The thing that’s important to know is that you never know. You’re always sort of feeling your way.
–Diane Arbus
Marc
I’ve always been comfortable with the Hamiltons. They’re the only family I’ve ever known.
But right now, there’s a monkey under my skin itching to break out.
Brent walked Gwen up to her room fifteen minutes ago.
I’m sure they both went to their respective beds. Mostly sure.
Or maybe he’s in her room right now, removing her clothes, kissing her neck, a malevolent voice whispers.
Images flash in my mind like evil gremlins, and I shove them away. Because of the distraction, I lose the last game of Uno to Becky. And then one by one, people head to bed. By the time I make it to my room, the house is quiet.
Brent’s room and mine are attached by a bathroom. When I go in to brush my teeth and get ready for bed, I stick my head against his door. Right away the soft vibration of Brent snoring reaches me, the sound releasing a bit of tension I’ve been holding since he and Gwen went to bed.
Of course nothing is really happening, but I remember what he said the other night. He wouldn’t mind if there was something there. Maybe he just has an inkling. It doesn’t mean he has real feelings for her, right? Would he have told me if he did?
It’s not like I’ve mentioned my own thoughts, but that’s only because it’s never going to happen and I’ve been embarrassed and shamed enough when it comes to women. After all, even Brent doesn’t believe anything could happen with me and Gwen.
My thoughts are turning me into a loser.
Time to eat my feelings.
Downstairs, the oven light is on, casting a soft glow over the kitchen and highlighting a figure standing next to the counter with a fork in her hand. She doesn’t see me at first, too busy digging into the pie tin in front of her, taking small bites and then doing a cute little shimmy each time.
I lean in the doorway and watch for a couple of seconds before laughter overtakes me.
She startles and turns at the sound.
“Get your hands off my pie,” I say.
She lifts it up and looks at it from different angles, as if searching for something. “Excuse me, but I don’t see your name on it. Did you come down here to commandeer the desserts?”
“I did, but I see you’ve beat me to it.”
“Here.” She opens a drawer and pulls out a fork, holding it in my direction. “We can share.”
Walking toward her, I know, somewhere in my bones, this is going to be about more than sharing food in a dark kitchen in the middle of the night. The thought doesn’t stop me from walking over and taking the proffered fork.
“You can have this side, and I get this side.” She motions down the center of the pie with a finger.
Over the next few minutes we stand together, digging into opposite sides of the pie with nothing but than the occasional clink of our forks against the pan disrupting the comfortable silence.
But then her utensil starts creeping closer and closer to my side. I watch it with interest, and when she finally passes the invisible center divider, I halt her progress with my own fork. “En guard.”
A laugh bubbles up in her throat and she reclaims her utensil, holding it up like a sword.
We clash a couple times before we’re both laughing and nudging each other to keep it quiet.
“You’re really good at fork fencing,” she says after our laughter has subsided and we’re back to eating the pie.
“Maybe that will be my new career. Think it has potential?”
“I think you could corner the market on using forks as a deadly weapon. Are you really thinking about it? Leaving your dad’s company?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Brent’s right and it’s a bad idea. I want to do it, but . . . who would take care of everything at the company?”
“What if you pick your replacement? Then you can make sure they’re good enough.”
“But they’d also have to be able to take on my dad. Not many are up for that level of babysitting.”
“You’ll never know unless you try.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
We’re standing really close. So close I can see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes out and catch a whiff of her shampoo—vanilla and honey—when I breathe in.
“It’s not just about the company. Don’t think of me as less than a man for admitting this, but it’s scary to step out of my comfort zone and into the unknown.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine when she speaks. “You are one of the best men I’ve ever met. You could never be less than anyone.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. Thankfully, I don’t have to because she keeps talking.
“I didn’t know if I would make it as a photographer, but leaving the modeling world was the best decision I’ve ever made. Besides midnight pie.” She holds up a pie-filled fork. “Most things worth having are worth fighting for.”
“Are they?”
Our eyes meet and I wait for her to look away, but she doesn’t.
I put my fork on the counter. She puts hers down, too, her eyes never leaving mine.
I’m not sure who reaches first. There’s mutual grabbing and then she’s in my arms.
The same place I’ve been imagining her for weeks.
Her lips are softer than I imagined. Her hands are on my shoulders, gently pulling me closer. My fingers are on her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin under her thin shirt.
Our lips pull together softly, gently, everything in slow motion, and then her tongue slips into my mouth.
She’s sweet and tart, better than the half-eaten pie on the counter. Like honey and sunshine.
Her hands cup my face, trying to get closer still.
My limbs have developed a mind of their own. I can’t stop from reaching down and grabbing her ass and pulling her into me. More. She needs to be so much closer.
Without shoes she’s only a couple inches shorter than me and I’m slayed by how perfectly her body curves into mine.
She pulls back on a gasp. “Marc.” The word is full of want and regret.
It’s the regret that stops me short. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I’m the least sorry I’ve ever been, but it seems like the right thing to say now, like maybe what she wants to hear? It’s also the biggest lie I’ve ever uttered.
She pulls away even farther, until my hands drop to my sides, bereft.
“It’s okay.” Without another word, she slips backward, not meeting my eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.
After a pause, she turns and flees the room.
Although the oven light is still shining, the cozy warmth is gone.
In a daze, I put the pie back in the fridge and the forks in the sink. I’m not hungry anymore.
What kills me is the regret in her eyes. What does she regret, exactly? That it was me? Or something more palatable, like maybe because of what she told me about her career goals and leaving the city and not wanting anything serious.
I was a fool to kiss her. And keep kissing her. And touching her. And wanting her. But I did. I do. It’s not just the fact that she’s gorgeous. She’s kind and smart and funny and everything about her is beautiful. My fingers feel the loss of her skin like a missing limb.
What have I done?