But our lips are still locked together, and in between the kisses, I say, “We can watch a movie?”
She nods, coming up for air to say, “What movie?”
“I don’t care.”
“Then let’s just do this.”
I shake my head. “Not like this, baby,” I whisper. “Not like this.”
“Not like this,” she echoes with a moan. “Okay. Okay.”
I steal one more. Two more. Three. Four. Five. Until I pull away, the two of us breathless and holding onto each other for grounding. Lana pants with her forehead pressing into mine and I hold her waist tightly, suppressing how badly I want her right here, right now.
“When are you going to tell me?” Lana whispers.
“Lana—”
“I’m being patient—I am,” she says. “I just…”
“I’ve been…” I tell her. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to talk about it properly, I guess. How to talk to you about it without feeling like… Like you might hate me even if that isn’t who I am anymore.”
“I could never hate you,” she says. “Much less for trying.”
“I don’t want what I have to say to feel like I’m justifying anything,” I say. “I don’t want you to feel like… I just don’t want it to change what we have now, Lana, because I love this. I love you and you have always been here.”
“So you do want to tell me,” she breathes, almost as a realization with tears gathering in her eyes.
“Of course, I do.” I pull her to the edge by her thighs, my body presses into hers. “I want to tell you everything, I just… I still feel ashamed about it sometimes. There are things I’d rather forget. Things I don’twantyou to know.”
Lana frowns, her hands holding onto my wrists. “Will they hurt me?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“So maybe,” Lana says. “Was there?—”
I shake my head. “Please, baby,” I whisper. “Not tonight, please. I just need this with you.”
“What do you need from me tonight, Christian?” Lana asks softly. “How do you need to be loved tonight?”
I kiss her cheek. “Just let me hold you while we watch something.”
“The Office? New Girl?OrBrooklyn 99?”
I chuckle. “I’m fine with either one.”
“Then let’s finish cleaning and shower,” she says. “And we’ll sit on the couch.”
“Okay.”
It’s three in the morning when I wake up to a loud noise from the TV. One of our favorite sitcoms is still playing and Lana is on my chest, dead asleep, as I lie back.
I reach for the remote, careful not to wake her up, and turn off the TV. As much as I want to take her to bed and hold her every night, I’m the one who made the rule.
Lana doesn’t know about the rehab and the night that put me in there. She doesn’t know—if I were being honest with myself— that if I hadn’t almost died, I might not have gotten treatment in the first place. If I hadn’t needed to be basically resurrected, I might have stayed right where I was, in the most unhealthy place of my life.
I might have died that night, I’m still not entirely sure. But what I saw wasn’t the light or my life flashing before my eyes, I saw a dream. I dreamed of our life together in the future—an extravagant house, her as my wife, and two daughters. There were glimpses of her pregnant, wobbling around the house with her hair long and shiny, her skin glowing, and the pair of dimples at the ends of her smile.
Then I woke up with machines and tubes hooked up to my body, a needle in my arm, and monitors beeping all around me. That was the day I realized I had no one. No one was there when I woke up, no one called—no one cared.
