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He grinned. “Never?”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I hope you did. I hope you’re never with anyone else but me for the rest of your life. And you’ll never be in that position again either. That’s a promise.”

I dressed hastily and got the hell out of dodge. I was in the elevator before I burst into tears.

On week twenty-nine post-divorce, I let him see me up to my apartment. A silent Jovie watched us wide-eyed from the living as we walked by. I made a face at her that meant I’d explain in the morning in best friend language.

She gave me two grinning thumbs up, the incorrigible girl.

Roughly two minutes later he was shirtless, on his knees eating me out in my bedroom when I felt something strange on his shoulder. Like gauze. I worried at it with my fingers for a minute before (reluctantly) pushing him away from his extremely distracting activities.

“What happened to your shoulder?” I asked him.

His eyes were a bit glazed over, his hands flying to undo his belt. He licked his lips. “Hmm?”

“Your shoulder. Is that a bandage?”

He glanced back like he had no notion what was on his own body. “Oh that.” His hands dropped from his belt and a he grinned. “Take it off. See for yourself.”

Reluctantly I rose, walking around him. Tentatively I touched it. It was definitely a bandage. “What did you do?” I asked him.

“Look,” he said.

With more than a little hesitation, I pulled the corner back. Raised angry pink flesh met my eyes. “You removed it,” I said, feeling a little lightheaded.

“I decided that I’m not a big fan of tattoos anymore, especially that one. It was about damn time.”

“You’ll have this scar forever.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

On week thirty-eight post-divorce, I stayed the whole night at his place. We fucked like it was the end of the world. Again and again in every way imaginable. I was his putty and every thrust remade me into his pattern. We were a tapestry, and somewhere along the way, we’d been woven together.

I felt more tender and vulnerable than ever the next morning when he struck.

“You know I’m in love with you, right?” He told my back as I was dressing. He said it with utter rawness, like it hurt him but he wanted the pain.

I turned and faced him head on. He approached me, holding my face in both hands. “I love you,” he repeated.

Was his love real? I did not know. I needed to test it, taste it, touch it, see it.

Lay my face in his neck to breathe him in. Love? Still not sure.

Lay my ear against his chest, hear his heart beat. Love?

“I promised myself I’d never let myself fall again.” His voice was low and rough and raw. “But I didn’t know what that meant. In love there’s no free will. That’s how I know it’s real. I couldn’t stop it and I can’t deny it. This is it for me.”

I couldn’t choke a word out. My heart is an organ of excess. It is excessive and unrestrained.

It doesn’t give a little. It is an overachiever. When it gives, it gives absolutely everything. Somewhere along the way, I’d given it to him, and no matter how I resisted, I wasn’t going to get it back.

I acknowledged for the first time then and there that I wouldn’t be moving on. At least, not how I’d thought, because I knew in my bones that the regret would be worse if I couldn’t forgive him.

“I can’t settle again,” I told him, lips trembling, heart wide open. “I can’t settle for less than everything from you. From both of us.”

“Good.” His voice was harsh. His hands were firm on my face. His eyes were a wild storm and they were promising me the world. “I don’t want you to. I want to give you everything. I’m ready now. And you better fucking give me everything back.”