Chapter 26
Dear July,
I feel so stupid and slow, like I’ll never get it. But I finally give up. I won’t bother you anymore. I’m sorry for everything.
Joe
Our happy group practically floats across the town square to July’s for a celebration lunch. The only people who don’t seem completely thrilled are David and Meg’s little ones. Apparently they really enjoyed having sweet older siblings.
“Okay, but you can come see us.” Maisie takes Melly’s hand and swings it. “Maybe Meg and David will do a date night, and you guys can come over and watch movies and eat popcorn and play games with us.” The little one gives an excited skip at that.
“And y’all can come over for dinner whenever you want, and we can have our holidays and birthdays together.” Meg’s a little misty, smiling at Maisie and Sam. David slings his arm around her shoulder and presses a kiss to her temple.
July’s smiling too, but there’s a tiny tremble to her lips. She’s looking around wide-eyed at everybody as if it’s the first time she’s seen us. When she gets to me, I expect her to turn away fast…but this time she doesn’t. She blinks down for a second, almost shyly, and then right back up at me, her gray eyes shining.
And I almost crash into the door Angus is holding open for us. He stops me just in time with a big hand on my shoulder. “Easy there.” He pats my back as I pass him, laughter in his tone. Sympathy too.
Inside, there’s a line of pushed-together tables reserved for us. Tina peeks out of the kitchen, and July gives her a big smile and two thumbs up. Tina ducks back in, and five minutes later when Sonya’s finished taking our orders, the rest of the day crew comes marching out singing, “For they are jolly good fellows.” In the lead is Tina carrying a beautiful, flower-decked sheet cake that reads, Congratulations, Maisie and Sam! I’m betting the lettering isn’t dry yet, that the cake would say something different, something comforting, if July had given Tina a thumb down about the judge’s decision.
Everybody in the place joins in on the singing. After the cake is cut and pieces passed out, the kids’—I guess I should stop calling them that—lawyer raises her water glass. “To Maisie and Sam, two of the bravest, most resourceful young people I know!”
Their caseworker goes next. “To Sam and Maisie, who really know how to adult!”
“To Maisie and Sam, the best kids we almost had.” Meg’s toast comes with hugs.
Then it’s Maisie’s turn. She holds up her soda glass and waves at the whole room. “To friends,” she says, her eyes full of tears.
And quiet Sam stands up and hugs her and raises his glass too. “To family.”
Nothing could top those, and we all know better than to try. We’ve got watery eyes too.
I check to see how July’s holding up. I’m still surprised she chose a seat next to me when there was another empty one right beside it. Sure enough, she wipes her eye with one finger before leaning forward to tug off her sweater.
And…that pretty yellow dress is a sundress. Which means I am now inches from her silky, bare shoulders and arms and back, and suddenly the room is a lot warmer and I’m wondering whether I should sit on my hands, just to make sure I keep them to myself.
She glances over at me. Is that a blush? “Wasn’t court appropriate without the sweater,” she murmurs.
I clear my throat. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” And I am an awkward high school dork.
She smiles, and I swear it’s that sweet private smile she used to give me. Quick and dazzling and full of all the warmth of summer. Her lashes lower, and then she raises them to look me in the eye. “Joe, could I talk to you after this? Could you stick around?”
Woman, I am yours. For as long as you want. “Sure.”
I can’t tell you how much longer lunch lasts or what I eat, who I talk to, or what I say. All I’m conscious of is the scent of July’s baby shampoo and soap when I lean to catch her sweater as it falls off the back of her chair. The tendril of hair that has worked its way free from her updo, and that I’m sure would be as soft as chamois if I rubbed it between my fingers. The fondness that crinkles her eyes when she smiles across the table at our big kids, and the little snort-laugh that bursts out of her when Donna pauses beside her a moment to say, “And don’t come back—you’re fired.”
Seconds or hours later, finally everyone is gathering their things and standing. Sam and Maisie are going to ride up the mountain with David and Meg to pack their things one last time, to move back into the cabin.
Rose leans toward the kids. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?”
Maisie’s answer is prompt. “Unpack and make a grocery list.”
Sam’s is equally sure. “Test that drawing table you put in our new study area.”
