I overheard enough of Margo’s end of the conversation to know she might want space.
She might even want to leave, which, of course. Whatever she needed. Maybe it was a leap on my part, assuming her openly physical affection at church meant a kind of connection. That our easy, open lunch conversation meant she saw me as a confidant. Truth was, I hoped for more.
I hoped she would turn to me for comfort.
I wanted to be the one she came to when she was sad or scared or angry.
I wanted to be the person she sought when she needed someone to just be there, no questions asked.
But that wasn’t our situation. We were half-way through Advent, and at a stretch, this could count as a third date. My being patient and willing to listen might not matter, since she wasn’t planning on sticking around.
Even if that call from Cole suggested she didn’t have as much to return to Austin for as she’d expected.
I got absorbed in mixing a couple of tracks for a freelance job, and was startled when Margo came up behind me. She’d obviously washed her face and straightened up some, but she wasn’t wearing her sweater or shoes. I took it as a good sign, which probably beamed through my smile as I turned to her.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” She tilted her head to the door. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Was it okay? I bought a couple of boxes, so if you want something different …”
She stopped my move towards the kitchen, slipping herself into my lap. “It was great.”
Her voice was quiet and her body far from relaxed. I wanted to ask about her troubles, but was wary of pushing too hard. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her and held on tight.
“You’re a good person, Karl,” she whispered into my chest.
I stroked my hand up and down her back, trying to think of something—anything—to offer comfort. But in the end, all I could do was be there for her. Hope it helped.
“Thank you,” she said after a long time, her voice muffled against my shirt. “I needed that.”
“Anytime,” I told her, meaning it probably too much.
“Ugh. Now I’ve made an unglamorous mess of myself in two rooms of your house.”
I smirked. “If you want to talk mess, didn’t you note the state of the bedroom after you left Thursday?”
She pushed against my shoulders. “Wow. I think you’re responsible for some of all that.”
“And I cleaned it up. Aren’t you impressed with me?”
“Did you? Was it arduous?”
“Changing the sheets and buying more lube? So arduous. I deserve medals.”
“Definitely. Many medals.”
We both smiled a little, and she finally relaxed against me. I took the opportunity to kiss her forehead, and then her nose, before finding her lips. She met me with familiar heat and intent. It wasn’t the lazy exploration of before her phone call, but needier, maybe even serious. It was like she was trying to shove every good thing about us into a single moment, to store it up for when we parted.
She was leaving in January.
With those thoughts, my hands darted to her hips, pulling her against me. I used the half-second to pull back from the kiss, just enough to speak. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Sure.”
“Come to bed.”
“Good suggestion.”
In truth, as so often happened with Margo, it was more of a plea.
I rose to my feet, holding her firmly against my body, and she let me lead her down the hallway. I laid her on the bed and settled beside her.
I let her set the pace, kissing her, touching her, exploring every part of her like I’d been dreaming of. And she did the same with me. It was an intense, almost urgent hour of orgasms and heavy breaths, but also quiet moments of stillness and sweet smiles.
It was exactly what I needed, and I gave her everything I had. I hoped it was enough for now.
I couldn’t think about being enough for any longer than now.
Once we’d showered—together, which almost defeated the point of getting cleaned up—I took us to my favorite taco stand for dinner. Margo tried to talk me into trying her smoked brisket with spinach, but I knew an abomination when I heard it. And once she’d tasted my barbacoa and given me the wide eyes of culinary delight, I went back to order a couple more. Not that the al pastor or grilled shrimp tacos weren’t equally worth devouring, but: pleasure in the moment. That was the way Margo was determined to approach life, and I was in no position to dissuade her.
If anything, I should learn from her.
After eating, I steered up towards the tip of our peninsula, near where Copano Bay met Aransas Bay. We climbed out of my truck and settled into the bed, which I’d padded with a bunch of the soundproofing blankets from my study. Looking out in the gathering darkness towards San Jose Island and the Gulf, all we saw was scattered boat lights and emerging stars.
“You’re making me feel like a teenager,” she said.
My whole body was buzzing with lust and some happy kind of excitement. It took considerable effort to stop touching her and pay attention to her words. “How’s that?”
