Page 124 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

My tension isn’t coming from the same place it always used to. It’s got nothing to do with my past. Since we pulled into the driveway, I’ve been thinking about the future, mostly related to this weekend, but after we get home, too. In a handful of weeks, I’ve managed to become completely reliant on this man for every last one of my basic needs, and some of my more complex needs as well—like the desire to serve a purpose or share my random thoughts. The desire for feedback and validation.

He’s my entire safety net. Without him, I’d probably have to move in with Drew and Olivier, and no fucking thanks, although their place in Brooklyn is really nice.

The problem is—Ilikethis. Technically speaking, since Rome, this is the first time I’ve had him all to myself for more than a few hours. No club, no work meetings, no wives to have breakfast with. I don’t want to fuck this up, but if I thought my friends were too much to be around with him for thirty minutes a couple weeks ago—what’s a whole weekend going to do?

I’m not prepared for hard questions because I don’t want anything to change. “I don’t know what I need.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I scrub at my face and sit on the edge of the bed. “Maybe I don’t want to get into it.”

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Do you want to go downstairs?”

“In a minute. I think I just got overwhelmed.”

“I didn’t mean to crowd you.”

“You didn’t.” If anything, he wasn’t close enough. He still isn’t. “Come here.”

Moments later, the mattress sinks beside me, and I lean my arm against his. I rest my hand on his thigh, palm up, and he slides his into mine. Our fingers interlace, and I take a shaky breath.

It strikes me what’s happening as our palms press together.This feels real.

It feels like we’re in a relationship, and we’re taking it out for a spin. Showing it off. Putting it to the test of scrutinizing friends and shared accommodations. Drew can say what wants about how long this affair is going to last, but I have no plans to end it any time soon. In fact, I only feel our connection deepening, unless I’m completely off base, but in a moment like this, it’s hard to believe we’re not on the same page.

I’m afraid to put it into words, though. I’ve told him something very definitive about myself and how I approach relationships, and that could be why he sees me as a safe place to explore his sexuality and kinks. I’ve never given him the impression that I have an issue with the fact that he’s married and is devoted for reasons I only vaguely grasp to his wife.

He’s gotta still be in love with her, though, right? And if that’s true, he’s biding his time, waiting for the day she either comes around to him or ends the marriage on her own.

I squeeze his hand when I think about it because I can relate to what it feels like to love a ghost and wonder if there was anything I could have done to keep her with me. The heaviness of Trinity’s death isn’t as weighty as it was even a week ago. Or maybe I’ve been distracted from dwelling on it so much. I’m not saying our scenes are some kinky magic bullet, but they’ve helped releasesomeguilt from my consciousness.

Talking about Trinity as much as he lets me helps. A lot. I’ve started to understand I really was just a kid who could only do so much. It still hurts, what happened to her, but it feels like a longtime ago now—not like it happens over and over again every time I wake up.

“Should I not have come?” he asks quietly.

“It’snothinglike that. It more like maybeweshouldn’t have.”

“Talk to me.”

I brace myself for some measured honesty. I’m not trying to go overboard and share my soul, but I want to communicate what I’m feeling in a way that doesn’t sound nuts. “I feel really close to you, and maybe that’s not the right way to feel.”

“Right for what?” he asks.

“Right for this. What we’re doing.”

“Do you have a word for what we’re doing?”

“No,” I admit. “And I take it you don’t either.”

“Keeping each other company. Getting to know each other. I have plenty of words for it,” he says, but he’s being measured, too.

“You have excuses.”

“I have my reasons for not wanting to put a name to it, also.”

“Are the reasons a secret?” I ask.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

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