Page 76 of Dream with Me

“Hi. I’m Shannon,” I say.

I’m trying to open the door, in case she wants to talk, and I’m also trying to open myself up to make more friends. The woman smiles at me, and when she does, I see something in her eyes—deep fatigue maybe—that reminds me of how my eyes used to look when I looked in the mirror. When I got to the point where I thought I wanted out of my marriage because of everything life was throwing at me.

“Hi. I’m Delilah. Nice to meet you.”

I smile at her, and we both continue working on our cleanup. We’re silent for another thirty seconds or so, and I figure maybe she doesn’t want to talk after all, but then she speaks.

“Your husband seems amazing that he would come to something like this with you. Sorry if it seemed like I was staring in class sometimes. I promise I wasn’t checking him out,” she says. “I honestly was just so stunned to see what it looks like when a couple is doing something like this, something with so much potential for connection, and I was a little bit in awe.” I glance over and smile at her.

“Okay, so this might be too much information, and if it is, I’m sorry. Tell me to shut up. But it hasn’t always been like this. Only a month or so ago, we were on the verge of a divorce, like we had a court date set and everything divorce. This is part of resetting our relationship and trying to get back what we had. No, actually, what we had was wonderful, but we’re trying to grow beyond that.”

I glance down at both of our hands, and the tools are clean, so I turn off the water and pass her a couple of paper towels as I take some of my own, and we dry our tools. I don’t miss that her eyes are a little misty. When our tools are dry, we both toss our paper towels, and I’m about to head back over to where Troy is. Something stops me.

“Delilah, this may be totally off, and if it is, mark me down as the crazy lady you met in pottery class, but you have a look in your eyes that I had months ago. I want to tell you that it can get better, a lot better. I know I literally just met you here at the sink, but if you ever want to chat, let me know, and maybe we can get coffee sometime.”

Delilah looks up at me, and a lone tear streaks down her cheek. She wipes it away and nods at me, giving me the slightest hint of a smile. I smile back, pat her on her shoulder, and walk back to Troy. When I get there, I wrap my arms around him, and he doesn’t hesitate to wrap me up in a tight hug.

“Hold me for a second, please.”

He doesn’t answer, but his grip on me tightens, and he kisses me on top of my head.

We hold hands across the console on the way home. It’s a forty-minute drive to the pottery studio since it’s on the edge of the nearest big city. I’m not complaining because it’s more minutes I get with him one-on-one.

“Do you wanna talk about what happened at the sink?”

I chuckle. “That might be the weirdest sentence ever said on a date, taken out of context, of course.” Troy laughs as well, and I love hearing the joyful sound as it rolls out of him. “I met somebody. Her name is Delilah. I suspect she’s going through a rough time. When she introduced herself, I saw the same look in her eyes I used to have when I was deep in my depression and filled with sadness. Talking to her made me so grateful that Shyley and my mom intervened—because that’s sort of what it was, an actual intervention—and set me on the path to getting help. I wasn’t in a place to work on our marriage back then. I had to work hard to get to a place where I was becoming emotionally and mentally healthy myself. So, it was gratitude for where we landed, and I needed to be in your arms.”

“I wish I had been strong enough to help you. I’m sorry for that, Shannon.” Troy’s voice is rough with emotion, and I squeeze his hand tighter.

“Don’t be sorry for that. I honestly don’t think I would have heard it from you. I believe that it was absolutely meant to be Shyley and my mom.”

Troy watches the road carefully as he drives us home. “You have an amazing family, that’s for sure.”

“You have an amazing family, too, Troy.” Silence ensues.

He gives me a quick glance, and then his eyes are immediately back on the road, but I see the confusion they hold. His biological father died a few days after we returned from Pennsylvania, and his mother died years ago. He has no siblings.

“They’re not just my family, Troy. They’re your family, too. My parents see you as their son as much as they do Jack and Ben. You’re a brother to my sisters, and you’re a brother and a friend to Jack and Ben.Youhave an amazing family, too.”

Troy doesn’t respond, but I notice him biting at his lower lip, and I suspect he’s holding in his emotions. We spend the rest of the ride home in silence, holding hands.

It’s comfortable and it’s perfect.

When we get back to the house, Troy walks me in. It’s late, a little after nine. I work in the morning but Troy’s off, so he’ll be back here first thing in the morning to help get the kids off to school.

“Do you want to stay for a little while? We could watch an episode or two of our show.”

He agrees, and we end up snuggled on the couch, as we watch TV. We get through one episode and are nearing the end of the second. Every one of my nerve endings is on high alert as we’ve spent the last twenty-five minutes in each other’s arms, and Troy has got me so worked up that I almost can’t stand it.

He hasn’t done anything to cross Dr. Linden’s line. He’s taken these minutes together to slowly explore my body with his fingertips and sometimes with a flat palm against my skin. He comes so close to places that I’m dying for him to touch. He brushes the underside of my breasts but never touches them. He slides his open palm up my outer thigh and into my sleep shorts, moving to my hip and spending time there caressing my skin with the rough part of his thumb before he slides the hand down toward my inner thigh. The edge of his thumb brushes against my core, and I squirm. He knows exactly what he’s doing, technically following the rules while coming as close to breaking them as he can. I pause the TV and look up at him.

“You’re killing me here.”

“Do you want me to stop?” He knows it’s a meaningless question because he’s fully aware I don’t want him to stop.

“No. I want more.” My words are a plea.

A low moan escapes him at my words. “Tell me?”

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