“You know, making out in cars, cause your house is too full of family to get any privacy?”
“I never did this before.”
“Serious?”
“Yep. Despite my acknowledged sex god status, I barely dated in high school. And then I met Sus the first day of college, and never dated anyone else until after we divorced.”
She sat up a little. “Does it bug you, talking about her?”
My heart lurched a little at this evidence Margo wanted to know me more deeply. I reminded myself she was leaving. “No. I mean, I can’t with my family. They treat me like a cipher, and Susanne was their way into understanding me. So for years after we divorced, they kept inviting her around or asking about her or staring at me like they had no idea how to coax words out of me.”
“Ouch.”
I shrugged. “Not saying I’m not part of that pattern, but, yeah. It …was no fun. It’s not like that so much now, but it doesn’t help that they all think I’m deeply religious.”
Now she sat fully away from me. “Wait. You’re not?”
I grabbed her hand and set it back on my erection. “That’s a surprise to you?”
When I released her, she kept palming me for a delicious moment. Then she straddled me, but sat back instead of indulging in that youthful dry-humping she’d been talking about. “The whole church music director thing seemed like a clue to the importance of your faith.”
“It’s the music. I love the music. Which all started in church for me, as a kid, but … I’m not exactly secular, I’m not saying that. And not saying that deeply religious people can’t be super horny; that was—okay, I was going to call it a joke, but it was deflection.” This was harder to articulate than the feelings behind my divorce. I looked at the night sky past Margo’s shoulders, like a shooting star might appear to deliver the right words to me. “I guess it’s that my faith isn’t tied to religion. I do find it, find God, in the music, more than anywhere else. And in helping voices come together to rise up in celebration. But also, it’s everywhere. In Parsley running at the waves, and in this gorgeous sky. In tacos, as long as no one sneaks spinach into them. In kissing you.”
“It’s part of your foundation.”
“Yes.” I breathed the word more than said it; she’d found a simple way to express something so profound about me.
The kiss we shared then sank deep, as if I was sealing a new way to define myself into my heart. But when I pulled back, I caught a flash of sorrow on her face. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head without asking what I meant, but nestled into my side and gradually relaxed as I held her. After a moment, she said, “I keep telling myself it’s not fair to be mad at him. He’s got this awesome chance to do the work he wants, and God knows he deserves to live in the community he’s already found up there.”
“But?”
She huffed a laugh. “But. Exactly. It’s not even that I feel like I’ve been a placeholder in his life. The person he bosses around and laughs with because we barely left our apartment for so long. That’s not even right, not really, because you should see the guy’s online communities; he’s always on some discussion board or another.”
We listened to the waves. I stroked her arm. “He’s your best friend.”
Her head dropped hard against my shoulder. “He’s my best friend. I’m his. We’ve known we were going to stop living together sooner or later; we’ve both been searching. But to be so far apart? And he didn’t once tell me about it? I shouldn’t be angry.”
“You can be, though.”
She groaned. “Can I? It’s not too petulant and left-out baby sister of me? It’s not a sign of how much I’ve depended on Cole being in my life, that I can’t even let him take this step without pouting that he never mentioned it to me first?”
“Margo. It’s okay to be mad, it’s fine that you’re sad about his moving. You can understand why he’s done it this way and be excited for him and still have your own reactions. Best friend doesn’t mean a hundred percent good feelings, any more than being siblings does.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do.”
She leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Thanks. I needed to vent it out. And probably, I need to admit that I’ve had this idea of traveling and working while I see the country and experience new things, and that’s what thrills me, but all along? I had this idea of Cole, and our apartment, as some kind of safety net. An in-case place to go if I need it.”
Damn my foolhardy urge to offer up my bed as an alternative. I swallowed that back and said, “You don’t need it, I don’t think. You’re bright and adaptable and talented and confident. I have faith you’re going to fly high. And you’ll be able to tell Cole about all of it—he’ll want to hear about all of it—no matter where you each live.”
Margo ran her hands up my shoulders and drew me in for a long kiss. And instead of suggesting she could also tell me about all of her adventures, I drew a blanket higher around us and set about making up for all my lost chances to make out in cars, in the past, and, I feared, in our future.