Will we have nights like this again? If so, how many?
I refuse to think about this as our last night. I can’t. I won’t. I invoke the power of positive thinking. This needs to be the start of forever—a lifetime of nights tucking Jo in together, Pat and I the bread in this little family sandwich.
Did you hear me? I INVOKE IT. The invocation has been invoked and shall be as such, forever and ever! Amen.
I must fall asleep shortly after my ridiculous invoking, and when my eyes open sometime later, it takes a moment to realize where I am. Jo is nestled into me, and Pat’s arm stretches above her, his hand resting on top of my head. I’m toasty warm but have a crick in my neck from the odd angle of my head.
Pat watches me with a tender, quiet expression. It’s one that I’ve never seen, and it makes my breath hitch. He’s so still, so perfect. So very MINE.
I know I said we should table the discussion about us, but part of me wants to drag him from the room and confess that I love him. I want to beg him to stay, no matter what happens tomorrow. I want to find lighter fluid and make a Molotov cocktail out of my stupid rules. Just like the rules before, they did NOTHING to guard me against the full-scale assault of Patrick Graham. His intent was to win me and win me, he did.
He tilts his head toward the door and I nod. I manage to extricate myself from Jo’s limbs without waking her. Pat offers me a hand to help me up the rest of the way. He doesn’t let go, keeping my hand curled securely in his. The touch is comforting, but every touch from Pat also lights a fire.
As I quietly close Jo’s door, Pat lets my hand fall from his. In the silence of this new space, he and I enter what can only be described as The Awkward Zone, The Twilight Zone’s much dorkier cousin. We move to stand near the kitchen counter, but I think our minds are both focused on the master bedroom door ten feet away.
OUR bedroom. With the ONE BED.
“So?” The single word comes out of my mouth like a massive, existential question. Not even a little bit rhetorical.
“So,” Pat says, scuffing his foot along the floor, then bending to scratch his ankle monitor.
“You’re going to get an infection,” I scold, not for the first time.
“Maybe I just want to have an excuse for you to nurse my wounds.” His grin appears, then recedes too quickly.
I bite back a flirty response about playing nurse. After the weird overwhelm of today, it seems like a bad idea. Or an idea for what I can hope will be a later date. My eyes flick to the master bedroom door as a yawn overtakes me.
“Tired?” Pat asks.
“Dead on my feet. You?”
He nods, his eyes intense on mine, and then he chuckles, dropping his chin and running a hand through his hair. “Look, Lindy. I can make this easier and just sleep on the couch.”
“Jo would know.”
Because of Pat’s early football mornings, Jo never realized Pat and I were sleeping in separate bedrooms. On the weekends, whenever Jo and I rolled out of bed, coffee and breakfast were already made, and Pat was already blazing like the morning sun. He is never more annoying than he is first thing in the morning. Annoying and also more than a little endearing.
Ever since I kissed Pat at the game, I’ve been debating with myself, feeling like I was plucking petals from a daisy. Only, instead of asking if he loves me or loves me not, I’m going back and forth about myself and mitigating my risks.
I risk it all; I run away. I risk it all; I run away. I risk it all; I run away.
I’m still plucking a never-ending stream of petals, no closer to an answer even now.
Risk it all; run away.
Pat’s deep brown eyes meet mine, and the last petal falls. Risk it all.
I step closer to Pat, close enough to feel an electric charge in the air between us. “We can be adults about this.”
Pat’s eyebrows slowly climb up, and his smile erases the worry that’s been hanging in his eyes all day. “You want to be … adult with me, Lindybird?”
I feel more than a flutter in my belly; it’s more like a seismic shift. A blush starts creeping up my chest and neck, finally reaching my cheeks. It’s utterly ridiculous that I’m having this reaction. Pat and I are, in fact, adults. And even if we’re talking about the figurative sense of being adult, we are married. We can be allllll the kinds of adult we want to be. We are free to do any adulting we’d like.
My face isn’t the only part of me that’s hot. “I’m saying we can safely share a bed like two mature people. For sleeping purposes.”
Even though we never shared a bed. Or slept together—in the literal or figurative sense. A few accidental naps on the couch in college were as close to sleeping together as we came.
Pat’s eyes darken into deep wells, and I’d happily throw myself into them any day of the week. “You don’t think that’s … risky?” he asks.
Risk it all. Risk it all. Risk it all. It’s now like a chant in my head, not so different from the cheers in the stadium the night before.
I don’t want to simply share a bed with this man. I want to share it all. I could lose everything tomorrow—but I could have everything tonight.
Pat and I are married. Even the Hallmark Channel would approve of whatever happens behind that closed door. We’ve made our vows—okay, maybe we skipped the vows, but our signatures on the marriage certificate are legally binding and fully official. The agreement we made out of desperation and in haste, has felt more real every day. We’ve been growing into silent promises we made. We’re living this marriage into existence.