Page 101 of That Reunited Feeling

“Good.” He leans back and reaches between us to take my right hand in his right hand, weaving our fingers together.

Then he draws them to his lips and plants a kiss right where our tattooed stars are touching.

30

TOM

I’ve no idea how long I’ve been lying here watching Hannah sleep. She’s curled up facing me, her hair splayed out on the pillow behind her, lidded eyes fluttering at whatever is going on in her sleepy brain, and her chest rising and falling beneath the covers.

Time has stopped. If all I get to do for the rest of my life is lie here and watch this beautiful sight, it will be totally fine with me.

She must be exhausted. What a night last night was.

First, the overwhelming rush of watching her bloom into exactly who she should have been, who she is, as she stood on stage and visibly grew in self-confidence in front of my eyes was a phenomenal experience.

And then there was the other phenomenal experience when we got home. I’d thought the passionate grapple in the back of the car the other night was crotch-rockingly exciting. But last night? Fucking hell. That was a whole other level, a whole other world, of orgasmic experience.

Being inside her felt like the most right thing I have ever done in my life.

She’s awoken a joy in me, a lightness, a laughter, I only vaguely remember once having.

An image of Hannah on my arm at Walker’s wedding next summer flashes through my head.

I need to get a grip. It makes no sense to think anyone meets their right person when they’re a kid.

But we’ve been off on our own and lived our lives since then. We’ve gotten some things right, and some things wrong.

But maybe this thing, theusthing, we got right the first time.

Fuck.

How can I let her go now?

How am I supposed to be her Bridge Person, when all I want is to be her Forever Person?

And how the hell has this happened when all I did was go to Blythewell to get some post-divorce rest and relaxation? I had zero intention of getting involved with anyone for a very long time. But here I am lying next to Hannah, dreaming of not having to say goodbye.

The thought of her disappearing to California leaves a long, dull ache in my chest.

Perhaps I should try to broach it. Gently. Slowly. Build up to it over the next few weeks. Try to ease her into thinking we could work this out.

There must be a way. Fuck knows what it might be, but there has to be.

And maybe I can start by bringing her coffee in bed.

I tear my eyes off this beautiful sleeping face for a moment to turn carefully so as not to disturb her, and look at my phone. Christ, it’s nine o’clock.

That wouldn’t usually matter on a Saturday, but these are extreme circumstances. I have a meeting with Gareth at eleven,where he’s supposed to sign an agreement to take two months’ vacation, attend weekly anger management therapy, and send a written apology to Sailor Caldwell. That should, once and for all, sort out this ridiculous nightmare.

All being well, we can celebrate at the Arsenal game Hugo got us tickets for tonight. I can’t wait to give Hannah her first experience of an English football match.

Then tomorrow morning we head home.

Home? I mean, back to Maggie and Jim’s.Thisis my home. Here, in this flat. In London. And Hannah doesn’t exactly have one yet.

I slide carefully over to the edge of the bed and gently maneuver myself up without shaking the mattress and disturbing her.

I eventually locate my boxers in a tangle with my jeans on the floor and head to the kitchen.

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