WE FALL INTO silence after that, as if we both want to stay but we’re too scared to try to converse. We simply sit side by side, watching the water as the sun sets and the darkness takes hold. We pass the wine back and forth occasionally, but neither one of us is taking more than tentative sips. The food, on the other hand, all but evaporates as we both tuck in like we haven’t eaten for months.
I find that I actually like sitting with her; even in silence, even with the emotional distance between us. There’s something both familiar and alien about this moment, but it’s strangely comforting and I don’t want it to end.
However, it’s getting late, and while we really should go back to the house to get out of the increasingly cool breeze that’s now coming off the water, my mind starts flicking forward to ways to stay. That means I’m well and truly ready with a response when Isabel says suddenly, “It’s colder down here than I realized.”
I automatically sit up to slip out of my jacket.
“Oh, don’t do that... Paul, I wasn’t hinting for that—”
“I’m still drunk enough that I can’t feel a thing,” I lie as I pass her the jacket.
Isabel pulls it around herself and a flush steals over her cheeks. She glances at me, almost shyly, and murmurs her thanks.
“It swims on you.”
“But I’m sure it still looks fabulous. Black is definitely my color, right?” she says wryly. There’s Funny Isabel—I miss Funny Isabel. She’s so much more endearing than Bitter Isabel.
“You look good in any color,” I say impulsively, but I do mean it.
Isabel blinks, apparently shocked by the compliment, and then she tries to deflect it. “It’s the hair,” she says, with unconvincing and clearly artificial confidence. She flicks her hair off her shoulders and flashes a duck face in my direction like a fourteen-year-old Instagram star. “I could look good in a burlap sack.”
“You could,” I whisper, and then I have no idea what comes over me, but with what’s left of the bottle of wine caught between my legs, I push myself out of my semi-recline against the streetlight and I cup both sides of her face in my hands.
She’s staring up at me, and she’s really here—Isabel, my beautiful, magnificent wife. She was the best thing in my life, and then she was gone. Somehow, she’s right back here and it feels too good to be real. Maybe that’s why it’s easy for me to speak freely—to tell her exactly what I’m thinking, just like I should have done every time my heart was full during all of those wonderful wasted moments over all of those wonderful years.
“You’re beautiful, Isabel. You’re perfect, actually. Whatever happens after tonight, just promise me you won’t ever forget it.”
She’s startled—her hand is still in midair near her shoulder—but she’s holding her breath and her eyes are huge.
I’m not going to kiss her. Holding her hand was stupid—an old habit, nothing more—but kissing her, well, that would be a disaster.
But our faces are getting closer. I don’t exactly know how that’s happening since I’m telling my body not to move and I’m pretty sure that Isabel shouldn’t be moving either, but...our lips are now almost touching.
Don’t you dare kiss her, Winton.
She wets her lips, and her breath catches. The anticipation is delicious for her, too. The instant I realize this, I’m lost.
I kiss her gently, but as I do, I’m waiting for her to push me away furiously—which she should, and I know I deserve it because this is insane. And at first, she doesn’t kiss me back—she is completely still—but she’s also relaxed and her lips are soft against mine as they even fall open just a little. I lean into the kiss like I’m sinking into a glorious daydream, reliving the best moments of my life as I pull her closer to me. But this is really happening; I can taste wine and salt on her lips. I can taste my Isabel, and oh God, I’ve missed her in ways I haven’t even let myself acknowledge over all of these months since she left.
And then, something switches, and Isabel is kissing me back—hard, every movement of her mouth against mine a declaration of a longing every bit as intense as my own. Soon her arms are around my neck, pulling me firmly against her. As if I could ever want to escape. My hands contract, I’m impatient to feel more of her skin. If we were back at the house, I’d be tearing her clothes off, but we aren’t and so I do use some restraint. She’s well sheltered by the oversize jacket, so I lift the bottom of her T-shirt and stroke the taut skin of her stomach and back, leading upward to the clasp on her bra. I unclip it easily, and she releases her breath in a hiss against my mouth.
We both open our eyes at the very same moment. We’re on the same page like that; years of living together and making love will do that to a couple. We can read each other’s bodies and minds when it comes to sex now—it’s the bodily equivalent of finishing one another’s sentences. Maybe for some couples, familiarity leads to boredom, but for me, it led to comfort and security and a depth of love I didn’t even know I was capable of before her.
“This is such a stupid idea,” she whispers, but the depths of her blue eyes are dark with desire and I know that she’s no more put off by this realization than I am. That’s why I have no hesitation at all in agreeing with her.
“Possibly the worst idea anyone ever had,” I whisper back, and I slide my hand from beneath the soft fabric of her T-shirt to run my thumb over her lower lip.
She stares at me, her eyes wide and her pupils dilated. “We should stop this right now and go back. To our own beds.”
“We definitely should.” I’m still whispering, too scared to speak normally in case I break this spell.
“We’re not going to, though, are we?” Isabel asks suddenly. She’s daring me to talk her out of this, and I’m apparently foolhardy but I’m not a masochist.
“Well, I do think we should go back to the house.” I keep my voice low as I glance over her shoulder. “Especially since there’s a family over there trying to eat their dinner and I’m not sure the mother appreciates the show we’ve just given them.”
Bel turns back to the family with a gasp, then looks down at her shirt. It’s bunched up just below her breasts, and underneath it, her bra is still over her shoulders but loose because I undid the clasp.
I chuckle and pull the jacket closed, then zip it up. “Better?”
“Not really.”
I scan her face, then dip my gaze to the bottle of wine resting in the grass beside us. It’s still more than half full. I’m relieved because if we’re doing this, it’s not going to be some drunken mistake. Maybe it’s going to be a sober mistake, but we won’t be able to blame the wine.
“So. What are we going to do, Isabel?”
She hesitates a moment, then she leans forward and kisses me again.
“This is just one of those ‘for old times’ sake’ fucks, right?” she whispers against my lips.
“Is that a thing?”
“I think so,” she whispers, just as I think, I hope so. I climb to my feet and reach down to help her up, and when she’s standing, too, I contract my fingers around hers.
“Then let’s go.”