He didn’t come back. The next week, he dropped out of school.
He went back eventually, earning his MBA, but I’d already graduated by then. We kept in touch, but our friendship was never really the same. Neither was Ian.
“Hey, beautiful wife.” Ian swoops up behind me, echoing Sean’s words to Amber back at the reindeer ranch. I wonder if he’s feeling the same giddiness about using the title, even though we’re months away from “wife” and “husband” and everything those labels entail.
He plants a kiss on my neck, and I do a full-body shiver. “Everything okay?”
I nod slowly, my heart still breaking a little for the guy he used to be. The guy he probably still is somewhere deep inside.
“Everything’s good,” I assure him. “This whole marriage thing, it’s going to be great.”
“Excellent.” He smiles and takes my hand to lead me down the hall, and it occurs to me that my words sounded like a pep talk. For Ian or for me?
I’m honestly not sure.
Tina turns in early, but Ian and I aren’t tired yet. Maybe it’s the result of the long car ride. Maybe it’s the newness of being away from home together. Maybe it’s the electric current of desire that never seems to stop arcing between us.
The steady hum builds to a full-fledged buzz as Ian moves behind me in the kitchen and presses a corkscrew into my hand. “Here, take this.”
As I turn to face him, he hands me a bottle of wine we bought this morning at a vineyard we scoped out for Simon and Cassie’s rehearsal dinner. This was before we called to tell them we’re positive the reindeer place is the best spot, which they were thrilled to hear.
I wrap my fingers around the neck of the bottle. “Where am I taking it?”
Ian moves back through the living room, and I lean against the patio door to watch him. The man has a damn fine ass. And shoulders. And?—
“Outside,” he says. “How often do we get away from the city lights to see stars like this?”
“Good idea.” Even from this side of the sliding glass doors, I can see huge swaths of bright stars blanketing the inky black. “And there’s the perfect little thumbnail crescent moon.”
“I’ll grab wineglasses and a blanket and meet you out on the lawn.”
I consider changing out of my knee-length summer skirt and into yoga pants or something toastier. But Ian and the blanket should provide enough heat, so I tuck the corkscrew in the pocket of my skirt and shove the patio door open.
The night is surprisingly warm, with a gentle breeze that ruffles the hair on my bare arms. The coal-colored sky is dusted with glitter flecks that bend and curve into familiar constellations. I set the wine bottle on the brick wall that marks the edge of the patio. Breathing deeply, I remember my last visit here the week after Shane died. It was springtime, and a freak thunderstorm turned the pastures into wet waves of limply bent grass and sage-scented wind. The memorial service was supposed to be outside, but we moved the whole thing indoors to escape the ominous black clouds and muddy earth.
I turn my attention to the wine bottle in my hands and focus on prying the cork out of it. It’s a younger Pinot Noir, one we both agreed was our favorite when we tried it back in the tasting room. I turn when I hear Ian’s footsteps behind me.
“I found some Triscuits and a can of Easy Cheese,” he says with a look that’s almost apologetic. “The best I could do on short notice.”
“It sounds perfect to me.” I nod at the blankets in his arms. “Want to set up a picnic in the grass over there?”
“Deal.”
I follow him to the edge of the lawn, a darkened spot just at the fringe of the fence line. I notice he’s shut off the porch lights so it’ll be easier to see the stars. He drops a red plaid blanket on the grass and spreads a smaller tan one beside it. “One for sitting, one for snuggling,” he says. “I couldn’t find wineglasses. I grabbed some water glasses instead.”
“That’s perfect, they won’t tip over in the grass.” I study the characters printed on the sides, smiling when I recognize the Disney logo. “Here, you take Mickey and I get Donald Duck.”
“Or we could just pass the bottle back and forth like we’re in college.”
“That sounds kinda awesome, actually.” I set the glasses aside in a tall patch of grass, but Ian grabs one of them and settles onto the blanket beside me.
His body heat warms me instantly, and his shoulder is broad and strong enough for me to lean against. Taking the bottle from my hand, he tips a tiny splash of wine into the lone glass, then presses the cork back in firmly and gives it a hard shake.
“Aeration for dummies without decanters,” he says as I set the glass aside.
“Not the sort of thing we worried about in college with a five-dollar bottle of Boone’s Strawberry Hill.”
“Good times.”
