I'm out of here.
I push back from the table and stand, but Natalie's eyes find mine. They are wide and worried, heavy with something. Lifting my drink in a salute to her, I drain what little is left of my Crown and Coke. Her head lifts up from that asshole's chest, and even as I turn and walk away, I feel her gaze on my back.
Exiting the reception hall, I keep going down the long hallway and out the double doors at the end. Cold air blasts my face, but right now I welcome the temperature. Two hundred yards away is a small greenhouse. I noticed it on the map in the lobby when we first arrived. This is where I'm headed now. I'll wait for Natalie in the warmth and humidity, and pretend I'm on a beach somewhere tropical. Anywhere but here right now.
Stepping into the greenhouse is like stepping away from cold New York. Miniature trees sit in pots on the ground, plants with long, hanging vines brush my face. The space is maybe twenty feet long, and only ten feet across. At the back is a wooden table, tall like a pub table but longer. Beneath it lay bags of gardening soil.
Tucking my hands in my pockets, I take a deep breath and try not to think of the person who has confused my heart so deeply that even I cannot recognize it.
“What the hell, Aidan?”
I whip around and see Natalie standing there. Both of her shoes are held in one hand. Her eyes are glassy, and all of her hair is tucked over one shoulder. She is barefoot and beautiful. Achingly beautiful. I've always known that Natalie is gorgeous, but it's never done this weird thing to my insides. It's never caused my chest to constrict, my heart straining inside it.
“Where's your new boyfriend?” It's a childish question. I feel raw and exposed.
Her shoulders lift, then drop. “Is that what you want to talk about right now?”
I shake my head at the same time I pinch the skin between my eyes.
“Is there something else you want to talk about?” Natalie steps closer.
I hold out a hand. “Don't come any closer.”
“Why?” She slinks forward anyhow.
“This isn't safe.” I take a step back, but I know what's behind me, and I can only go so far. So instead of letting myself get pushed up against a table, I stand my ground. “We are going to cross a line, Natalie. Up until now, we have been good at staying within them.”
She stops a foot away from me. “You mean up until two nights ago we have been good at staying within them.” She tips her head up and to the side as if she's thinking. “Technically, the first line was crossed that night I asked the question from my bathtub. Or maybe that was only toeing the line.” She sticks one pointed foot out between us and draws an arc over the concrete with her toes. Looking up at me, she smiles softly. “Do you really believe they're still lines, Aidan?”
“No,” I admit. But without lines, what will Natalie and I become?
“You touched me today. You touched my thighs. You ran your hands up and down my thighs and—”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I don't know what I was thinking.”
Just like in the car on our drive here, Natalie explodes again. “I don't know what you're thinking either, because you won't tell me. We might be best friends, but I'm not a mind reader. If you want me to know what you're thinking, you need to tell me.” Natalie's hands are flying around, gesturing with her frustration.
“Fine,” I growl. Now I'm gesturing too. “What's going through my head is fucking terrifying. And I don't know if it's good, or bad, or somewhere in the middle.”
Natalie lifts her chin and crosses her arms. “Try me.”
“You were married. It was easy to categorize you.My married best friend. That's all. But then, your marriage failed. Suddenly you were single, and feelings I've never given attention to were resurfacing, and screaming to be heard. And then that night, when you asked that question? It disabled everything else inside me.” My hands make a circular motion over my chest. “Everything ground to a halt. I didn't understand what I was feeling. I still don't. I only know that it's happening right” —I make a fist and lightly pound the center of my chest— “here.”
While I was talking, Natalie's cupped hands rose to cover her mouth. Now, they slowly slide down and she speaks. “That,” she says, her voice sliding out just a touch above a whisper. “Is romantic love.”
“I know,” I choke out.
Natalie steps into me, closing all distance between us. She stares up at me, her lips parted, but I can't do what I'm supposed to do because I'm trembling. I'm fucking trembling.
Natalie. This is Natalie. What the fuck am I doing?
But this isn't just Natalie. She isn't the girl I met in high school. She isn't the girl who dated the football star in college, she isn't the girl who became a wife. She isn't the wife who got divorced. She is Natalie. She is my best friend. She's a grown-up. She's a woman. And I'm in love with her.
I place my quaking hands on either side of Natalie's face, and I press my lips to hers. She wraps her arms around me, her hands on the back of my head, and she kisses me back. When my lips part, she is ready. Our tongues touch and I feel the reverberation of her groan. She is not embarrassed or shy or frightened of what’s happening.
Spinning us around, I walk her backward until we hit the table. She squeals, and I lift her so she’s seated on top. Like she did to me earlier during my failed haircut, I step in between her legs, causing her dress to ride up her thighs. Her hands run over my shoulders and down my sides, then across my stomach. My hands are in her hair, skimming over her collarbone, running the length of her arms.
“Room,” Natalie murmurs against my lips.
