“What do you mean, you’re staying at a hotel!?” Mom shrieks, making the entire room of twenty-five people jump. “All of you?”
“CiCi had points!” I point at her with mock accusation.
Mom glares a glare that makes Caspian’s iciest gaze look pathetic.
Caspian manages to extricate himself from the horde demanding to know whether they’ll see him again at Tom and Trina’s wedding and comes over with his coat already on. “I’m afraid that’s my fault, Mrs. Montgomery,” he says, helping me into my own coat. “I don’t get to see much of Clara right now while I’m promoting my new film, so I booked the rooms to give us some more time together.”
“Well, what about you two?” Mom says, turning to Tom and Trina with maternal guilt locked and loaded.
Tom has gone full deer-in-headlights and mutters, “Uh...”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Maybe it’s because they’re engaged and living together, and you still make them sleep in separate rooms, Mom.”
She looks positively scandalized. “Well, they aren’t married yet!”
“Again, my apologies,” Caspian intercedes, shaking his head. “That’s on me, too. Did I forget to mention they’ve joined the cult as well?”
Mom has fully devolved into a scowl. Tom, Trina, CiCi, and I all submit to giggles that can’t be contained. Even Dad is chortling off to the side.
“You think that’s so funny?” Mom snaps.
“Oh, it’s quite serious,” Caspian says, without even a hint of a smile in his voice. I am absolutely dying from internal laughter and doing a poor job of hiding it. “The hotel just made more sense, what with our communal head-shaving ceremony happening at dawn.”
She turns her outrage on me. “I don’t know what you see in this man.”
Shrugging and trying to keep a straight face, I reply, “He doesn’t make the rules. The alien overlords do. Sorry, Mom.”
Dad comes over and gives us all hugs. Poor guy is looking slightly worse for the wear after the events of the day. Or maybe it was the three scotches. Either/or.
Before Mom can fully reach an apoplectic state, we all shout goodbyes to everyone and start pushing our way out the door. We hit the sidewalk at a run before the guffawing begins.
Caspian’s car is already waiting at the curb. Tom, still laughing, comes over and shakes Caspian’s hand as the driver climbs out. “It was great to see you again, man. How much would I have to pay to get you to come to all of these things? Anyone who can make my mom fume that hard is always welcome.”
“I appreciate that,” Caspian says fondly. “Although I confess I might have too much fun with it.”
“No such thing,” Tom says, clapping him on the shoulder.
“I really do hope we’ll see you at the wedding,” Trina says, and shakes his hand as well. “Clara looks fantastic in her dress. It’s not to be missed.”
I give her a pointed look, but realize it’s probably falling short in the dark of night.
CiCi, ever the diplomat, walks up to Caspian, pokes him in the chest, and says, “Make it count, fella.” Before he can respond, and before I can open my mouth to say literally anything, CiCi pushes me toward his car and calls out, “I’ll bring your stuff up to the room, and I’ll be asleep within minutes, so no need to hurry back on my account, byeeeeeee!”
“I don’t have a key to our room!” I bark. “Wait—I don’t even know what room we’re in! CiCi!”
As I watch my people head to the rental car, I scowl in their direction. Caspian’s driver stands calmly to the side, waiting for our cue to open the door.
Finally, Caspian offers, “I swear I didn’t know she was going to do that.”
I sigh and shake my head. “I believe you. CiCi is definitely not known for her subtlety.”
“If you’re uncomfortable, I can easily call myself another car and you can take this one.”
I exhale loudly. “That’s ridiculous. I can handle riding in a car with you, Caspian. It’s not like I hate you that much.”
“So you do hate me to some degree?”
“What, like just right now, or...?”
“To start, I suppose.”
I look awkwardly around. “Could we maybe not have this conversation on the sidewalk in front of my parents’ house? There’s no way my mom isn’t spying through a window with some kind of sophisticated long-range listening device. And it’s about three degrees out, which makes it hard to focus. Plus, if the driver freezes to death, that complicates our travel arrangements.”
I’ve got him by siege of manners. “Oh, yes, Logan, my apologies,” he says, preparing to reach for the door himself, but stepping aside when Logan beats him to it.
I don’t know where these drivers get trained, but they anticipate needs like nobody’s business. I climb into the back seat first, immediately soothed by the blissful, sauna-like temperature. It’s like settling into a hug.
