She remembered the bunk bed in the doctors’ on-call room at the hospital, when Daniel had wedged a chair under the handle of the door.
She remembered her own bed at home in her parents’ Manhattan apartment. She’d gone back there to live after her separation from Kyle and had stayed on there through her demanding internship year, until she had more time to find the right place on her own.
Mom and Dad had been away for the weekend. Daniel had looked around at the high ceilings, the oil paintings on the walls, the windows with a distant view of Central Park, and couldn’t hide that this level of privilege was new to him and troubled him. What did it say about their differences?
But in her bed together, that hadn’t mattered.
In her bed, nothing had mattered except the way they moved together, the way they made each other feel, the sense of discovery and magic, the blissful contrast of his big, strong body and her softer, smaller one.
The only thing they’d ever really had during those short, intense weeks—sex, and bed, sleeping wrapped in each other’s arms.
It had scared her with its overwhelming power.
“Are we doing okay to move?” he asked. “Steady?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
But before they could start the walk toward the stairs, he added quietly, “We should say it, don’t you think? We’ve both been holding off.” He took a careful breath, and she could feel it through their contact. “You remember me.”
“Of course I do.” She opened her eyes, but they still wouldn’t focus properly. He was just a darker blur in a fuzzy radiance. “Even though I can’t see you.”
Sight was overrated, her body said. Neither of them moved. Time slowed. The heat of his hands burned into her and she felt the air seem to thicken around them. She could have let him go and stepped away, but she didn’t. Neither did he.
“You’re not blonde anymore.”
“That was my divorce hair.” She could feel the way his chest expanded and contracted as he breathed, could feel the detail of ribs and abs and back muscles beneath the cool weave of a short-sleeved T-shirt.
“You never wanted to talk about your divorce.” She knew the sleeves were short because the soft inner skin of his arm was in direct contact with her forearms as he closed his body more protectively around her. “I think you mentioned it twice.”
“We weren’t all that much about talking, you and me, were we? I still don’t want to talk about it.”
“It was that bad?”
“No, it was more … The marriage was that bad.”
“That’s not why we fell at the first hurdle, the two of us—because you’d had a bad marriage.”
“No. One of the reasons.”
“The other reasons … I never really understood what they were,” he said slowly. He loosened his hold a little, creating a slow friction where their bodies touched.
“You were angry …” she reminded him.
“So were you. And you pulled right back. I could feel you pulling back, and so I pushed harder and it all got worse until you just cut off.”
“The timing was wrong. Everything was wrong.”
“Without giving me a chance to bridge the gap. The last thing we ever did was go to bed.”
“Are you still angry?”
“Are you?” he countered quickly.
She bit back a retort that this was what he’d done before, he’d always turned things onto her, made her talk first and talk longest, so that she was the one who had to put herself out there, put her needs and feelings on the line, at a time when she was still such a mess from her marriage.
It was true. He had done that.
But there were so many mistakes and faults on both sides, she couldn’t untangle the rights and wrongs of it. It had been a mess. If she forgave herself, then she had to forgive him.
She said some of this, haltingly, and felt—because she couldn’t see—the way he listened. Cautiously. Willing to hear. Resistant about some of it. Tightening his hands at one point, and then softening them against her back. “I agree it was both of us,” he said. “I agree that we can’t just … be angry. Anger is such a prison. It holds you back. Even when you can see it, you can’t help it sometimes. But let’s not.”
He spoke as if he knew from bitter experience, driving home to her once again how little they’d really known about each other. She didn’t know what had happened in his past to make him believe anger was like that, did things like that.
“Is anger what you’ve felt, if you’ve thought about me, over the past six years?” She tried to open her eyes again, saw a shimmery blur. He was too close. She couldn’t bring him fully into focus and it threatened to make her queasy. Best not to look.
“No, mostly not,” he said. “You?”
“No. More like a sense of inevitability. I’ve thought about it. I could never find a way for it to have been different. We just weren’t in the right place, either of us. Me more than you, maybe?”
“Don’t know about that. But yeah, neither of us in the right place. Lot of regret. Not much clarity.”
“Pretty much.”
He shifted his weight again, and she felt the pressure of his chest against hers. They didn’t speak. She remembered what she’d decided after Daniel—that she really wasn’t cut out for the whole love thing. It was too daunting. Too huge. Too much of a contradiction to everything she’d been taught about her own strengths.
She’d had one failed marriage, and one failed fling where even the great sex couldn’t hold them together for more than a few weeks. The great sex seemed like the problem more than the solution. It was deceptive. It got in the way.
Immersed in her work, she might have tried love again if it had come her way. She’d planned to be very careful about it, to take it slow, to keep sex safely out of it for as long as she could. But she’d never had to follow through on those plans because no man had seriously tried for more than a date or two. How likely was it, really, when she kept to such a tight, demanding routine?
Daniel was the first to speak again. “What about the reasons why it was good between us, Scarlett?” His voice dropped low and slow. “What do you think, now, about those?”
The air went still and heavy around them, while the past crowded in and their bodies remembered. She wanted to tilt her head and see if her cheek would find his shoulder. Or lean in and lift her chin. Her mouth would be sure to find something, if she did that. Something delicious and wonderful. She knew it, because he was so close. She would find the hard, satiny heat of his neck. Or the fragrant tickle of his hair. Or the tease of his gorgeous mouth.
A man’s mouth didn’t change in six years.
Her
