CHAPTER 13
TREY
Paula’s birthday had passed in July, but Trey’s arrived in October.
Libra season, as Paula insisted on calling it.
She refused to tell him what she planned.
“I don’t like surprises.”
“That sounds personal.”
“PK.”
The next morning carried the residue of the disagreement without becoming another fight.
Coffee brewed. A spoon struck ceramic. Paula stood barefoot at the counter reading an email while Trey cut fruit, and both of them moved around the unsaid thing.
He had spent enough years in litigation to know that silence could be strategic.
This was not. This was two people deciding whether tenderness could survive correction.
When Paula finally looked up, he met her eyes instead of pretending to be interested in the knife.
“No.”
For once, Trey had no itinerary.
It made him itch.
At six Friday evening, Paula arrived at his house.
“Bag.”
“What?”
“Give me your bag.”
He handed it over suspiciously.
She checked it.
“You packed dress shoes.”
“Yes.”
“Take them out.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Trey stared.
Paula smiled.
“Color?”
He laughed so hard he had to sit down.
“This is not a scene.”
“Then stop being difficult.”
She drove.
That alone was unsettling.
They ended up at a cabin two hours outside Washington.
Not rustic.
Paula did not believe in suffering recreationally.
Glass walls.
Fireplace.
Hot tub.
A kitchen stocked with food.
Trey walked in and stopped.
Paula leaned against the door.
“Well?”
“You did this?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
Something shifted inside him.
Trey was accustomed to being the planner.
The provider.
The person who anticipated.
Being cared for felt strangely exposing.
Trey caught Paula’s reaction.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You don’t know what to do.”
“I know what to do.”
“You’re standing there.”
“I’m processing.”
She walked closer.
“You’re allowed to be taken care of too.”
The sentence landed.
Trey looked down at her.
Paula touched his chest.
“Happy birthday.”
He kissed her.
Slowly.
No urgency.
Just gratitude and desire and the odd vulnerability of receiving.
That weekend, Paula planned meals, music, a hike Trey pretended not to enjoy, and absolutely nothing on Sunday morning.
“No schedule?” he asked.
“No.”
“What are we doing?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not an activity.”
“It is today.”
They spent three hours in bed talking.
Not sex.
Talking.
His father.
Her mother.
Julian.
Her fear that success could become an addiction.
His fear that usefulness could become one.
Then desire returned naturally, quietly, with the intimacy of everything they had already said.
Paula looked at him.
“Your birthday. What do you want?”
Trey answered honestly.
“Trust.”
She smiled.
“You have it.”
“Then come here.”
And she did.