by Julia Kent
"I’m older than you are — I'll forget everything first."
"I'll be there to remind you. I'll remember every single day of our lives and I'll whisper it in your ear until you can see it all again."
My breath catches in my throat and a little sob escapes. These are the exact words I have wanted to hear from Ryan for so long, longer than I even knew, and I can't believe I am hearing them now.
From Dermot Mulroney. In "Starcrossed." Thanks, Hulu.
I reach for the remote and click the volume down a notch.
With my chopsticks, I dig around in my container of lo mein, looking for any stray shrimp that escaped my notice. When you’re alone, you can do that. You can forget table manners and pick out the best bits for yourself. Yet another benefit to being single.
BZZZZZZZZZZ
Door buzzer. Probably someone in the building forgot their keys.
"Yes?"
"Pizza," a deep male voice announces.
I glance over at the table. Yep, there's my lo mein. Pretty sure I didn't order pizza?
"Not mine," I say into the intercom.
"Shelton, apartment 3B. Sausage and mushroom, extra cheese. Paid for."
That's what Ryan and I always ordered. Must have come up in their system by mistake.
Great. It's like the entire world is trying to remind me of what I almost had, and lost. WTF?
"Okay, come on up." Might as well. I buzz him in, then crack the door open and start rifling through my wallet for tip money. I can hear the delivery guy's steady footfalls as he climbs the stairs. Nothing in my wallet but a twenty-dollar bill, and that's too much even if it is a third floor walkup. I pull open a kitchen drawer and I'm searching for my spare cash envelope when the door swings in.
"Just one sec," I tell him, still digging through the drawer. "I didn't order that, but I guess I can wrap it up and have it tomorrow."
"You can," he replies. "You can have it tomorrow or the day after. Or now if you want."
NoNoNo.
I look up, very very slowly. There’s no pizza box on the counter.
"NoNoNo," I whisper.
"Yes," Ryan says firmly. "Repeat after me: Yes. Yes, please. I will have that today, tomorrow, and forever. Thank you."
My tiny apartment suddenly seems so vast, like the ceiling has been ripped off and I’m blanketed by the night sky, stars shining, clouds covering the moon as if it’s being modest. I inhale, then exhale. I know I’m alive, because every bit of my skin prickles, excitement rocketing through my blood. Ryan wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t — if he didn’t — right?
“Ryan, what are you doing here?”
“I... was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in,” he says with a tone of finality, as if there’s nothing to question, no reason to wonder.
I close my mouth and breathe carefully through my nose, his cologne just strong enough to make my knees weak. Finally, I slowly turn. His back is to me as he closes my door. The same strong, powerful shoulders that faced me at the Chatham Beach Inn our first night together. My eyes comb over his body, taking in the snug business-casual slacks, the business shirt and tie, the dark suit jacket. He looks like any businessman in the Financial District, coming off the Commuter Rail for his day at work on State Street.
Only hot as hell, poised and sophisticated. Why is Ryan wearing a business outfit?
And why is he here?
“This neighborhood isn’t on the way to anyplace,” I argue. Trust me. I know.
“I haven’t been able to find my, um, cuff links?” He’s such a liar. Those golden eyes are wide and seeking, his hair longer now, brushing against the tops of his eyebrows. The look he gives me is a dare. “I haven’t seen them since the wedding, and I thought maybe you have them,” he continues.
“For Pete’s sake, Ryan. Every girl in the world uses that excuse: ‘I think I left my earrings at your place, can I come over and look for them?’”
He looks sheepish — or pretends to. “Where do you think I got it?” The grin that makes his face light up is like watching the sun rise over the ocean. You know it’s coming and you know it will be a spectacular sight, but when you actually experience it you’re changed forever.
I glance around for something to throw at him, but there’s nothing that I wouldn’t mind if it broke. There’s another apple pie I made yesterday, but that would make a huge mess. I need to touch something, hold it in my hand, cradle it to remind myself I’m still part of this world, because there’s no way Ryan is doing this. And then I need to throw it at him, because “Where do you think I got it”?
