Page 57 of The Significance of Moving On

“They told me I’d hurt you if I let you go. And then the way I felt when I couldn’t reach you, it gutted me.”

“So, the great Casey Davenport has an Achilles heel?”

Casey laughs, shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says. “Named Chantal Bradley.”

A comfortable silence descends over us and the car. Every-so-often he glances over at me. I think we’re both thinking the same thing, or at least I hope we are by the time we pull into the driveway.

Those kids, the ones across the street, build a snowman out front of Tom’s house. Tom and I never built a snowman. He always said he was a warm weather type of guy and teased that he was ‘allergic’ to the cold. Funny, even though I still feel these pangs of regret for something he and I will never get to share together, there’s no sadness attached to the memory today. Casey hauls my bag from the trunk and always the gentleman, waits for me with the car door open.

“You okay?” he asks, looking over to Tom’s yard, too.

“Yes, actually.” And it’s the absolute truth.

The smile he flashes me he flashes with that unmistakable look of pride for how far I’ve come in the seven months—wow. It’s been seven months already. We hold hands walking into the house. Every instinct in me wants to attack him on the spot but then I’d look like some horny teenager, which I am, but I don’t want to scare him off either. Not after making such progress. Tiny steps. Baby steps. I’m here and I’m staying. We’ve got plenty of time.

Casey cleaned. Like not that the place looks picked up, but like he cleaned the way you’d clean when someone is coming to visit, someone you want to impress. Although to the average person cleaning wouldn’t seem like much, but actually, this is kind of huge. I itch to hug him and start playing with my hair, pulling it up off my neck and letting it drop to suppress the urge. It’s not enough.

Thankfully, Casey doesn’t suppress his urge to kiss me, kicking the door shut with his boot and pushing me up against it. Sweet Jesus, I haven’t been kissed many times in my life, but I find it hard to believe it could get better than this. His lips. His strength and confidence. The way he bunches the hem of my shirt in both fists as he presses harder. Our mouths open. There’s exploration. I need to breathe but am happy to expire if it means not having to part from him for even a moment.

This man chose me.

Tom chose death, Casey chose me.Me. And the longer I think about it, the more the emotion surfaces. While he drops his kiss from my lips to my jaw allowing me to suck in a breath, I run my fingers through his messy hair, taking time to appreciate the silkiness because I’m allowed to. How many times have I dreamt of this since last summer?

It isn’t a dream, though. It’s real and genuine. And intense. The surreal moment stretches on and on because this time he won’t regret it. There’ll be no “I’m sorry” today. No “we can’t do this” to screw with my head.

Kelsey is alive. Pam, Ann and I are fine, and Casey wants me. Nothing could make me let go of him now. As a matter of fact, I do the very opposite, wrapping my legs around his waist, where we align perfectly. And this is the one,thekiss to measure all kisses by from now until we’re too old to remember how to kiss. Casey moans from the back of his throat, but more importantly from somewhere deeper, his soul maybe. I’m panting. He’s panting. But neither of us wants to be the first to break the magic of the moment. Until he does. Confliction rages in his eyes exacerbating the pain which is always present in them. No mistaking his struggle when he says, “I can’t sleep with you.” When I don’t respond he says it again. “I can’t sleep with you. Not yet. Sex will complicate—”

“Are you mine?”

“I’m yours.Yours, sweetheart.”

“Then we’ll wait.”

I drop my legs from around his waist and hug him once more before rolling my bag into my bedroom.

We both need time to cool off from that homecoming. I open the dresser to pull clean undies, a nighttime bra and pajamas out. Then I go take a shower, blow dry my hair, and ready to crash, I walk back into the living room to find Casey sitting on his recliner.

He turns his head to look me up and down. To be a good girl I even picked pink and purple plaid, flannel sleep pants and a pink Tee with a matching satin heart in the middle. Very unsexy. For him.

“I’m beat. It’s been a long day for us both.” I thumb to my bedroom. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I’m wearing plaid flannel. There’s nothing sexy about plaid flannel. And I’ll be good, perfect even. The Catholic Church could canonize me.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. You could wear a burlap sack and it’d be sexy.”

“Please—things with Kelsey were so bad I thought I might lose her. And now you’re here with me, we don’t have to hide or pretend. Don’t make me be alone tonight.”

Casey stands from his chair. “You know, the guys called me pussy whipped. I said you have to be getting pussy to be whipped.”

I stare at him blankly.

He chuckles. “Turns out they were right.” Then he holds his hand out to me. I take it, linking my fingers through his and smiling lamely. He doesn’t lead me to my room, but his. “My bed’s bigger,” he says.

We each take a side of the bed to pull back the steel gray comforter before Casey moves to the dresser in that masculine without even trying way he has, to pull out a pair of jersey sleep pants and an old T-shirt showing off his work logo.

“Get into bed, I’ll change in the living room.” He sounds serious even though his butterfly inducing smile betrays him.

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