Our silence is thick as she readies her impromptu salon, meticulously placing her tools on Tink’s patch of countertop like a surgeon prepping for a procedure. My eyes follow her every move from where I sit on the stool she set up for me in the couple of feet between the kitchen and our bed.
One of my threadbare, college baseball shirts hangs to her midthighs. And though her legs look entirely bare, I know those cuffed denim shorts that form to her perfect curves—and drive me crazy on a regular basis—are hiding under the oversized tee. Hair caught up in a wild bun, with strays pulled out and framing her face, I want nothing more than to undo the flimsy elastic and watch it fall over her shoulders.
“Are…” Her voice shakes along with her hands. “Are you ready?”
I can’t answer. I’ve waited so long for this moment—clinging tight to the memory of a single night I thought would never happen again—that I’m worried if I say a word, I’ll wake up and this will all be a dream.
So I only nod, desperate and daring her to come closer, to touch me and prove that I’m really and truly awake.
She stalks towards me, a cautious feline, unsure of where to pounce. So I stay as still as humanly possible—the guy who’s been waiting ten years for her to love and trust him completely.
Without preamble, she slides around my back, combing both hands through my hair, and I hear the swishing of her first cuts. Cuts Brooke vowed never to make. This single act has me fighting back years of emotion. I’m so proud of her. So in love with her. And itching to show her how much.
Does she notice the chill bumps along my bare shoulders? Or the hairs of my arms, standing on end? Can she hear my heart pounding out of my chest, painfully aware of every place her skin touches mine?
Every nerve in my body zeroes in on her warmth against my back. Her hands in my hair. Her shallow breaths, setting the tempo for mine. I want her, but I don’t want this moment to end.
The sound of her shears, my hair lightly falling to the floor, and everything we aren’t saying fill the space of our tiny trailer until the tension is so thick, I’m sweltering. When Brooke works her way to the front, standing between my legs, I can’t help but touch her, stare at how devastatingly beautiful she is, and wonder at the miracle that we’re here now, and I get to call her my wife.
My hands are greedy, zinging with unspent energy until they find their home around her legs. Her only acknowledgement is agasp and the flicker of her eyes to mine before she returns to her work, her teeth buried into her lower lip in concentration.
Suddenly, I’m eighteen again, getting a haircut from my best friend before I leave for summer training, and I’m terrified. Afraid to leave her. Afraid that if I don’t kiss her tonight, I’ll never get the chance. But worried, too, that if I let myself act on this insatiable need for her, I won’t be strong enough to leave her the next day.
All I say is her name. “Brooke…”
And she puts the scissors down.
Her fingers pass through my hair once more, as if she’s just as intoxicated by the feel of it as I am, before they move to my face. She takes my cheeks in her delicate, impossibly soft hands, running her thumbs against the facial hair I haven’t bothered to shave, and holds me like I’m something she cherishes.
If I ask her right now, I wonder what her fear would be and if it would be the same as mine?
I’m afraid forever with her won’t possibly be enough.
“Owen.” She releases my face only to take up my hand, the one holding the plain, but precious band she slipped onto my finger barely two months ago while making promises I think she’s only recently beginning to revere. Bringing it to her lips, Brooke kisses my knuckles, then, with tears in her eyes, rubs her free hand in a circle on her belly. “I’m in love with you.”
My eyes, unbidden, fill with tears as well… The belly rub. I knew she understood.
“I love you, Brooke,” I manage to rasp out as I tuck her hair behind her ear, giving me full access to those shimmering, brown eyes, and then promise, “I will always love you.”
Slowly, she draws my lips to hers, and I let her. This is already worlds apart from our first kiss, where Brooke seemed to lose control before realizing we could never go back to what we were. From that moment on, we’ve been pre-kiss and post-kissversions of ourselves. Unable or unwilling to forget whatcould be. But, tonight, there’s no misunderstanding or hesitation.
It’s like the slower she moves, the more Brooke’s telling me that she won’t change her mind this time. That, though she fears so many things, she doesn’t fear this. Not anymore.
Her touches are light and restrained. She’s leaving the milk out for me now, inviting me in and promising the warmth and security I’ve been waiting for my whole life, never willing to give myself or that trust to just anyone.
I would’ve waited forever, because Brookeismy person.
My hands find her waist, lifting her onto my lap and trying to meld every inch of her body to mine. Smiling against my mouth, her arms fall loosely over my bare shoulders, closing any remaining distance between us before she tilts her head and deepens the kiss. There are no cameras or audience or any barriers safeguarding us now. And there’s no going backwards from here.
It’s just me and Brooke. Babe and Ruth. Always, just us.
Only after we’ve explored everything possible to explore from my perch on the stool in our kitchen does she peel her mouth from mine. Licking her lips, she’s breathless and flushed but hungry enough for more that she nuzzles her nose along the line of my jaw before finding her way back to my lips and losing all track of time.
When we come up for air she says, “Owen, it’s midnight,” likeit’s time for bed,and I’m not going to argue a bit. We’re both winded and a little drunk on each other, but I can see the sincerity in her face clearly as she rubs her thumb across my kiss-swollen lips and asks, “Will you be my husband today?”
Any control I have shatters. Without another word, I lift her in my arms, carry her to our bed, and give her my answer.
Suite Hearts, Day 45