No way. This can’t be real.
He notices me scanning the counter. “Don’t hurt me,” he says with a little grin, mouth pulled to the side, dimples on display. I forgot how irresistible that grin is. But then it fades, and he’s looking at me seriously.
“I hurt enough, Carrie. I hurt so much I can’t breathe. And you know what the worst part is? I think you hurt, too.” One step closer, he moves with that liquid grace he possessed in bed. My belly tightens and my heart starts to move faster and faster, as if chasing time.
“Me?” I draw myself up with what dignity I can muster, juggling my body’s response to him with my rational mind’s defense of my hurting heart. “Hurt? Why would you think that? I’m fine,” I lie. “Everything is great. I’ve been offered a promotion. I am moving to San Francisco, probably.”
His jaw drops a little in surprise, chin pulling back, hands going to his hips. “Did you say San Francisco?”
“Yes. Chloe offered me Associate Director of Design. I accepted.” I glance away. I can’t look at his face. That conversation with Chloe feels like another lifetime. One where my former pretend boyfriend wasn’t delivering pretend pizza to me.
“When?” He leans against the counter, his ass shifting those long, thick legs and the end of his suit jacket hitches up, pulling out his shirt, showing a band of skin at the waist, with muscle that goes into that tight V at his hip I see when he’s in a g-string at work.
And — blank. My mind goes blank. My salivary glands and clitoris, however, take up the slack. I focus on that spot of his skin. It’s easier than answering his question.
He waves slightly. “Hello? Carrie? San Francisco?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I confess. “When OSF opens, I guess. Maybe sooner.”
“That’s great. Congratulations.” Why is he blinking like that, staring at me like I told him I won the lottery?
“Thanks.”
“I got accepted to grad school,” he blurts. “Stanford and Cal Tech.”
I stare back at him. “Stanford has a massage program?”
“Engineering,” he says patiently, inhaling sharply, suddenly, like a gasp he’s trying to control. “It’s time to get serious. Nobody can dance forever. And I have to make a change — even Zeke says so. Not that I’m taking advice from Zeke now. Or maybe I am.” He looks a little alarmed at that thought, but takes another breath and soldiers on. “I can’t just spend my life waiting for you to love me back.”
“Love you back...?” I echo.
Snappy comeback, right? Hey, less than three minutes ago, I was trying to find four one-dollar bills for a pizza delivery guy I wasn’t expecting, who is now standing in my kitchen doing a pretty fair imitation of Dermot Mulroney. You try being witty under those circumstances.
With a tiny voice in your brain screaming Why didn’t you wash your hair today when you showered?
“Yes, love me back. Pretending was my idea, I guess, so I only have myself to blame, but I wasn’t pretending. I love you, Carrie. I’ve loved you since that night you came over and we made tacos but we used tuna fish and they were awful and we had to order pizza.”
That was a year and a half ago. I stare at him, in awe.
“Sausage and mushroom, extra cheese,” I whisper.
“Don’t interrupt,” he says. “I might lose my courage.”
I press one hand over my mouth and remember to b
reathe through my nose, my own hot breath all I can feel.
“And we laughed so hard and then we watched a movie and you fell asleep on my sofa,” he continues, starting to pace. Except my kitchen is about eight feet by ten feet, so he can only take three steps in each direction.
“‘Gone Girl.’ You made a joke, you said I was gone before she was…”
He glares at me, looking fierce and sophisticated, like one of the billionaires in a drama about power and dominance. I clap both hands over my mouth and shut up as the rest of my body screams for him.
YesYesYes.
“I looked at you curled up and sleeping, with the light shining on your hair, and I just knew.” Soft love fills his eyes, the corners turning up, memory capturing his heart. I want to cry, his words like little thorns, so beautiful on a rose yet so painful.
“But I was dating Jamey,” I finish for him.
Ryan nods, eyes sad. “Yes. I wasn’t going to say anything when you were with someone else.” He looks away.