Caspian follows, and soon the door is closed and we’re pulling away from my parents’ house.
I’ve never felt more twitchy in my life. And let’s face it, the bar is set pretty high on that one.
I turn in my seat to face him. “So. Care to elaborate on...well, any of this?”
His eyes seem to involuntarily dart to the driver. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather discuss things at the hotel.”
I suddenly feel silly for even asking for clarification right now. If I’ve learned anything about Caspian over the last month, it’s that he values his personal privacy above just about anything else. And the idea of me potentially verbal whaling on him in the presence of Logan is probably making Caspian break out in hives.
A residually bitter part of me wants to punish him further and say, “Actually, it’s not all right with me. We’re having this out now, witness be damned,” just to see him squirm. But a bigger part of me is disgusted to even have that level of desire for revenge burning through me.
He’s sort of half looking at me, with his eyes going back and forth between my face and his feet. The part of me that wants to delight in his discomfort is squashed down by the part of me that wants to make him feel at ease.
This constant shifting between polar opposite emotions is making me dizzy.
“I learned a lot about you tonight,” I say, by way of desperately hoping to break the silence. “Like this is your first visit to Buffalo, you hate corn but love corn bread, and you have a genuine skill for politely navigating seven thousand simultaneous questions being hurled at you by people you don’t know.”
He chuckles. “Years of red carpets and press junkets finally come to good use. Although, I will say, a line of reporters is ever so slightly less intimidating than your family.”
I’ve got to give him that one. “Touché.”
“I heard you discussing a new job at the table,” he says. “I believe congratulations are in order.”
I feel oddly embarrassed for reasons I can’t explain. “Uh, thank you.”
“I apologize for not saying anything when you brought it up, but under the guise of being a couple, I figured that would be something I’d already know, and I didn’t want to give anything away.”
I can feel myself starting to blush a little and try to shrug it off. “In all fairness, you played the part of supportive significant other very well in the moment.”
Now it’s his turn to look twitchy. He starts smoothing out his pants at the knee, even though they’re perfectly straight already. “Well, I’m proud of you,” he says, straightening up and looking strangely formal. “Sorry, that wasn’t meant in a condescending way. I just know how very hard you worked to get the position, and I’m happy that it all worked out.”
He’s absolutely radiating discomfort, and instinct takes over me. I reach out and give his hand a squeeze. “I knew what you meant. And thank you.”
Before he can react to my unexpected touch, I yank my hand back and start fidgeting with one of my rings.
The rest of the ride is the same kind of cordial conversation. I ask how his film is doing, and he explains how exhausting the promo tour is. He asks how the move to the new apartment went, and I go into exhaustingly specific detail about the experience, hoping to draw it out long enough to finish the car ride.
Eventually, we make it to the hotel, and I exhale with relief. I’m amazed by how much tension can be crammed into one tiny car.
It’s all uncomfortable silence as we make our way into the hotel. There’s a pretty huge difference here from the giant, elegant, penthouse-having behemoth I’m used to visiting him at while in NYC. Although, the Curtiss Hotel is pretty spectacular in its own right. It’s lit up beautifully on the outside, glowing a gorgeous blue against the night sky.
He must’ve checked in before heading to my parents’ place, because he has no bags to lug and heads right to the elevator as soon as we walk in.
God, the atmosphere between us is so painfully stiff and ceremonial. Every move is like a choreographed dance of what people are supposed to do. The elevator ride to the top floor has the same interminable, suffocating vibe we had in the car, and I am half past done with being trapped in enclosed spaces with this kind of air around us. As soon as the doors open, I practically leap out.
Nothing is being said whatsoever, which makes this all so much worse. He leads the way down the hall, and I follow a step behind, noticing he’s attempting to be polite and walk with me, rather than leave me trailing after him like a little duck. Truthfully, I’d prefer to be quacking along in my own space at the moment.
We reach his room, and I almost collapse with relief.
I’m ready to get this over with.
Caspian deftly swipes his keycard, and in we go.
It’s a gorgeous room. He’s got a large suite, because of course he does, and it’s all modern furniture with a comfortable feel to it. Squishy-looking couches and chairs, a neutral but inviting color scheme, and a hell of a view. As I walk inside, I casually notice a suitcase and garment bags neatly tucked away in the closet.
I’m not really sure where to go or what to do, so I just stand like a perplexed statue over by the coffee table. Words do not exist to describe the discomfort I’m feeling.
