She smiles, leans forward and kisses me again, like a quick reward between two people who do this all the time. “Sorry it took me a couple of days. I had to think about it. Talk to my friends.” She shrugs. “That’s howI am, I guess.”
“I would’ve waited longer, Zo. I meant what I said. I would’ve come, whenever. Wherever.”
That earns me another smile, this one shy, not much like the Zoe I know, but that’s the thing about her and me. We’re going to see a lot of different sides to each other now, now that we’re doingthis for real.
“I applied for a job too,” she says. “I think I’m going tobe good at it.”
“I’m sure you are,” I say, touching my thumb to that smile, loving the feel of her lips against my skin. “I can’twait to hear.”
Her mouth flattens into something more serious then, those gold-brown eyes meeting mine. “We’ve got so much work to do, you and me.” Then she tips into me, setting her forehead against my jaw, and I hear the deep breath she takes, the way she inhales me. “Your parents. My friends. The money. Everything.”
It won’t be easy, the way we’ve started. Behind me, in that house, are two people Zoe has to get to know in a whole new way. It doesn’t matter what my mom said, before I came out here. It doesn’t matter that she’ll be on her best behavior, will treat her as nice as I didn’t on that first day Zoe came. It’ll still be hard, those memories. It’ll take time.
I pull her close again, my arms wrapping around her now, her hand pressed on my chest between us. “We’ll be all right,” I tell her, and I mean it. I’llmakeit all right. I’ve worked so hard, since Aaron, every day a new drudgery, a new challenge to get through while I ran from my grief, but none of it made me feel good. None of it made me feel excited, like I was going toward something. I can’t wait to work that hard for me and Zoe, for our life together. “Turns out, we make a good team.”
She laughs, short puffs of breath against my neck that make the base of my spine tickle. I feel her face shift as she looks over my shoulder, toward the house. “Not so much an island anymore,” she whispers, and I crane my neck to look behind me, to see my mom and pop in the house, looking out the storm door at us, Ahmed’s big body behind them. I don’t see Charlie, not at first, but she’s there too, pushing Ahmed off to the side so she can see past him. No, not so much an island, and it took her to get me to see it.
I turn back toward Zoe, and her cheeks are flushed in embarrassment at our audience. “Come in,” I say, a teasing smile spreading across my face. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“In a minute,” she says, and for that minute we’re quiet, holding each other, folding into each other in relief. She feels so good that I feel familiar pressure build in my chest, around my throat, behind my eyes, though it’s not so terrifying now. This’ll be new to her too, this cracked-open version of me, but she won’t mind. She’s the one who’s been trying to get in there, after all, chipping away at that hard shell. I tip my mouth so it’s next to her ear, the same way I know makes her shiver. “I can’t believe I deserve you, Zo,” I tell her, quiet words for her only in this little cocoon of privacy we’ve made out here in the open air. “But I’m going to treat you so good.”
She leans back, one of her cool hands on my neck, the other still over my heart, her smile widening as she looks at me. “Take it from me, Boy Scout,” she says, patting my chest gently again. “Sometimes, we get a lot more than we deserve.”
Epilogue
Zoe
Two years later
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” I call, bursting through the door, dropping my purse on the table, kicking off my shoes in the entry, not bothering to set them aside. I strip off my coat, sort of smooshing it, rather than actually hanging it, on the wall where Aiden installed a coatrack last year when he moved in. I count it a win that I don’t hear it slide to the floor when I hustle away toward the bedroom. As I pass through the living room, I notice my empty mug of tea from last night, my laptop closed and sitting on one of the couch cushions, my favorite throw blanket bundled in the spot where I’d sat last night, working on a brief while Aiden sat beside me, studying for a test he took early this morning.
I only wince for a second.
I’ve gotten more used to it now, more easy with myself and this space, over the last couple of years. I’m busy, that’s part of it—not so bound to routines anymore, and relishing some of the chaos of my job rather than trying to recover from it. But part of it is sharing this space with Aiden, finding my peace with him rather than in quiet, sleek, pristine rooms. It’s not always tidy in here when I get home, but it’s alwaysrestful, knowing he’s here or that he will be.
Well, it’salmostalways restful.
Our bedroom looks a bit chaotic at the moment, a big open duffel on the bed, a stack of mostly unfolded clothes beside it, my half-formed efforts at packing this morning before I had to get to the office. Aiden’s boots and mine are beside each other on the ground, a lot of miles on them now. The sight’s not unfamiliar, and not just because Aiden and I started out going on weekend trips together, back when we were faking it. We’ve taken a lot of trips, me and him—at first, to places that were important for getting to know each other better, more honestly. To Florida, first, where we spent part of the Christmas holiday after the initial, somewhat strained efforts between me and the O’Learys when Aiden and I got back together. Outside of Barden, things had been—well, not easy, but easierbetween us, and as Aiden had promised, his parents had started to see me differently, especially when it turned out that Robert and I both had a lot to say about a show with a park ranger. Last year I’d started receiving a package from them once a month, addressed only to me. It’s always something jarred and homemade—pickles, jam, cherry syrup, orange marmalade. Two months ago, the package had included a recipe, and Aiden had smiled and smiled before sticking itto the fridge.
We’d gone to California too, in part to see my mother, but also so I could show Aiden where I’d grown up, where my father’s office had been, where I’d gone to school. I’d even shown him Christopher’s bar, part of my history, though he’d been grim faced and silent as we’d driven by. My mother, of course, loved him—she loves men, gorgeous ones especially—and Aiden had tolerated her fawning attentions, though in the hotel at night, curled around each other in bed, he’d asked, endearingly frustrated, “Why doesn’t she ever ask any questions about you?”
There’d been other trips: Colorado, to see friends from his previous job, and to teach me how to snowboard (not a successful endeavor, but I did like the snow pants). Vermont, last fall, where we’d taken an alarming number of pictures of turning leaves, laughing at night as we sorted through them (They all look thesame!). Six months ago, our biggest trip, to Italy, Aiden’s first time out of the country and also probably the last time he ever tries to convince me to go topless on a beach.
Adventures, big and small, forthe two of us.
He comes out of the bathroom then, dressed but his hair still wet from the shower, and I make a weak effort to ignore the heat that gathers low in my stomach, between my legs, at the sight of him. “How’dit go?” I ask.
He nods, gives me a small smile, and leans in to give me a kiss—a natural, quick intimacy that still makes me feel warm and safe all over. It’s like this now with me and Aiden, our lives joined in all the ways that matter, except the most official ones. I’m reluctant about that, for the obvious reasons, for mistakes I’ve made before, but lately—lately, I think:Maybe it’s time.
“All right, I think,” is all he says, but I’m guessing that means he aced it. He actuallyisa bit shy, Aiden; that’s what I’ve learned since I’ve been with him. What I used to think was dislike for me was—well, maybe partially dislike for me, once upon a time. But also shyness.
He’s been working to get certified as a paramedic instructor, a new challenge he’s excited about to add to everything else he’s doing. I’d be worried about his schedule, but it’s funny—we’re more alike than we’d thought, initially. We both like to stay busy, both enjoy the challenge of hard work. I’ve worked harder in the last year than I have in all the years I spent at Willis-Hanawalt, and all of it, even the tough parts, feel sogood.
This weekend, some of the hardest work, some of the work we’ve shared between us, pays off.
“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” I say. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had this—”
He quiets me, putting his lips against my neck, pressing there softly before he says, “It’s okay. We’re not in a hurry.”
