by Ruby Lang
“Oh.” She pursed her mouth. “I guess I’ll have to thank her, too.”
Simon laughed, just a short bark that startled her (and the cat) into realizing how quiet it had been. The sound was so unexpected and welcome that she started, to her horror, to cry.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She’d made it so far without shedding tears, and now she was going to break down in front of this man.
She stumbled off the stool to flee the room, but Simon caught her, he held her, and for one moment, she allowed herself to lean into him, to sob on him, even if it was about him, before pulling back.
Dammit, she couldn’t stop crying. Her valve was broken.
“Lana. Please. I’m sorry.”
Simon’s voice was frantic. Through her tears, she could see the watery outlines of his arms reaching for her—just short of her—but she’d pulled away, and he was trying to respect that.
She felt his hands again briefly as he pressed a napkin into her hands. Cloth, she registered dimly—fancy, the part of her that wasn’t crying said—before she buried her face in it and wiped her eyes and nose, her cheeks and even her chin. And she wondered if she was going to have to wear the damn thing for the rest of her life, because she couldn’t face him after this. After all the shit they’d said to each other, all the things they’d done, she’d lost it because his laugh had startled her, and because she’d miss it.
“Lana,” he said, softly, “are you going to look up again?”
“Probably not,” she said. “I hope this napkin goes with my hair, because I’m not taking it off.”
The line would have been funnier if her voice weren’t broken and hoarse. Somehow, she sensed Simon’s third meal for her was probably not going to work out exactly as he’d planned either. She gave another little sob-hiccup into the damp cloth.
“Lana, Lana, sweetheart. I love you.”
“I know,” she blubbered. “It makes you unhappy.”
“No, it doesn’t. I’m the idiot making me and you feel bad.”
She lifted her eyes and saw his hands were hovering over her, never quite touching her, so close, but not quite there. It may have been her own blurry eyes, but he seemed to be teary, too.
She dropped the napkin and reached for him. He took her hands. Together they touched his wet cheeks. She felt his stubble, the small grooves of worry so close to the laugh lines.
“Lana, I want to do this. I want to move with you. If you want that.”
“But your work. Your life. I don’t understand.”
Abruptly he let go. “I found some apps!” he said excitedly, showing her his phone.
It was not what she’d expected him to say.
“I saved all of these listings. Did you know we could buy an entire house with bedrooms, and an office for me, and a real dining room, and the mortgage would be less than rent? Like this place here? All these beautiful old floorboards and these huge windows. I can see the piano going in this room where I could work. And yeah, the kitchen needs updating, but that would be a fun project to try. Look, it’s even got an herb garden out back. And a chicken coop. Although I don’t know how Muffin would handle a bunch of hens.”
She watched helplessly as he scrolled through photos and listings. Until he looked up again. He seemed to remember himself. “I do steamroll over people,” he said, worriedly.
“Sometimes.”
“But this is all up to you. We can figure out where we want to live and divide finances. Or maybe you don’t want to live with me at all, which is up to you, of course. Or there’s this place I found which has an upstairs apartment and a downstairs. Or—”
He stopped.
She said gently, “I want to live with you. And I love these houses and all the work you did. But what happened to your entire life being here?”
“It’s not really true that all of it has to stay in New York. Not anymore.”
“Are you sure? Because I’ll worry about it if you give up too much of you for me. I love you and I want to be with you, but that’s not an easy thing. I want to be an important part of your life, but I can’t be your everything.”
He was shaking his head and kissing her hands as she spoke. “It’s because you’re already an important part of my life, Lana. Being with you, seeing what you’ve done, has taught me that I can have more of everything. It doesn’t have to be limited to what I have right now. You make me want to want more. You make me brave enough to ask for more, even if it means asking it of myself.”
His words were slowly starting to penetrate. She felt herself vibrating. Was this what Simon was feeling? It must be, because her own heart was bursting with possibility.
He touched her hair now, gently, and it was a question. “You’ve changed a lot. Well, I’ve changed, too, only I didn’t realize it. The list of things I aspired to when I was in my twenties doesn’t have to be the same as what I look forward to now. In fact, it shouldn’t be. I should have new goals, new ideas of where I want to go. I’m not going to lie, I’ll have difficulty with adjusting to new things sometimes, but I need to try.”
“But I still don’t understand what you’ll do with the chorus and your job and, well, everything?”
He laughed, and she felt it again, that ache, almost a loss, almost hope. She pressed her hand to her chest, and his fingers followed and closed around hers.
He stared at where their hands were joined. “I’m going to do the same things. I’ll shift my teaching around so that I do it only two or three days of the week and fit rehearsals on those days, too. We got more money from the grantors, by the way—”
“Simon, that’s wonderful.”
“That means I can give Abena a bigger stipend to step up as the conductor of the chorus, with Dion as her assistant. I’ll still be there to put my oar in, but I’ve been evolving into a different role for a while. It isn’t perfect. I’m going to have a long commute, and sometimes I’ll have to stay in the city overnight. On the other hand, all the train time means I can work, do my grading, and write this book I’ve been putting off.”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed his chin, his lips. “Maybe you don’t want to write this book.”