“May I take your coat?” he asks as he hangs up his own. I stare at him for a beat before quickly tearing mine off and handing it to him. “Please, have a seat.”
At least he seems to be in an equal state of unease.
I scurry over to the couch and ungracefully plop myself down on the cushions as fast as I can.
“Can I offer you a drink?” he says, placing his keycard and wallet down on the table by the closet.
Determined to break the tension, even by a little, I ask, “Do you think this will go easier for you if you get me drunk first?”
“I think I’m less likely to get kicked in the shins if you’re drunk.”
I shrug. “At the very least, my aim would be less accurate, so maybe you’re onto something.” I shuffle my feet over the carpet. “Uh, I guess I’ll take some wine, if you’ve got it?”
He walks over to the mini-fridge by the giant TV and opens it. “We do have wine. Red? White? Sparkling?”
“I’ll take something fizzy,” I reply.
“Can do,” he says, grabbing a bottle for me and a tiny scotch for himself. “Glass or bottle?”
“Erm, bottle,” I say. “I kind of love the shrunken wine bottles. As short as I am, the tiny bottle makes me feel like I’m not from Munchkinland. Plus, it gives me that kind of whimsical feeling from college, where we all thought we were the tits drinking Boone’s Farm straight from the tap.”
He laughs a very genuine laugh. “I can’t say I’m familiar with Boone’s Farm, but I definitely relate to the bottle memory. I drank many a mate under the table during my one year at university in that manner.”
He hands me the mini-wine, and I crack it open. “Just a year?”
“I very stupidly dropped out,” he says, pouring his scotch into a glass tumbler, “before moving to the States to make it on my own. Which, as we both know, didn’t quite work in my favor for some time.”
“Oh, right,” I say rather pathetically. I resume shuffling my feet across the plush carpet and take a long drink. He’s not wrong; this occasion absolutely mandates a need for alcohol.
“So, on a scale of Gertrude to Jasmine, how’s the couch rate?”
I smile and look down. “I’d say solidly in the middle. But then, what couch could ever hold a candle to Jasmine?”
“What couch, indeed,” Caspian says with a soft chuckle.
He takes his scotch and walks across the room to the chair adjacent to where I’m sitting. There’s more than enough room on the couch to sit beside me, but I get the sense that he is purposely trying to give me as much space as possible. Whether this is for my comfort or out of fear for his own physical safety is unclear.
We sip in silence for a few moments, deliberately avoiding eye contact. To an outside observer, we look like a pair who really enjoys studying the minutiae of carpet fibers. The entire scene is night and day from the memories I have of him in his charcoal-gray throne in Tom’s living room. There’s no bravado, no essence of a master plan, no role being played.
I’m seeing Caspian again. The real-life Caspian.
I don’t know why I’m finding it so unsettling. Maybe it’s because I’ve been missing that Caspian.
I shut my eyes hard until I’m able to cram that thought into the securely roped-off part of my brain that feels any sort of fondness for him.
Sip. Shuffle. Repeat.
After an age and a half, he sighs and says, “I suppose I’d best get on with it, then.”
I sit up a little straighter and internally brace myself for emotional impact.
“What’s on your mind, Cas...pian?” I groan inwardly. I’m not handling this well.
He throws back the rest of his scotch and sets the now-empty glass on the coffee table. He takes a deep breath, and I don’t think I’m hallucinating how shaky it sounds. “I messed up,” he begins. “I messed it all up. A horrible, unforgivable, preventable series of cock-ups. I don’t blame you in the slightest for not wanting to hear a word from me that last night. If anything, I’m surprised you didn’t actually slap me, which I would have had coming and then some.”
“I mean, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fight the urge a couple of times,” I offer, trying to defuse the horrific tension and failing miserably.
“I don’t know how much CiCi told you about our conversation,” he says, “but she made me realize that thanks to you pulling my information out of the Cranson unit, it wasn’t there to be found with that senator’s. The biggest irony of all is that you ended up saving me by doing it. And if I’d never gotten that voice mail from you, and never met you... When the news broke about him, I would have been so sure I’d be outed next that I likely would have confessed publicly to try and get ahead of the narrative.”
He heaves a great sigh. “You spared me in every possible way, and I did nothing but punish you for it.”
