Page 98 of A Match Made in Vegas

She must remember the sex at the bar.

In the limo.

At the club.

Neither of us was drunk then. Not yet.

After, maybe, but not then. I looked in her eyes. I saw into her soul. That's how it felt.

Maybe I imagined something, but not that. Not the clear-eyed desire to fuck me.

I may not know marriage, but I know sex.

I don't offer to leave again.

Instead, I climb out of bed and move to the bathroom.

She barely looks at me as I move. The start of a marriage norm—nudity, who cares—or because she can't face last night?

No. I'm not obsessing. Not yet, anyway.

I close the door and go through my morning routine. When I'm finished, I stand at the door and listen to her dress.

Her movements are rushed, but they're not entirely frantic.

She's starting to think. Maybehow the fuck do I get out of this. Maybewow, we sure went there, but it's all good.

I don't know.

I try not to question it. I try not to do what I've done in every other relationship and assume we're on the same page, assume I know what book we're reading.

This is new to both of us.

I want to give her time and space for that. To take the time and space myself, too.

She calls something to me from the room.

Goodbye. I think. I don't chase her down. I let her leave. I give her space.

It's strange. I want to hold her close, and I want to set her free.

How can I want such opposite things?

Maybe that's what I missed before. Maybe that's something about love. It means wanting the best for someone else, no matter what.

I do want the best for her.

Even if it isn't this.

I just—

I'm not considering that yet.

I take a shower and dress in clean clothes.

I look at the pictures we took last night.

Cell phone snapshots aren't my thing. Maddie always teased me about that.

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