“Could be. And perhaps this new town will give me some space to figure out if that’s what I want to do.”
He looked down at her, his eyes shining and eager. And while there was still so much of that energetic young man in him, the person he was now, the person he’d become, was the one she loved.
She knew what she wanted to do. She pulled him down, her fingers sliding through his short hair, down his neck, where she could still feel the pulse of tension, the uncertainty. This was new for him, new for both of them, but his eyes looking into hers were sure. He was ready, and that was all that mattered right now.
They kissed each other slowly, leisurely. Now they knew they wouldn’t be apart, and she could savor the warmth of his palms on her elbows, gentle on the soft skin of her arms.
He groaned. “I love you. You know I love you, don’t you?”
“And I love you.”
She watched him move up slowly. She helped him take off her T-shirt and trace his hands along her rib cage, then under her breasts until he abruptly pulled the cups of her bra up and over her head.
He slid his hands down her jeans next, and she helped him by unzipping herself and stumbling out, laughing a little as she kicked them aside. Then she was bare to him and cold. “Take off your clothing,” she breathed.
He tore his shirt off, getting briefly tangled in the buttons, and pulled off the rest in a few quick movements.
There they were, naked in front of each other, wanting each other after all these years.
She knelt down. “Lana,” he groaned as her breasts slid down along his thighs. She adjusted her own knees on the hard kitchen floor and ran her palms up his legs, pressing herself to him.
She liked feeling the wiry hair against her nipples, against her stomach. She drew her hand up along the tensed muscle, so hard now, waiting for her, and up to his cock. Carefully, carefully she slid her fingers over it, then breathed and licked him, smacked her lips, and filled her mouth with him.
He was moaning, holding her head, trying to gentle her, telling her to be patient, saying the same to himself. But she wanted the fullness of him, every overwhelming experience. She was hungry for him, and the ache between her own legs intensified enough that she tried to seek some sort of relief, pushing her body against his legs as she sucked, rubbing herself up and down.
It was too much for him. He peeled her off his body and cleared a spot for her on the counter where he set her down decisively. The stone felt hard and chilly, and she cringed from it even as she was stuck to it. But he’d put his forehead on hers and was breathing hard, trying to take a moment. They both needed it.
“I have to go get a condom,” he said thickly.
“I think I’ll be okay without one, if you are.”
His nostrils flared, and he nodded. Then, as they both looked down, he put his hands under her to cradle her from the cold of the granite. It was only his palms, but it made all the difference. She felt supported.
She pulled him closer, as close as he could get, and they both watched as she took him in, letting them both adjust to this heat, this feeling. Her arms closed around his solid form. His lips met hers. And for a moment, they were still. They kissed, their heads dipping and bending until their bodies began to move, slowly, awkwardly, and she felt the pleasure making her body supple and warm and wet. She rocked into him, enjoying his harsh gasps, her palms moving restlessly up and down his back to urge on the flex and thrust of his muscles.
His own hands moved up until his fingers dug into her hips, his thumbs so deep in her flesh that she felt it almost on her bone. The press of him seemed so good and wild.
The insides of her thighs became slippery now, and she arched up grunting, past the point of caring, and then as the release started to throb out of her, he was coming inside her in a hot rush, and she was open wide, her heart and throat and legs and chest a pulse of bright red pleasure.
Then Simon was leaning on her. Or she was sagging against him. They held each other up, still panting, maybe laughing or crying with relief.
After a minute, he murmured into her hair. “I don’t think I can move. Except I’m going to have to because my legs feel weak.”
He pulled out from her, and helped her down from the counter. They held each other for a moment. Then she headed for the bathroom, and he turned to clean up and put on some clothes. Within half an hour, they were back in his bed—their bed—warm and sleepy. The rest of their plans could wait until morning.
Lana was about to drift off when a thought made her head pop up from the pillow. “Again, we didn’t get to eat that beautiful dinner you made.”
Simon laughed quietly and pulled her close. “It’ll keep.”
Epilogue
They held their housewarming on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, in the big backyard of their new upstate home, under the shade of crabapple trees which had already begun to yield small, sour fruits that Lana and Hester were scheming to turn into wine when the time came.
They’d made a brisket outside in the barbecue, and everyone brought more and more food. By late afternoon, the buzz of chatter between Lana’s and Simon’s colleagues, Abena, Hester, Dion, Julia, Maxine, mingled with the perfume of smoke and flowers and herbs. Ronnie and a couple of kids darted around, chasing Hester’s dog. Two picnic tables groaned with platters of fried dumplings, pungent mustard greens tossed with ginger and sesame oil, summer rolls with mint and cucumbers and slippery noodles and peppers, spicy chicken wings, macaroni and cheese, meatballs, sweet Taiwanese sausages, and beef hot dogs for the kids, yeasty rolls and breads, a salad redolent with summer herbs, and fresh corn from a local farm stand. And then there were the pies Julia had insisted on making early this morning, the piles of berries with a bowl of lemon crème fraîche that Simon would happily have spooned down his throat, and a big tres leches cake that people protested was too sweet and rich, even as they helped themselves to larger and larger wedges through the evening.
