Chapter 39
Elise
When the tour ends, Bennett waits at arrivals with no sign, no flowers, and no photographer accidentally tipped off by a publicist.
"You're losing your touch," I tell him.
"I considered a marching band."
"I would have gotten back on the plane."
He takes my suitcase.
Not the cello.
He knows better now.
In the car, Chicago looks both familiar and strange. Eight weeks is not long enough for a city to change, but it is long enough for me to return as someone slightly different.
Bennett does not ask where I want to sleep tonight until we are halfway home.
Home.
I notice the word and let it stay.
"The apartment," I say.
His hands tighten once on his knees.
"Okay."
"My apartment too."
He looks at me.
"Yes."
When we arrive, nothing has been staged.
No rose petals.
No remodeled music room.
My slippers are still beside the bed where I left them months ago. The ugly gray chair is gone, replaced by nothing because Bennett apparently learned that empty space does not require immediate acquisition.
My cello stand waits near the windows.
I set the case beside it.
Bennett remains in the doorway.
"Do you want me to give you space?"
I turn.
For months, he has practiced leaving room.
Tonight I do not want it.
"No."
He crosses the room slowly.
When he kisses me, there is no careful distance left.
We have had careful for months.
This is hungry and familiar and new enough to make me cry into his mouth.
Later, in our bed, Bennett traces the pale line on my left ring finger.
He does not ask.
I love him for that.