She winces slightly at that. “I don’t want to think about not working out.”
“Neither do I. But pretending that’s not a possibility would be another lie. I’ve had a marriage implode. I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t get to pretend that dating always leads to forever.”
She exhales slowly. “You’re very grown-up about this.”
“Experienced, I think.”
She searches my face again, and whatever she finds there steadies her. “And no resentment? You’re sure about that?”
“When I get over something, it’s in the past. Ask Amber. That woman has an elephant’s memory, but anytime we fought, I forgot about it the next day, because I’m not built to hang on to every little insult. While this wasn’t some petty comment, I still think maintaining anger is useless.”
Silence stretches, but it’s no longer brittle.
She steps closer again, not out of urgency this time, but out of comfort. “I’m sorry for what I did, Damian. For using you against them. For keeping it all to myself. For?—”
“I know, baby. It’ll be okay.”
She looks at me carefully. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not going to wake up tomorrow and panic?”
“I’ve already panicked. I’d prefer not to repeat it.”
A faint smile touches her mouth.
“But,” I continue, because it matters, “I need one thing from you.”
Her expression shifts, attentive now. “What?”
“You don’t keep big things from me again.” The air tightens slightly around the sentence. “Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s inconvenient. Even if it scares you. You tell me.”
She holds my gaze. “And if we fight?”
“Then we fight. But that fighting doesn’t mean ending. Not unless you want it to.”
She studies me for a long moment. “You’re asking for radical honesty.”
“No. Just honesty about the big things. You get into a fender bender, you tell me. Walker beats a kid up in school, you tell me. That kind of thing. I don’t need the exact order of places you went to, or the precise number of pancakes you ate. This isn’t about micromanaging. It’s being mature and forthright.”
“I can do that.” She huffs a small laugh. “As long as we’re allowed to keep playing games.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Games?”
“You know,” she says, stepping closer. “Flirting. Teasing. Keeping it interesting. You don’t get to make this all serious and no spark.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You better not.” Her hand slides up my chest again, fingers tracing the line of my jacket lapel. “We can be honest and still have fun.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“And I don’t want slow to mean boring,” she adds.
“A life with you in it could never be called boring.”
Her eyes search mine one last time, looking for any sign that I’m not as committed as I sound. She doesn’t find it.
