His voice cracked a bit. Felt like my heart might crack, too, but I said what I needed to say, because Ihadto.
“I can’t,” I whispered. “Not right now. That’s not what…I’m not in a place where I can…”
But I found myself reaching out and lacing my fingers over his again, filling in the gaps. His expression was full of yearning. I love how Jones’s emotions are always right there in his eyes: the anger, the sadness, now the hope. I was full of yearning, too, still am right here with my notebook in my bed, but the resolution I’d made was loud in my mind. No more men choosing my future for me. No more letting them decide.
“I can’t do this right now,” I whispered instead. “I’m so sorry.”
“OK. Of course. That’s OK.”
I knotted my fingers more tightly through his, my whole body aching. Didn’t mean to kiss him again, but we were so close, and everything that had just happened wasrightthere, like a note still hanging in the air.
This kiss was light, barely there, but it instantly lit that blaze in me again. My heart beat in my throat. He lifted a hand to my hair but hardly touched me this time, fingertips as light as his lips on mine. Ilet out a noise, the sound of that yearning in my chest. His thumb slowly traced my jaw and the sparks went all the way to my toes.
“I won’t—I won’t do that again,” Jones said, pulling back slightly. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I just…I wish I could, but I can’t.”
The whole conversation was half silence—neither of us managed to finish a single thought. And all the while I was onfire. I ran my thumb across the back of his hand, tracing the freckles there, trying to steady myself. Wanted to sayMaybe one day, but that wouldn’t have been fair. Wanted to sayPlease have a baby with me, but that would be ridiculous. Wanted to sayThere’s so much I’m not telling you, but what would be the use in that?
So we sat there, silent, hands touching, both flushed and breathing fast. I wondered what he wasn’t saying, either. All the gaps and the holes and the fears we couldn’t let go.
“I’m glad we’re here, all the same,” Jones whispered. “Both of us, I mean. I’m glad our paths crossed the way they did.”
“Me, too,” I said quietly. At least I could give him that much.
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day fifty-three sober
I can’t write about last night.
I can’t write it all down here. It’s too intimate. I can’t even write down why I can’t write it down.
But I can say that I haven’t stopped thinking about it for a single second since.
The problem with living with the woman you’re falling in love with is that once you’ve decided not to kiss again, or not to do all the other things you want to do, you’re still just both there. Together. She took herself off to bed first, afterward, but popped back into the kitchen to get a glass of water in those pajamas, the pale blue ones with the little shorts, and I felt like I was going to go mad if I didn’t touch her.
Right now, she said.I can’t do this right now.
Is it reasonable to feel hopeful after that? Or am I being delusional? To me,not right nowconveys a possibleyes right now, one day. She’s been very open about the fact that she turned up here grieving and brokenhearted. I don’t mind waiting until she’s ready, if that’s what she wants.
Is it what she wants, though?
Bye for now (see—it implies that I’ll be back, doesn’t it?).
Charlie Jones
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day fifty-three sober (cont.)
Reading over the below, I think perhaps that email was even more embarrassing than it would have been if I’d detailed everything that had happened on the sofa with Charlie. I am thirty-seven. I am an adult. What am I doing? What would I advise Toby to do?
I just need to talk to Charlie and finish a sentence. I need to ask her what she needs from me right now, and whether afterright nowis over, there’s any chance she might want…I don’t know. Me, I guess. She’s gone to the shop for the early shift, but we’re meeting to discuss harvest festival this lunchtime, so I’ll see her then, and have time to talk to her properly afterward.
