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She must remember the sex at the bar.
In the limo.
At the club.
Neither of us was drunk then. Not yet.
After, maybe, but not then. I looked in her eyes. I saw into her soul. That's how it felt.
Maybe I imagined something, but not that. Not the clear-eyed desire to fuck me.
I may not know marriage, but I know sex.
I don't offer to leave again.
Instead, I climb out of bed and move to the bathroom.
She barely looks at me as I move. The start of a marriage norm—nudity, who cares—or because she can't face last night?
No. I'm not obsessing. Not yet, anyway.
I close the door and go through my morning routine. When I'm finished, I stand at the door and listen to her dress.
Her movements are rushed, but they're not entirely frantic.
She's starting to think. Maybehow the fuck do I get out of this. Maybewow, we sure went there, but it's all good.
I don't know.
I try not to question it. I try not to do what I've done in every other relationship and assume we're on the same page, assume I know what book we're reading.
This is new to both of us.
I want to give her time and space for that. To take the time and space myself, too.
She calls something to me from the room.
Goodbye. I think. I don't chase her down. I let her leave. I give her space.
It's strange. I want to hold her close, and I want to set her free.
How can I want such opposite things?
Maybe that's what I missed before. Maybe that's something about love. It means wanting the best for someone else, no matter what.
I do want the best for her.
Even if it isn't this.
I just—
I'm not considering that yet.
I take a shower and dress in clean clothes.
I look at the pictures we took last night.
Cell phone snapshots aren't my thing. Maddie always teased me about that.