It was, Simon reflected as he stood on his back porch, surveying the crowd of friends new and old, pretty much a perfect day.
As if in response, Maxine sidled up, and slid her arm into his, imprisoning him in her loving grip. “Where’s your wife?”
“Not my wife. Lana’s inside mixing more sangria.”
“You two should get married again.”
Simon rolled his eyes. He’d been hearing clunky variations on this theme all weekend from her. At least she and Ronnie would be flying back tomorrow.
“If we decide to get married again, I’ll let you know. But moving and owning a house together pretty officially says that we don’t want to be apart again.”
“But—”
He untangled himself from his sister, and shook his head. “For someone who was against us getting involved after all that time, you sure are pushing it.”
“Because I know when I’m wrong, and I support you.”
“Is bossing a way of expressing support?”
“In our family it is.”
He had to laugh because it was true. “I think Dion brought a guitar. Go and sing with them.”
Then he turned to go into the house to find Lana.
Lana and Julia had their backs to him, their dark heads bent over the kitchen island as they cut up fruit. He paused at the door to look at Lana, to look at his love.
Her hair was pulled into one of those intricate braids, ending in a soft curl that he wanted to tease even as it teased him. His gaze touched her shoulders, the roundness of the muscle which he knew would be smooth and warm under his fingers. She was wearing a sundress that flared at the hips, and if her cousin weren’t there, he would have come up behind her, and put one hand right there, where the material puffed out, and bent to kiss her neck, while with the other hand he’d have reached under the skirt to caress her knee, her thigh.
Okay, this would be a perfect day if only his guests would leave.
But Julia was saying laughingly, “I mean it! I feel like I should move here with a handsome husband and buy a deceptively gorgeous money pit of a house. We could get into fights over paint color and the cost of plumbing and yell at each other about why we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. And then we could have makeup sex in front of the non-functioning fireplace.”
Without pausing in her chopping, Lana asked her cousin, “You sure you want to stay a lawyer? Because you’ve definitely got a couple of stories in you.”
“Lawyer to novelist? Doesn’t sound plausible. But seriously, you seem to be doing great. And Simon is, too. I’m really surprised he’s adjusted so well.”
He probably should have made a sound to let them know he was there.
Lana didn’t answer for a while, and just when he felt himself getting anxious about what she would say, she spoke again, her voice dreamy, “I don’t know what it’ll be like when school really gets busy. But these couple of months, even with the unpacking and getting lost and me figuring out my new job and home ownership, it’s been wonderful. Perfect.”
He breathed out, relieved to hear his own thoughts echoed.
Lana dropped more fruit in the pitcher. “There are little things. Like he’s not the greatest driver, so I end up doing most of it.”
He snorted. But it was true. He didn’t feel comfortable behind the wheel yet.
“Maybe down the line when we’ve saved up money, he might get an apartment in Inwood. One of his friends lives in a beautiful old Art Deco building, and apparently there are always units for sale. That way we can stay in the city a couple of nights a week when Simon teaches, or has rehearsals or a concert.”
&n
bsp; “You’d come with him on those nights?”
“If I’m not very busy, yes. I love being with him. And I love the city. I’m sure I’ll miss it.”
“And me.”
“Yes, I’ll miss you, Julia. But you’re going to have to leave for me to do that.”
Julia turned around and spying him, smirked. “I know my cue.”
She picked up the pitcher full of fruit and wine and stuck her tongue out at him as she passed.
Lana was leaning against the counter now. She looked flushed and warm in the worn old kitchen of their funny little house. Her feet were bare, and as he gazed at her, her toes curled. When he looked up, she seemed warily amused, and he knew they were both thinking it wouldn’t do to start having sex in the kitchen when they had a yard full of company—much as they wanted to.
Simon stalked toward her nonetheless, not stopping until he was right over her, the hem of her dress billowing around him, her breath wisping down his open collar.
He stroked his hand along her back. “Do you know, I think we’ve broken a bunch of our house rules. We’re having a party. We’ve got significant guests staying for a long stretch of time.”
He put his arm around her and drew her into him.
“A couple of days is not a long stretch of time,” she murmured into his neck.
“It is when it’s an eight-year-old and my sister. And it must feel considerably longer in cat years.”
Muffin, who was currently hiding from Ronnie in one of the upstairs closets, probably agreed.
He said, “It’s a good party, but I can’t wait for them all to go home and leave us to ours.”
They stood that way for a long time, close, but not kissing, touching each other gently, glad to be in this proximity with each other. They would have continued this way, but the sound of a guitar drifted through a window. Then a voice started up with a folk tune he recognized as “I’ll Never Find Another You.”
“Is that Maxine?” Lana whispered.