“And then last month,” I whisper, trying to understand how this all connects, trying to figure out what to say next. “He broke up with me. And I texted you and you let me come over and oh, God,” I groan. “My broken vagina kiss!”
He walks around the counter till he’s standing right in front of me, and pulls my fingers from my lips. He holds them tight, his thumbs slowly caressing my palms.
“That was the best kiss, C-Shel.” His mouth warms my fingertips, eyes looking up at me with expectation. Grounded and centered, this Ryan is my friend, my television buddy, my — well, he’s everything.
More than ever before.
“And now you know my vagina’s not broken.”
He laughs. “We’ll get to that later. Let me — I thought all the way over here about what I was going to say to you, after Chloe explained.”
“Chloe?” My voice squeaks. “What does — ”
This time, it’s his hand that covers my mouth.
“But here’s the thing you need to know,” he goes on. I stare down at his fingertips, eyes crossing. “That night on the Cape when we made love? That wasn’t pretending. Not for me, anyway. When I was inside you for the first time — look at me,” he says urgently.
Slowly I meet his eyes again, his words making blood pound from the inside out, my body drawn to him.
“When I was inside you for the first time, everything in the world was in that moment. Every question I ever had was answered. I don’t know how to say it better than that. I just knew. That was as real as it gets. Carrie, I was never pretending. Not then, not before, and certainly not now.”
I cannot believe my ears. That’s an expression, but I mean it literally. I am questioning my own sanity.
“Wait just a minute — never pretending?” An indignant feeling starts to bloom in my chest as his words sink in. “When this all started, you said we were going to pretend. And then I thought maybe I wasn’t pretending but you said you were, and then I thought maybe you weren’t but I heard you tell someone you were, and then we had sex and I definitely wasn’t pretending but who knows what a guy is thinking?”
He makes a sound of protest, but momentum propels me onward.
“You’re not just any guy, of course, because you’re Ryan. You know — my friend. My stupid reality television friend. My work husband. My — ”
“Soulmate,” he interrupts, the word so quiet that it can’t be right.
I’m inventing this, aren’t I? Reaching down, I pinch my inner thigh and yelp from pain, then look back up.
No. He’s still here, though his eyebrows are now knitting in confusion, eyes on my pinching hand. I’m going to have a nasty bruise on my leg, but I’ve confirmed this is actually happening. Worth it.
“And then maybe I sort of said I was pretending because I heard you say you were, and I didn’t want to be the only one who wasn’t… and then we were both pretending again at work because a few people knew although most of them didn’t, and now you are telling me you never were?” I press my palms flat against his chest, ready to give him a huge shove or a passionate kiss, unsure which will happen first.
Fury has driven every tender feeling out of my body. I pull my hands away and take a step back, panting.
He just stares at me, saying nothing.
“Ryan? You were never pretending?”
“Nope.” His voice is calm and steady. “I’m sorry, C-Shel. I loved you the whole time.”
“No.”
We look at each other, all pretense gone.
“Yes.”
“No! Impossible! You’re a 10.5 and I’m a 4.”
“Stop it. Stop that now,” he says, all gravel and fire, his voice so serious. “You’re my 10.5 Carrie. I can’t give you a number. You just are. Tell me you feel the same way. Please.”
“I loved you, too, Ryan. I’m sorry I didn’t know it when I was pretending. But I know it now. I love you, I do… love you.”
He just stands there for a minute, taking it all in, our eyes locked as he searches my face, our breathing fast. My chest rises and falls, seconds ticking by, our breath in sync, all that I am vulnerable and raw.
I can’t stand it, blurting out, “What do we do now?”
Before I can finish, his mouth is on mine, the fine fabric of his suit jacket tickling my forearm, his hot mouth eager and demanding. In seconds, this moves out of reunion territory into something magnetic, all-consuming and torrid. I can’t touch him enough, pulling his shirt out from his pants, running my hands up his bare back, his hand cupping my breast, in my hair, cradling my jaw, all of him pressed against me, every part of us needing more.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, voice thick with emotion, hands on my ass, my back, my shoulders, his desperate need to stay in contact with my body matching how I feel about him.