I shift uncomfortably on the couch. “Okay, you’re not wrong about the punishment, but I can’t really take credit for any of what happened. It wasn’t some great, calculated humanitarian thing I did. It was a failed attempt at altruism that just happened to work out.”
“I suppose. Still, I’m grateful for it.” Caspian leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. “I almost stayed, you know. I had my phone in my hand to cancel my flight, and I was going to stay and try to do whatever it took to beg for your forgiveness.” He shakes his head at the memory. “But I knew how unfair that would be to you. And moreover, I realized I didn’t deserve that forgiveness, even if I did manage to convince you otherwise. So, instead of calling the airline, I sent that message to CiCi, and accepted that was the end of it. That my punishment would be living with the memories of every horrible thing I’d done, every single expression of pain I’d watched play across your face as a direct result of my behavior. I spent the entire flight home playing those moments in my head over and over, and I honestly hoped they’d haunt me forever.”
I open my mouth to say I have no clue what, but he keeps going. “And that’s exactly what happened. The whole ordeal kept playing on a loop in my mind from the instant I left that sidewalk. Through every interview for the film tour, every meeting, every second. Several reporters even brought you up and asked how things were going, and each time, it was like a punch to the stomach, and I almost savored that pain because it felt like nothing less than I deserved.
“I stuck with my standard line of keeping my private life separate, so I didn’t have to publicly share my shame, like a coward. But every time your name was brought up, it hurt. It physically hurt. I got scolded repeatedly by my team for being so solemn in those interviews. I’m normally fairly at ease, and can manage professional banter, or at least embarrassing moments mixed with the impression that I’m not always a complete buffoon. But no matter how much effort I gave it, I couldn’t be that person. Or maybe I wouldn’t be that person. I don’t really know.
“The last thing I would think of before I fell asleep was one of the hundreds of moments I’d caused you pain. And the first thing in my mind when I woke up was your face in those scenarios.
“And I tried to ignore this next bit, Clara. I swear I did. I felt it creeping up over and over long before that night with the senator and the night of the premiere. I pushed it away and pretended that it didn’t exist. But no matter how hard I hid from it, I finally admitted to myself that long before I began using the memory of you to punish myself, you were still the last thing I was thinking of before I fell asleep, and the first thing I saw in my mind when I woke.”
My entire body has gone rigid, and I realize I’ve stopped breathing. I try to gasp in a breath, but only manage what amounts to a weak, inhaled breeze.
“I wasn’t supposed to do it,” he says desperately. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s the absolute opposite of what I intended when all this started. But despite my best efforts, I completely fell for you, Clara.”
Okay. Now I gasp. Not enough to get actual air into my lungs, but enough that it’s loud.
“Everything I did was wrong. From start to finish,” he carries on. “From swooping into your life playing a damned character to try and intimidate you into silence, to believing any of the nonsense things I did were justified, when it was clear from the moment we first met that you were being genuine.
“And worst of all, that night in the hotel.” Caspian’s voice breaks. “I will never forgive myself for my actions. For the vicious things I said. None of what I’m about to say excuses what I’ve done, but I feel like if this is my final chance to speak with you, I want to lay it all out as best I can.”
His eyes have filled to the brim with tears, and as I fight to maintain my own composure—a battle which I can feel myself losing—I randomly wonder if he can even see clearly at this point.
“I was so ashamed, Clara. Of my history with Cranson, of you knowing about it, of my behavior toward you. And then to feel like I’d finally, after years of childishly hiding so much of myself, and letting that side out to you, only to think I’d been conned. I think I knew, even as I threw that disgusting tantrum, that you hadn’t done any of it, but I was so sure I hadn’t deserved the good you’d brought into my world, that it had to have been a trick. I was ashamed I’d been so foolish, and ashamed of the way I felt for you when I had no right to feel anything of the sort.
“And I was afraid. Afraid that maybe it was all a game that I’d lost. Afraid that it wasn’t, and I’d already taken things light-years away from a place where you could consider forgiving me. I took all of that—all of the angst and contempt I had for myself—and refused to hear you that night. I was clouded by all of my own bullshit, and I unleashed every bit of that panic and fear and self-loathing directly onto you. And even as I heard myself doing it, I was screaming at myself inside my head to stop.”
The tears are falling freely now, but he pays them no mind that I can see, and soldiers on. I’ve seen Caspian open up before, but I’ve never seen him this vulnerable.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone this vulnerable.
