Page 119 of Letting Go at 40

She has summers off. With the boys at work, Mila at a friend’s house, and Lynlee attending summer camp art classes, I come home for an impromptu lunch date that leads to us ending up in my bedroom.

Breathlessly, we lay beside each other. Chests heaving. Hearts galloping.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, on my back. Anna giggles. Our position hadn’t been anything unusual. Anna’s quite adventurous and allows me to experiment on her body, teasing, testing her. She’s always willing but this time, something was different.

Intense. Intimate. Incredible.

We’ve been like this for nearly two months, the longest I’ve ever been with a woman. I don’t want our situation to ever end. In fact, I’ve been waiting so long for Anna I want to take the next step.

“Let’s move in together,” I blurt as my heart rate lowers and I stare at Anna laying on her stomach. Her hair is removed from its previous ponytail and sprawls over her shoulder. Her eyes glitter as she gazes back at me.

She giggles again, girlish, sweet. “We practically are living together.”

I get what she means. We share meals and groceries. Do laundry and take care of household needs. We spend time with the kids, playing games and attending activities. But I want a little more for us. Her and me, exclusively.

“I know,” I say, shuffling to sit upright and leaning against the headboard. Anna shifts to her side, watching me.

“But . . .” I swallow hard. “Don’t you want more than sneaking up into this bedroom?”

Anna props herself up, taking the bedsheet with her, covering her chest. “What do you mean?”

“Why don’t we ever have sex in your bedroom?” Anna moved out of the bedroom she shared with Ben. The week-long project took place in June after the school year ended. She painted the largest bedroom and bathroom on the second floor, moved furniture and bought new linens. She even did further updates to the main bedroom on the first floor.

Yet, I haven’t been in Anna’s bed.

In my dreams, I’ve taken Anna on every surface of the house. In reality, our moments have been confined to her sneaking up to my bedroom above the garage or impassioned moments in her first-floor powder room.

I haven’t taken her on the kitchen counter or the sitting room sofa. Not the living room floor or the dining room table.

And I’m tired of it.

I want more from our relationship than all these stolen moments. Sure, we make dinner and hang out. We watch movies and have lunch. We even make a production of Saturday morning breakfasts, but there’s something beneath the surface missing . . . for me.

I’m in a position I never, ever expected to be in. Cancer sucks, for sure. Anna grieved long before Ben passed. She had a year of firsts without him. Then a second year, wading through her new normal. While digging deep for patience and compassion, I’ve weathered all the milestones along with her, but now I feel like I’m in a holding pattern.

We’re barreling toward Archer and Jenna’s wedding. I want to know what the future holds for Anna and me.

“What are we doing? Where are we headed?”

Anna blinks several times, staring at me like she hasn’t seen me before. “What do you mean what are we doing?”

“Stop parroting me,” I snap, losing the stranglehold on my patience. Digging my fingers into my hair, holding it at the base of my neck, I realize I’m losing a grip on us.

“Where do you want us headed?” Anna’s voice softens.

“Where do you see us?” I counter, staring at her as her eyes lower. She can’t even look at me. “Is there an us?”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide with hurt. She glances around us. The rumpled bed sheets. My naked chest. She sits straighter, tugging the sheet up to her throat.

“Don’t do that. Don’t hide. We need to talk about this.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Her voice weak.

“Do you see a future for us?” What the fuck are we doing then? She isn’t some fuck buddy to me, but maybe I’m just some kind of transition for her . . . or boy toy . . . or I don’t know what. For a good time, call Mason. I’ve heard it before.

“Why aren’t we more open about us?”

“Open?” She echoes me again, like she doesn’t understand the word. “Our friends know we are together. Our kids, too. We’re dating.”