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We walk through the city beneath the pink-orange dusk sky, hands entwined. We pass the World War II Memorial and the Reflecting Pool across from the glowing warmth of the Lincoln Memorial, weaving between the picture-snapping, map-studying tourists that are a permanent fixture. And then we reach the Tidal Basin, its calm, still waters reflecting the soft orbs of the lampposts that illuminate the circling path around it. In the spring, the trees here are laden with cherry blossoms, making a thick light-pink wreath around the water, but by this time of year, the blossoms have all fallen, leaving only healthy greenery on their branches—the promise of next year’s bloom.
I lead Kennedy off the path closer to the water’s edge, where a flannel blanket awaits us on the grass, lit lanterns stationed at each of the four corners. In the center are a bottle of white wine and two picnic baskets—one with cutlery, plates, and napkins, the other insulated to keep the containers of Chinese takeout inside it warm. I wasn’t sure what kind of Chinese food she liked, so I ordered a variety. The surrounding shrubbery sequesters the spot from the path—it feels like from the entire city—creating our own personal oasis. Our own little world for just her and me.
Kennedy stops, taking it all in. The light from the lanterns shines in her sparkling eyes and her smile takes my fucking breath away.
“This is . . . it’s beautiful, Brent. Thank you.”
My thumb traces her bottom lip. “That smile is all the thanks I need.”
Then I rethink that statement.
“Well, maybe not all the thanks.” I wink. “Let’s see how the night goes.”
And then we eat and drink, talk and laugh. Kennedy tells me about her scuba-diving trip to Belize this past spring and I tell her about my kayaking excursion in Alaska last year. I talk to her about the men’s lacrosse league I play with on the weekends and her face lights up as she tells me about her Sunday garage-sale antique hunts. We catch up on each other’s relatives and the latest gossip about distant family acquaintances. We tell each other stories—funny, horrifying, raunchy stories about college and law school.
Basically, it’s a really fantastic date. The kind that would play in a montage with some terrible pop song in the background if this was a cheesy romantic comedy. The kind a guy would tell his friends about the next day—even if he didn’t get laid.
The hours go by without either of us realizing it, and by the time we walk back up Kennedy’s front porch steps, it’s after midnight. We’re both relaxed and smiling—and her cheeks bloom with the loveliest flush of good wine and great conversation.
She unlocks the door and asks, “Do you want to come inside?”
Inside, back, stomach, mouth—I want to come everywhere she’ll let me.
“For ‘coffee’?” I tease, making air quotes with my fingers.
Her eyes darken to simmering chocolate brown. “No, but I could give you a tour. Show you how the restoration is going. We were able to keep all the original moldings.”
I grin. “I know how that goes. First it’s ‘come see my moldings’ . . . then it’s ‘tear down my Sheetrock and take a look at my brickwork, big boy.’ And if I’m lucky, you’ll let me peek under your carpet for some floor action that’ll make us both lose our minds.”
She chuckles. “Don’t forget the fireplace—do you want me to show you my mantel, Brent?”
“You bet your sweet soffits I do.”
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The house is an awe-inspiring combination of top-of-the-line modern convenience and gleaming old-world charm. We talk about the wood beams she’s keeping exposed in the den, and the hidden Bluetooth-capable speakers that will be installed in every room. She shows me a tiny drawing room with original wallpaper, which if you look at very closely contains hidden images of naked women and men.
That’s the Victorians for you. Repressed perverts.
Then we go upstairs, to her bedroom.
The lighting is low, but welcoming—one lone crystal lamp on a mahogany bedside table. The walls are beige with a warm, deep red accent wall behind the bed. Kennedy’s actual bed is humongous, a four-poster with a thousand big puffy pillows that make me think of cumulous clouds. It’s the kind of bed you’d want to stay in for days—and with the way Kennedy is looking at me, that might just be the plan.
I stop in front of the fireplace, running my hand along the impressive marble mantel. “This is nice.”
Kennedy watches me from just inside the closed door. “Yes . . . it is.”
When our eyes meet and hold, it’s like we both just know. No words are needed. Good or bad, right or wrong, everything that’s happened in our entwined lives has led us here—to this moment.
My voice is deep, rough. “Come here, Kennedy.”
She steps forward straight into my arms. I lift her right off her feet, holding her against me. Her hands bury in my hair, tugging a bit, then holding on tight.