At that, Rose beams at them, and Angus beams down at her, his big hand rising to squeeze the nape of her neck gently. She leans back against him, and the tie between them is so tangible I swear I can see it, swirls and tendrils of rose gold.
The back of my throat aches with wanting that.
July touches my arm, and the warmth of her fingers yanks my attention back. “I’m just going to carry some of these plates to the kitchen. Meet you in the hall at my stairs?”
“I’ll help.” I gather glasses and flatware and follow. Not sure what’s going to happen here. I’m afraid to hope. But this is my first actual invitation upstairs. Her first actual indication that she wants to really talk. About us. My heart thumps loud in my ears as we drop off the dishes and tease the kitchen crew. Because you always have to tease the kitchen crew.
And then we’re in her private stairwell, climbing up into her personal space, and this time I know I’m welcome, for however long as it takes her to say whatever she wants to tell me.
She pauses at the top of the stairs. “Want something to drink?” When I say no, she looks from the dining area to the living room area as if unsure where to seat us. Finally she moves to one end of the couch.
I take the other end and wait, willing my heart rate to slow, mentally turning off the mechanical squirrels jumping around in my head and my gut.
She shifts to face me, her hands clasped around one drawn-up knee, her brow furrowed. She presses her lips together as she seems to be deciding how to begin, and then she meets my eyes. “So I had a kind of revelation in the courtroom today.”
This could be good or bad. “Okay…” Thump, thump, thump in my chest.
“I’ve been…” She frowns again. “It’s kind of like if every time I saw a sunny day, I hid out in the basement because one sunny day a long time ago ended with a tornado.”
Wut. “Um…”
She laughs and I’m lost in pleasure at the sound. “I was trying to find a good analogy, okay? What I’m saying is, I’ve been hiding out from relationships, including and especially a new one with you, because the last time I let myself fall in love, it ended really, really badly and almost killed me. So when I was listening to Judge Fox today, I realized I’ve been denying myself all the sunny days, living my life without sunny days, because I was afraid they’d end badly.”
If I’m understanding her right, I’m not sure I like where this is going. “So…I’m the tornado?”
She throws up her hands, collapses back into the couch cushions, and rolls her head to face me. Her smile trickles over me like slow, warm honey, and her eyes crinkle. “Nah. Joe, you’re the sunshine.”
Oh. That’s…good? It sounds good. Hard to think over the pounding of my heart.
She reaches to take my hand between both of hers, stroking my knuckles with her thumb. “So I’ve been wasting all the sunshine out of fear it would always end in a tornado. I was letting my fear of some possible future tornado that might never materialize keep me from ever enjoying the sunshine.”
“Oh.” That’s very sad. July belongs in sunshine. July is sunshine.
She squeezes my hand. “But today I realized that’s no way to live. That’s not how I want to live anymore. I gotta be brave like you and Maisie and Sam and Donna and Tina and…normal people, Joe. I gotta be brave enough to step outside into the sunshine.” She lowers my hand to the sofa cushion and pats it gently. “So…I’m not sure exactly what you want with me, but…I’d like to try for something with you.” She says it firmly enough, but there’s a war in her eyes as she fights to keep from putting back up the barricade she’s just taken down. She looks almost scared.
July should never be frightened. July’s the person who comes striding into every room with a big glorious smile and a plan to make things better for everybody. If she’s scared, I’ve got to make things better for her.
I move closer. My turn to pick up her hands. “What do you need from me? Whatever you want.” Speech is almost beyond me, with the scent of her in my nose and her fingers wrapped in mine and the hopeful sound of Joe, you’re the sunshine ringing in my brain.
***
July
I know, when he laces our fingers together, that it’s going to be okay, and I’m flooded with a warmth and a well-being I haven’t felt since I was sixteen. I could melt into a puddle right now, right here on this couch, just holding his hands.
His eyes are changing color in the afternoon light, green to brown to bronzy gold back to green, and above the open top button of his white dress shirt, I see him swallow.
