Page 100 of Happy After All

He turns and looks over his shoulder. “Are you checking me out?”

“Yes,” I say, scooting out from beneath the covers and climbing slowly out of bed. Then I head into the bathroom and turn the water on. I feel a strong arm wrap around my waist, and I find myself pulled against his naked body. He kisses my neck, and I sigh.

This feels good. It also feels significant. I know we aren’t supposed to be significant. But we are. I realize, with no alarm or fear, that this is changing me. I don’t know if a fling is supposed to change you.

Very little in my life has gone the way people think life should go. There have been a lot of good things, but some really terrible things too. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be this way, but I’m grateful for him. I try, as I put my hand over his forearm, to hold him where he is holding me, to be grateful for whatever happens after this. I need him. I know that I do, that I did.

I need this.

I want to believe that maybe he does too. Maybe this is the only way he’s going to get through finishing this book. Maybe this is the only way he’s going to be able to move forward.

I hope so. I hope that even if I’m not the love of his life, I’msomething. Because he certainly is to me.

We shower, and he offers to go get real coffee. I feign offense at the slandering of my single-cup coffee maker but can’t deny that I prefer drip or espresso. When he comes back, he’s got his laptop with him.

“I had an idea,” he says, sitting down at the table. “For an opening scene.”

“Oh,” I say. “One of the thrillers?”

“Yes. New series,” he says, his movements quick and decisive. I’ve never seen him creatively enthused before, and I love watching it.

He gets his computer out and puts it on my table. I take this as an invitation to get mine.

“Well, why don’t you do that, and I’ll work on getting my word count.”

That’s how we have our coffee. Sitting across from each other at my tiny bistro table, typing away, intermittently scowling at our screens. He looks up, over his laptop, his expression somewhat bewildered. I don’t ask, so he goes back to work.

“Is it good?” I ask him after a few minutes.

“I am agenius,” he says, taking a long drink of his coffee.

“Same,” I say. “Though, if you ask me in ten minutes, I might tell you it’s the worst thing I’ve ever written.”

“The beginning is the best part,” he says.

I shake my head. “False. The beginning is the worst part.”

“No it isn’t,” he says. “You get to begin with all kinds of explosive action, and you don’t have to shape it into a narrative for a while yet.”

“No,” I say. “Beginnings are terrible because there are so many things you still have to figure out about the book, about the characters. Every time I start, I’m overwhelmed by all the things I don’t know.”

He shakes his head. “That’s a problem for the future.”

“My preference is to gather it close and make it my problem fornow,” I say.

I like this. I like that we think of it differently. I feel like maybe I’m seeing a little bit of him. Separate from this project. Separate from this tragedy. Separate even from the way that he sees himself. He isn’t as taciturn or difficult as he seems to think he is.

He’s just been made to feel like he is.

He’s not an extrovert, but that’s fine. I don’t mind it at all. I’m not especially shy, but I need time to think. He asked me a while ago about spending time alone. It’s true, I have avoided it for the last few years, but even when I’m alone, I’m often thinking about my stories. Not about myself. I think naturally, I would choose to have more mornings like this. Quiet, working on my book.

With someone important sitting close to me.

We work like that until it’s time for me to go man the desk for checkout, and he goes to his room to work on the memoir. He brings me lunch at around one o’clock, and we eat sitting in my room again.

It gives me a taste of what life with him could be like, but I’m not trying to get like that. I’m trying to just appreciate what he gives to me right now.

I look at the tree. It’s nearly finished. Pink and sparkly and ready to get transported to the site.

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