“I can’t believe any of this is happening,” I admit, the thought overwhelming, stronger even than the physical need for Ryan’s heat, his scent, the way his nose nuzzles my neck, how my hands slide up under his open jacket and it falls to the ground. We’re in my kitchen, the counter’s edge digging into my hip, but we might as well be worlds away, alone and in need of nothing more than each other.
“I can’t believe you ever thought I was pretending, Carrie.” He speaks between kisses, my heart soaring.
“What was I supposed to think, Ryan? I took you at your word.” Shaky and shaking, I correct myself. “And I was too afraid to say anything to you. Afraid I was imagining it all.”
“I’ll never lie to you again. Never,” he says fiercely, dipping his head down to kiss me, pulling me up to him with hands that hold my hips, thumbs anchored at my waist.
“Two years,” I marvel, about to let myself get caught up in all the time we’ve wasted, all the misunderstandings — but then I gasp and pull back in horror.
“Oh, God!” I choke out, my hands and feet going numb with the aching reality of what I’ve just done. “I told Chloe I’d take the promotion! I’m about to move, Ryan! Three thousand miles away!” Hyperventilation has never been a character trait of mine, but it’s quickly taking over. The thought of losing Ryan after finding him makes my chest physically hurt.
“C-Shel. Hey, Carrie,” he soothes. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay! I finally — we finally — “
“Stanford,” he says slowly, his penetrating gaze so calming. “I’m going to Stanford.”
“Stanford?” I’m having trouble keeping up.
“Stanford,” he repeats firmly. “You made my decision for me. And my family is in the Bay Area, so this is an easy choice. I choose you.”
Laughter, unexpected and completely hysterical, pours out of me like a bottle of prosecco being uncorked. “You choose me? You choose me? I was fleeing you! I took the promotion to get away from working with you because it hurt too much to be around you but not with you. And now you’re telling me you’re moving to San Francisco, too?”
“No.”
“No
, you’re not moving?”
“Yes, I’m moving. But no. I’m not telling you anything. We’ll talk later. Let’s,” he says, kissing me gently, “stop talking.”
Ryan moves suddenly, sweeping one arm around my back and the other under my knees, his thighs brushing against my ass, his movement so easy, like he’s lifting a feather, a ball of yarn, a pint of ice cream. We’re kissing, Ryan carrying me without breaking his stride. I melt into him and let the swirling thoughts that tornado through me settle down, absorbing myself in the feel of his skin against mine, the brush of cotton caressing my throat, how his arm stretches under my knees.
It’s a very small apartment. He knows where my bedroom is. I don’t care where he is carrying me, I only want to go with him. A part of the world closes, separated by a giant door constructed of pieces of our souls, giving us privacy and time.
Time to get real.
He lays me down on my bed and I shimmy out of my yoga pants, kicking them away as he strips off his pants, his movements hurried, impatient. Normally, I’d savor this, but the air between us feels so charged with emotion, so much to unravel between us, the only easy form of communication one that happens when we’re naked. Words matter, but they can wait.
My body can’t, though, because my heart is in it, craving him, beating a rhythm that calls for more of Ryan. My bedroom’s in order, the room of a self-possessed woman, wholly on her own. No more, though. As I move the covers and beckon to Ryan, he turns on my bedside lamp, a salt crystal that glows, casting his sublime body in shadow and dim light, all hard lines and deep presence.
“Come here,” I say, direct and clear, unambiguous.
I hold out my arms, urging him, needing him with me, in me, part of me. I’ve been with him before. I know what is possible, and this time we don’t need to tease. Pretense is a distant memory, one we’ll talk through in our own time, at our own pace. Wounds don’t have to bleed to hurt. Pain doesn’t have to create scars to leave a mark.
Healing comes in so many precious ways, and right now, I need to stretch against Ryan’s bare body, to feel him over me, to press up and kiss him with the fullness of my soul.
