of him were over.

“Sometimes I swear I can still hear you.” I’d lay in bed, clamping my eyes closed as I tried to hold on to him.

I trailed my finger down his stomach, around his hip bone.

“I have no doubt you can.” He told me he loved it when he dreamed of me, too, waking up in the same state as I’d described, musing that perhaps we shared the same dreams on the same nights. “We’ve always been connected like that,” he said.

“Clearly it feels like we never stopped.” I smiled with a small laugh. “In dreams or in real life.”

“Were you worried?” he asked, clearly amused.

I shrugged, feeling color warm my cheeks.

“A little. It’s been a very, very long time for me.

Since I’ve been with anyone.” I’d said it lightly, but his brows knitted together as if to say he was sorry to hear that.

As if to say, You deserve to be cherished.

Every inch of you. I could’ve cried at that look.

He shook his head before kissing me deeply.

He whispered, “I plan to make up for lost time.” I smiled, curling his arm closer into my chest. “We fit together, Evie. By the time these weeks are over, you’ll never want to say goodbye again. And neither will I.”

I pushed any conflicting thoughts to the back of my mind and felt a wash of comfort and peace. Over the years, sometimes, I would let myself remember what it had felt like to sleep next to him. The comfort and completeness that soothed my frayed nerves like a lullaby.

“I want to see what you look like at home. In your life. Shopping, hanging out in your living room. Watching TV and doing normal, everyday stuff with the kids. I want to see what that looks like,” he told me.

“Well, it’s not much to see. We lead a pretty quiet life.”

He kept looking at me, wonder in his eyes, as he continued. “I want to see you at the end of the day when you’re getting sleepy. Hair up and pajamas on. And I want to tell you that you’re beautiful and make you believe me until you drift off in my arms. You deserve all of that.”

I found myself wanting to take care of him in return. To make him feel loved.

“So when’s the last time someone made breakfast for you?” he asked.

“It’s been a while.” I laughed.

“Why don’t you go and get a good long bath, and I’ll fix us breakfast. Don’t think I didn’t see you eyeing the tub last night.” He winked.

He wasn’t wrong. It was a classic cast-iron claw-foot bathtub, black with white interior and room for more than one, as we discovered.

It was the centerpiece of the bathroom. Next to it sat a long glass table, set with several neatly stacked white towels and a candelabra with half-burned candles.

The room featured white-and-gray marble on the floor and walls, with a floor-to-ceiling, glass-enclosed shower and half a dozen varying sprayers at multiple angles.

When I took a bath at home, I often had to clear out the plastic bath toys and wipe it with cleanser first. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You still like to cook breakfast?” I asked.

“Don’t look so surprised! Some things are still the same. The good things, of course.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. Now, take your cute bottom out of here and let me work my magic.”

“I could get used to this, you know,” I said as I left the room.

“I’m counting on it,” he called out.

Over the days that followed, we never left each other’s side.

Carter seemed to simultaneously need company and quiet, and I gave him both.

We cooked, we brushed our teeth next to each other, our toothbrushes intimately placed beside one another, such a simple joy.

We curled up together with bowls of popcorn and watched movies.

We spent the nights enjoying the simplicities of domestic life with one another as if it were a rare gift.

It was so good that I was almost able to put the rest of it, and everything I’d come here to do, to the back of my mind.

With each passing day, it weighed heavily.

But I respected the promise I’d made to Steve—to give it time.