Page 99 of Empty Net
Caleb's face changes. Softens and breaks and steadies all at once.
"Okay," he says.
The kiss is not an escape.
That is important.
The grief comes with us. It stays in the room while Caleb takes my face in his hands and kisses me like the body he is touching has not failed, like it is not a problem to solve or a tragedy to witness, like it is simply the place I live and he is grateful to be invited in.
I cry again when his mouth touches the scar near my ribs.
He stops.
"No," I say. "Don't stop."
He looks up.
I look back.
There is no urgency in the old way. No hiding inside heat. The desperation is different. Not frantic. Present. Every touch arriving under the shadow of an expiration date and becomingsharper because of it. Caleb undresses me slowly. I let him. I undress him with hands that shake less than they did in the parking lot.
My body hurts.
My body wants.
Both are true. Neither cancels the other.
In bed, he is careful and not careful, the way he has learned to be. Protecting the hip without making it the center. Touching the rest of me like it still belongs to me. Like it will belong to me after surgery, after hockey, after the last game and the first morning when I wake up without a practice schedule.
He takes his time in a way that makes the grief louder before it makes the pleasure sharper. Hands first. Mouth. The slow, wet patience of his fingers until my body stops bracing for loss and starts answering him. I hate how much I need the time. I love that he gives it without making it feel like time taken from him.
I tell him when something hurts.
That is new.
He adjusts. Kisses the word okay against my shoulder. Waits when I need to breathe. Moves when I pull him closer. His own grief shows in flashes: his mouth pressed tight to my wrist, his eyes closing when I say it's done again, his hand covering mine on the sheet as if he can keep me from disappearing if he anchors enough points of contact.
I say his name.
Not as a lock turning this time. As a handhold.
"Caleb."
"I'm here."
"I know."
The words are small. They hold.
When pleasure finally breaks through the grief, it does not erase it. It moves through it. The body that has been my primary language for thirty years speaks one more fluent sentence, andCaleb listens with his whole self. I come shaking, saying his name, with tears still on my face and his hand locked in mine like he can keep me in my body by touch alone.
After, I lie with my face against his chest and his hand in my hair.
I am exhausted in a way sleep will not fix.
He does not tell me it will be okay.
Good.
