“I know.” I press my forehead against hers. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t.” Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Don’t apologize. Not for that.”
“I’m leaving in three days.”
“I know.”
“This is complicated.”
“Everything about my life is complicated.” She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are bright. Wet. But she’s not crying. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and then apologize for it. That’s not how this works.”
“How does it work?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been winging emotional attachment since the courtroom orgasm and clearly my decision-making is suspect. But I know I wanted that. Wanted you. And if you apologize for it, I’m going to be personally offended and possibly never make you anything with walnuts again.”
I should explain all the reasons this is a bad idea. The professional boundaries, the timing, the fact that she’s grieving two other men and I’m about to walk out of her life.
But she’s looking at me like she wants me to stay. And I’m so tired of leaving.
“I’m not taking it back,” I say.
She smiles. Small but real.
And when she goes back to her cookies, I stay in the kitchen. Watching. Wanting. Counting the hours I have left.
Day five, we fall asleep together.
It’s not planned. Nothing about this is planned.
We’re on the couch in her apartment, some movie playing that neither of us is really watching. She’s tucked against my side, her head on my shoulder, and at some point her breathing slows and evens out and I realize she’s asleep.
I should move. Should carry her to her bed and go back to the couch where I’ve been sleeping for five nights, maintaining the boundary that doesn’t really exist anymore.
I don’t move. I sit there in the dark, her weight warm against me, and I let myself have this.
Just this. Just her, asleep and trusting, curled into my side like I’m safe.
When was the last time anyone treated me like I was safe?
My ex-wife never did. Even at our best, there was always a wariness to her. A sense that she was waiting for me to disappear again, to get a call and walk out the door and leave her alone with her life.
She wasn’t wrong to be wary. I did leave. Over and over.
That’s the job. That’s always been the job.
But sitting here with Stevie sleeping against me, I’m starting to wonder if the job is worth what it costs.
Forty-four names in my notebook. Forty-four people I’ve helped disappear.
Not one of them has made me want to stay like this.
Not one of them has made me question everything I thought I knew about what I wanted from my life.
Just her.
I close my eyes.
And I fall asleep too.