My instinct to comfort him is so strong, I grip the couch cushions to keep from involuntarily leaping up and running to him.
“After I made you leave, I sat there, replaying it over and over, and maybe it was pride, or maybe I was just scared of admitting what I’d done, and what I knew I’d lost, but I wouldn’t acknowledge any of it. I doubled down, lying to myself as hard as I possibly could, and ran with it.”
I no longer possess the physical ability to breathe or speak or form solid thoughts.
“I didn’t want to be wrong, and I didn’t want to be right. I just clung to the course of action I’d picked, and I was hell-bent on following through and ignoring anything in myself that was trying to show reason. When I was walking toward you at the premiere, I thought I was going to be sick. And when I got to you, I felt so broken, and I wanted to make it all stop and find something to say to take us back to a place where we could just talk things through, but I already knew it’d gone too far for that. Even now, I can’t tell if I would have actually gone through with it, but I’m such a stubborn ass, I worry I might have.
“And when I got the call from CiCi, my first reaction was pure joy at learning I’d been an utter fool. That all the things I’d felt for you and the trust I’d put in you had been right. And the next second, I was overtaken by the thought that it didn’t matter. That no matter what I said or did, it would never erase what I’d done. I spent the rest of the night carrying on calmly at the party, but the entire time I was inside my head, in a full spiral, trying to think of something, anything, I could say that would undo the colossal fuckup I’d caused.”
I’m staring. It’s all I can do. My chest hurts. The back of my throat is burning. My fingers are in actual pain from digging into the couch cushions so hard.
But I’m afraid to let go. Because if I let go, I don’t know if I can control what my body does next.
“But of course there was nothing. I stalled as long as I could, thinking that if I just had a few more moments, it would come to me, but there was nothing to come. The damage was irreparable, and I knew that. I still know that.”
Caspian runs his hands through his hair. “When I got that message from your mother about Thanksgiving, I honestly didn’t know what to do or how to respond. At first I planned to just ignore it and leave you be. But she messaged again and again, angry with me for both my lack of messaging etiquette, and for being the cause of whatever had you sounding so very sad since I’d left. I think she thought you were just missing the man she thought was your significant other, and was pissed I wasn’t jumping at her offer to come see you sooner. I didn’t know how to explain anything to her, so I didn’t.
“But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that meant you hadn’t told her I was gone for good. And I hate to admit that it gave me a glimmer of hope. I couldn’t shake it, and I definitely couldn’t shake your mother. My god, can she lay on the emotional warfare.” A look of grudging admiration crosses his face. “I finally broke down and sent a text to CiCi asking for her perspective, and she laid into me even harder. All of which I had coming.”
My jaw falls straight to the floor, and a hollow place in my mind starts plotting out the various ways I’m going to murder CiCi and my mother.
Caspian looks up at me, real desperation in his eyes. “I expect nothing from you. You owe me nothing. But I owe you everything, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you continuing to suffer after everything I’d done. And I knew I probably wouldn’t have the chance again, so here I am. Selfishly trying to clear a sliver of my conscience. Knowing that you’ll always carry those things with you, and no matter how many times I apologize, I can’t wipe them away, but I’m promising to try anyway. Hoping that maybe a small part of you finds relief in knowing that I will never stop hating myself for what I did to you. And if you can think of literally anything I can do to ease any of the pain I’ve caused you, I will do it a thousand times over.
“I’m sorry, Clara. I’m so very, impossibly sorry. You never deserved a moment of the time you were forced to spend with me. Saying I’m sorry feels like the most useless and lackluster thing I could present to you, but, regrettably, it’s all I have to offer.”
Caspian finally sits back in his chair, quickly wiping away the tears on his face, and clears his throat. “I apologize for the endless monologue. Thank you for listening.”
There are no words. Words as a concept no longer exist in this piece of space and time. I don’t know what I expected to come out of Caspian in this room, but it sure as shit wasn’t a single syllable of that. I keep trying to replay it in my head, but every sentence is sounding off over another, and it’s all ringing out as gibberish.
I feel tingly all over and compressed and combustible. One errant spark, and I’ll ignite, taking out a full city block.
Tick.
I fly up off the couch without meaning to and start pacing beside the coffee table.
Tick.
Seemingly out of instinct, Caspian rises from his chair as well.
Tick.
Watching his movement is the spark. I can sincerely feel myself become totally unhinged.