I have always loved Joe’s throat, solid, sturdy, and tanned, his soft, unruly hair curling at his collar. I lean forward now and press a kiss there and he goes very still, his pulse thumping fast under my lips. Every part of him seems so unique, so precious. I nibble a little, upward towards his clenching jaw, and a sigh gusts out of him, a tiny groan right behind. I open my mouth on the firm column of his neck, where his delicious Joe scent is strong, and touch him with my tongue…
And the next thing I know, I’m on my back, Joe on top of me, our hands woven together above my head as he kisses me. Ravenously. With open lips and teeth and tongue, and a hunger that matches my own.
This Joe is new to me. Young Joe was always sweet and careful and respectful, looking in my eyes and asking, “Okay?” before any physical step we took.
This Joe devours me, thrilling me, growling my name as his hot mouth moves on mine. He grips both my wrists in one of his hands as the other sweeps over me, squeezing, stroking, exploring. Layers of fabric are nothing against his determination, and every part of me rises up to meet him, my thighs straining against his, my heart thudding against his chest, my soft places seeking his hard ones.
“I’ve been wanting you forever,” he murmurs, nuzzling my breast before sucking my nipple into his mouth.
I gasp and free one of my hands and cup it around his ass, pressing him into me.
He raises his head to look at me. “You and me, really together…and time…and a bed.” He tilts his pelvis, grinding into me, and groans.
I nod helplessly, freeing my other hand to help.
“The bed’s important.” He’s intent, hands sliding under me to cradle my ass. “…because things might get a little wild.”
I stop wondering why he’s still talking and smile up at him. “Yeah?”
That unholy, irresistible light of young Joe is in his eyes. “Yeah. Figure we should start out in the middle of something soft so I don’t hurt you.” He sweeps my hair off my face and grinds a little harder.
I wrap my legs around him. “Don’t worry about me, Joe. You’re not going to break me.” I say it in my low voice, the one he calls my honey voice, because I remember it makes him crazy.
His smile is slow and sweet. “I know that.” He traces my cheek with one fingertip. “I’m glad you know it now too.”
Another long, hungry kiss, then he’s up off me, tugging me to my feet and toward the bedroom. “Get a move on, girl. It’s going to be a long trip, what with all the kissing and the undressing and me taking liberties with you…” His fingers move at the nape of my neck and the halter top of my sundress loosens and begins to slide down. He catches my expression, waggles his eyebrows and grins.
“A liberty for a liberty.” I unbutton his shirt and he swallows as he watches my progress. Watches my fingers make quick work of his button fly and his zipper too.
“You chef-types are very skilled.” His voice is rough, his breathing rougher as I slip my hand into his slacks to close around him.
One squeeze and then he’s got my wrist, pulling me toward the bedroom. He stops to press me up against the doorframe, kissing me so fiercely I barely notice him tug at my dress until it drops to my feet. I do notice when he cups my breasts—cups them and captures my nipples between his fingers and squeezes.
My turn to growl and wrestle with his clothing, shoving his shirt down over his shoulders, his pants and underwear down his thighs, and then we’re toeing off shoes and kicking aside puddled fabric and reaching for each other as we fall onto the bed.
We’d had a stiff, embarrassed “all clear” conversation about test results weeks ago, and for the first time ever, I make a conscious decision to not use a condom. Joe stills on top of me, poised to join our bodies, and glances toward the nightstand. He raises his eyebrows in question and I when I murmur, “No need,” his answering kiss is fierce.
“July!” His voice is harsh, his gaze forcing my eyes open to meet his even though I’m a mindless melted puddle. “Do you want this? You want me?”
More than anything in the world. I can’t believe I ever thought it was a good idea to hold back from him. But his question isn’t just about consent for sex… He’s making sure I want his love. Him. I hate that he’s had cause to doubt.
“I do.” I say it with all the conviction in my soul, and above me his eyes darken from hazel to near-black. His hold on me tightens and our next kiss is slow. Deep. Possessive.
He’s the perfect weight on me. Perfect weight, perfect warmth, perfect textures, perfect scent. My hands come up to rake through the softness of his hair. Caress his cheek.
He breaks the kiss and props himself on his elbows, sliding his hands into my hair, freeing it, spreading it over my pillow, dipping his head to bury his nose in it.
