“I might be getting too old for this,” you answered. “I was just thinking about that. I’m not looking forward to this assignment, and that’s the first time that’s happened.” Then you looked at me closely. “Are you okay?” you asked.
I hadn’t said a word to anyone for months, but with you I felt safe. Besides, you weren’t in my regular life; there wasn’t anyone you’d tell. Darren and I wouldn’t become gossip at preschool drop-off.
“I think Darren’s cheating on me,” I whispered. I tried to stop the tears, but I couldn’t. You held me to your chest. You didn’t say anything, you just held me. And then you kissed my forehead.
“If he is, he’s an idiot,” you said. “And he doesn’t deserve you. You’re smart and sexy and the most amazing woman I know.”
You kept your arm around me as I ordered an apple martini and you ordered a whiskey—for old times’ sake. I leaned against you as we drank them. And ordered a second round. Your body felt so good next to mine. I remembered that fever dream I had, where we made waffles in our Christmas pajamas, and I wondered what it would be like to come home to you every day, your compassion, your strength, your understanding.
My brain started clouding.
“I need food,” I told you. “I’m not used to drinking this much, this quickly.”
We ordered fried mozzarella bites and a plate of mini Cuban sandwiches. Things I hadn’t eaten in years, but devoured, trying to soak up the alcohol. Even so, when I stood up to go to the restroom, I had to use the top of your head for balance.
“Are you okay?” you asked me for the second time that afternoon, placing a steadying hand on my back.
“Better than I’ve been in months,” I answered.
In the restroom, I kept thinking about how it felt when you held me, how distant I was from Darren, and how much hurt I’d kept bottled up these past months. I craved the kind of closeness I felt in your embrace. I closed my eyes and thought about your lips against mine. The warmth and pressure of them, the taste. I imagined giving myself over to you, completely, the way I used to, abandoning all control, letting you be in charge. I wanted that. I needed that. I’d been trying so hard to hold everything together, to hold myself together, and I was done. I needed someone else to take over. I needed you to take over.
When I got back to our couch, you’d already paid the bill.
“Want to go for a walk in the park?” you asked. “We can get some water from the bodega out there.”
“Sounds good,” I said, putting my hand out. You grabbed it and stood. That moment of skin-to-skin contact felt charged. You looked at me, and our eyes locked. My breathing slowed, unconsciously mirroring yours. You took a step closer to me.
“Gabe—” I started.
You let go of my hand. “I’m sorry,” you said, looking down. “I forgot myself.”
“Gabe,” I said again, trying to put a whole sentence’s worth of meaning in that one word.
You looked back at me, and this time neither one of us could break the connection. I reached out and touched your lips with my fingertips.
“We shouldn’t,” you said, holding my hand in both of yours.
And then I don’t know who leaned in first, if it was you or me or maybe we moved at the exact same time, but my mouth was against yours, and all of a sudden everything wrong in the world felt right.
You pulled me closer so our bodies were pressed together, thigh to thigh, stomach to stomach, chest to chest.
“Where’s your hotel?” I whispered.
“I’m staying at the Warwick on Sixth Avenue. But . . . Luce.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I wanted you in that moment.
I kissed you again and you moaned, slipping your hand into the back pocket of my jeans, just like you used to.
? ? ?
WHEN WE GOT to your hotel room, I think you asked me four times if I was sure this is what I wanted to do. I said yes every time. I was drunk, but I wasn’t incapacitated. I knew what I wanted. What I needed.
“Do you want to do this?” I finally asked.
“Of course!” you said. “But I don’t want you to regret it.”
I kissed you harder and concentrated on the taste of you. Gabe plus whiskey was a flavor I knew well.
“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy,” you whispered, like you couldn’t believe you were getting the chance to say my name again.
You grabbed for the hem of my T-shirt. I put my hand on yours, self-conscious all of a sudden.
“My body doesn’t look the same,” I whispered.
You pulled the T-shirt up and over my head.
“Your body is gorgeous,” you whispered back.
We wrestled each other out of our clothes and you lifted me up and tossed me onto the bed. A move you’d used on me eleven years before. I reached up and pulled you down with me, running my hands along the muscles of your back, feeling them contract under my fingers. The line from that E. E. Cummings poem kept running through my head. i like my body when it is with your body. I do, Gabe. I like my body better when I’m with you, I like myself better.
“There is no one like you,” you whispered as you slid into me. “There is nothing like this.”
I answered with an arch of my back and a moan. “No one,” I breathed. “Nothing.”
Afterward, we lay naked on top of the blanket, your body curled around mine the way it used to. Your hand was on my stomach. I thought about the first time we went to Faces & Names, the trip to your apartment afterward, your confessions in the dark.
“What if you came with me,” you said, “to Jerusalem.”
“What if we traveled down a rainbow highway and danced on the moon,” I answered.
“I’m serious,” you said, kissing my neck.
“This feels like déjà vu,” I answered. “Though now I could probably figure something out with my job. Working remotely. A satellite office. They wouldn’t want to lose me.”
Your teeth tugged my earlobe. “Brilliant beauty,” you said.