“Go,” he says. “I’ll do the candles.”
And so I do.
Vin rolls over and pulls me into him the second I slide under the covers. His eyes are closed, his face is clean-shaven. It all sends a warm jolt through me.
“Good conversation?” he asks on a low grumble, his eyes still closed.
“Always,” I reply, snuggling closer because he is so warm and so big and so mine.
“Thanks,” he says. “For taking care of my brother.” And then he cracks one eye. “He doing okay?”
“Oh, myGod! This family! Why don’t any of you ever askeach otherhow you’re doing? Always with theHey, Roz.”
He’s smiling. “It’s a game of telephone. You’re the telephone.”
He’s petting my hair now, pulling the blanket over my shoulder, testing my pillow, deciding his is better and trading them.
“What would you ever do without me?” I ask.
“Please, please don’t make me consider that,” he answers. And then there’s no more movement. We’re just staring into each other’s eyes, a foot apart, tangled under the blanket. And it’s all so familiar. The feel of him against me, the shadows that nestle into his face. The curve of his eyelid, the dark fringe of his eyelashes. He’s thinking his own thoughts and also trying to guess mine.
I know because Iknow.Because I’ve spent the last eight years working for the privilege of looking at him and knowing what he’s thinking.
“How,” I whisper through the tremble in my voice. “How could I have forgotten, Vin?”
“Forgotten what?” He’s whispering too.
“That Idoalways know what you’re thinking.” Not the details, of course. Rarely the specifics. And PTSD has made it, maybe irrevocably, more murky. But at the core of it, of course I know what he’s thinking:I love her. I want her. How can I help her? What can I do for her today?That’s my man. This is what is written in his heart.
He moves and I move. We meet in the middle, where the pillows overlap. Our lips greet and then slide gently, his hand searches under my shirt for the smooth skin of my back. He’s rubbing a big, slow circle there.
If, earlier today, he turned me on from the inside out—full heat and speed—well, tonight he works from the outside in. Long, slow touches, every place but between my legs. He never stops kissing me. He kisses the scar on my collarbone but leaves my shirt on, sliding me out of my bottoms and one of my legs over his hip. It’s a long time later, when I’ve been slow-burned until I’m gasping, that he pushes gently into me. He starts to roll me to my back but pauses, reads my eyes, remembers my triggers. Instead, then, he rolls to his own back and takes me with him. I pin myself against him and he holds meso tight our heartbeats talk to each other. He’s got both hands on my hips and his tongue in my mouth.
And I just don’t care that we’re in his mother’s house. That there are other people here. That someone might hear us. I mean, yes, not ideal. But there are some things more important than propriety. And sometimes you just say, you know what? My marriage comes first tonight.
We kiss and gasp and make quiet love on a squeaky bed. Afterward, when I’m listening to his heartbeat hammer in his rib cage, and the world is mixing with the other world, and I’m floating away, sinking in, warm and Technicolor, he says something.
“What?” I murmur, startling awake for a moment.
“Nothing,” he whispers. “Sleep. I’ll tell you later.”
Twenty
Look, Vin andI are not movie stars. We’re not civilian detectives or real detectives. We’re not surgeons or even allthatattractive. We’re normal people. So after we drive home early on Tuesday the fifth, Vin goes to work and I go to work.
I grocery shop and when he gets home, he’s dirty and stinky and takes a shower. I feed him burgers and fries and salad. We watch two-thirds ofWhat About Bob?curled up on the couch together and Vin falls asleep. And then he falls asleep again, this time in our bed.
Did I mention he brought home a carton of gorgeously ripe cherries because he knows me? Because he’s in love with me. Because he knew I wouldn’t want flowers.
It’s not flashy. But this is life, baby. And it’s the happiest consecutive four days I’ve had in over a year. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that. And Vin, my Vin, has been very absent. Up until now, of course.
Wednesday night we transition very smoothly from sitting on the couch to having sex on the couch and I almost cry it feels so good.
Thursday, though. Thursday, Thursday, isn’t it always a fucking Thursday? The volunteer roster is a nightmare this week. So many people called in to change their shifts that all the work I did on Tuesday had to be redone.
It’s not my fault. It’s just one of those weeks. But when Idrag my ass into Kitchen B, I’m really feeling like it’s my fault. Especially when I open the fridge there and find some kale that smells like old socks and two plastic bags filled with mushrooms too slimy to save. I toss the food in the compost bin and this one really is my fault. I’m pretty much the only reason they stock this fridge.
I screw around, trying to put a new spin on bean soup and end up with…bean soup.