And as desperate as I was thirty seconds ago, as hard as he is between my legs, as ready as I am for him to be inside me, suddenly I would be fine with making this last all day. Lying here with him on top of me, stroking my hair and looking into my eyes like he’s finally where he wants to be after a lifetime of searching.
“I remember all the ways you used to like to be touched,” he whispers, tracing my mouth with a gentle fingertip. “But how do you like to be touched now?”
That’s pure Joe. Pure thoughtfulness and insight. He’s not mentioning that he knows there have been other men since him. Not shaming me for it, not asking me about it, just acknowledging that twenty years is a long time and that we might have changed in intimate ways. Those aren’t things our sixteen-year-old selves would have wanted, but he’s making them okay.
“My favorite way to be touched,” I say, holding his gaze, “is by you.” Cheesy-sounding but gospel truth.
Then he’s kissing me again, tender and gentle at first, gaining hunger as his fingers slip between my legs. “I didn’t think anything could feel better than my memories of you.” His confession, like his touch, is the perfect blend of rough and sweet.
And then he is shifting, settling into the cradle of my thighs, pushing into me slowly, his eyes closing and then opening to find mine.
“Holy f—” He’s the one who says it, who describes this joining so perfectly, but I’m thinking it too.
I hold on and we begin to move.
I don’t know how long we rock together, first slowly, then faster and then slowing again, Joe gasping little bits of praise and command and thanks in my ear, his breath warm on my neck, his hands sliding from my hips up over my ribs to my breasts and my face, leaving every part of me feeling loved. I don’t know that anyone else would be able to find the rhythm in what we do, but we find it. We understand it. It’s ours. It’s us. And I am where I’m supposed to be, with the person I’m supposed to be with, doing this thing that must have been made just for us, our bodies fitting together so perfectly, sliding and capturing, filling and stroking, pressure building inside us until we can’t go slow any longer and we’re frantic, our bodies colliding so hard we scoot across the bed with each thrust until finally we come, miraculously at the same time, clutching and clutching at each other, laughing, clawing our hair out of our faces, brushing tears off each other’s cheeks.
And I look in his eyes and hold him so tight I wonder if arms could lock like this. And whether I’d even mind if they did, as long as Joe was in mine. And he’s looking back at me the same way, holding me just as tight, wrapping his legs around mine for a long, perfect, full-body hug. “Click,” he says.
And a memory surfaces. We were sixteen and had just climbed into his truck after a long day of work at the steakhouse. He opened his arms, and I slid across that old bench seat straight into them, feeling like it was where I should have been all day. That was the first time he’d said it.
“Click,” I answer now, just as fervently.
We spend the rest of the afternoon in bed, wrapped up in each other, talking in all the different ways lovers communicate, with words and breath, kisses and hands, gazes and taste, giving and receiving. I wait for the magic of it—of us—to start to dim, because surely it will, some, the way it always has almost immediately with anyone else once we’ve satisfied the original hunger, but Joe is still Joe and magic is still magic and my hunger for him ain’t going anywhere.
His either apparently. He’s become a powerful, attentive lover with knowledge my young Joe didn’t have, but he still has his whole heart in the act. And because in addition to always being sweet and respectful, Joe is fun, we get inventive. In my little kitchen, with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. On my couch while watching Ted Lasso . Recreating the Nurse-Joe-finds-July-bareass-naked-on-her-bed scene, only with a much happier ending.
And in my shower at midnight.
“Jesus.” I’m panting, gasping for air. I grip his hair and bite his ear as he rises, holding me up so my shaking legs don’t give out. Half marathons don’t have this effect on me. I close my eyes, wrap my arms around him, and hug him as tightly as he’s holding me. “Jesus, Joe.”
He turns his face into my neck, whispering in my ear as water streams over both of us, “I don’t want to let go of you.”
There he is. There’s that sweet young man I loved. “I don’t want to let go of you either.” Why did I ever bother with any other lover? Nothing—no one—has ever compared to this man. Sixteen-year-old July may have been inexperienced, but she was not wrong.
And like her, I am going to love this man for the rest of my life. “Stay with me.” I mean tonight. I mean forever. I don’t deserve him, but I mean it anyway.
He pushes the wet hair out of my face and presses his forehead to mine. “Yes. Please.”