BOOM.
“What the hell was that?”
He looks startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“You standing up just now?” I shriek, flailing my arms wildly. “That’s not how you stand up! You always do that superfast, otherworldly fluid thing that looks like CGI, so what the fresh hell did you just do?”
“I...” He looks down at himself, as if the answer might lie there. “I was trying not to do the thing you said was physically imposing. I never realized I did it until you told me, and I’ve been trying to be more aware of it.”
“Excuse me?”
He’s still looking from me to himself and back again with blatant confusion. “Trust me when I say that while I know all the evidence I’ve given you is to the contrary, I don’t particularly want to be a monster. I saw so many things about myself through your eyes, and I don’t want to keep making those mistakes.”
Caspian lifts his arms slightly, drops them, and lifts them again, like if he can just gesture properly, this’ll all somehow make sense to him. He looks like a bird that’s just realized it has wings. If I weren’t spiraling into a rage blackout, it would be endearing, which just makes me all the angrier that he’s even allowed to be endearing.
“However,” he continues cautiously, “of all the things I’ve said and done today, I can safely say I never considered standing up to be the thing that infuriated you.”
I throw up my hands in complete frustration. “Shows what you know, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does.” He looks alarmed, and rightfully so.
I’m off in my own realm of emotional overload, and I barely hear him. “Okay, let’s compare the standing thing to some of the other gems you’ve dropped, shall we?” I start pacing again. “How about the fact that you felt compelled to tell me any of this in the first place? Or that you knew straight away what a huge mistake you’d made freaking out at the hotel and you just. Kept. Doing it. Or how about the fact that you found out what really happened, and you still kept me at that party for hours while you tried to think of a way out of the mess you’d created?”
Caspian drops his head and pushes his hands into his pants pockets. I swear I see a tear fall onto the carpet. “Or,” I’m yelling now, “let’s talk about you thinking you have any right whatsoever to casually slide the fact that you had feelings for me into that fucking trilogy’s worth of information? Exactly what is wrong with you that you felt entitled enough to drop that on me?”
“Have,” he says, lifting his head again. I was right. There are tears.
“What?”
“Not had feelings. I have feelings.” As the words leave his mouth, he immediately starts fervently shaking his head. “Which I now realize is the absolute wrong thing to say at this moment. Christ.”
“Are you kidding me right now!?” I’ve become so shrill, there’s a real risk of the windows shattering. “Why would you tell me that? What in the hell can I possibly say in response to that, Caspian!?”
He looks up, sincere and desperate. “Nothing, Clara. You don’t have to say anything. That was immeasurably selfish of me. All of this is.” For the first time since I met him, Caspian seems to shrink right before my eyes. “I am so truly sorry. Whatever you need to do, please do it. Keep screaming at me. Throw something. If you want to try that kick, I won’t move. If you decide to tell me to go fuck myself and walk out of here, I promise I won’t follow you. I won’t bother you ever again. You’ll never have to hear another word from me. I swear to you.”
I don’t know what to do. How to respond. I can feel tears working their way up, and I start silently chanting to myself that they’re tears of rage, nothing else. They have to be rage. I need them to be rage.
But no matter how many times I repeat the wishful lie, it doesn’t become the truth.
I walk toward him, and I honestly think he believes I’ve come in for the kick, because he keeps his eyes on the floor and his hands in his pockets.
My next move is all one dance-like motion. I make my way up right in front of him, put one hand on his chest, the other on the back of his neck, and I kiss him.
It’s a coin toss as to which of us is more stunned by the action, but here it is. I finally find my lungs and pull in a long, deep breath, savoring the shouldn’t-be-but-absolutely-is familiar scent of his shower gel, and I kiss him again.
By now, at least a smidge of the shock has worn off, and after he stumbles back a step, his hands are out of his pockets and coming up to rest on my waist.
The time for speeches and debating and analyzing has ended.
I tangle both my hands in his hair as he moves his to my face, kissing me with all the urgency of a drowning man who’s finally managed to break the surface of the water. But no matter how tightly I pull him against me, it doesn’t feel close enough. For a moment, I worry I’m taking things too far, that I’ve become so captivated by it all that I’m crossing every available line, but he matches me beat for beat, touch for touch, movement for movement, and I commit to letting us both be carried away, wholeheartedly.
This may be madness, but it’s my madness, and I welcome it.