Letters from Home, Chapter 11
"Got any liquor?" he tosses back over his shoulder as they climb the stairs to her townhouse.
"It's the middle of the afternoon," she informs the back of his head.
"And?"
And this conversation will be easier on both of us with a bit of liquid courage, she decides. "And I've got beer and I think some vodka."
"That's my girl," he responds and she secretly delights in his choice of words.
She drops her bag on the floor of the entryway and her keys on the table by the stairs. Toeing off her shoes, she gestures to the living room. "Um, you can sit in there while I get those drinks." She starts down the hall without waiting for an answer.
She enters the kitchen but instead of going to the fridge in search of beverages, she moves to stand in front of the sink. She grips the edge of the counter and stares unseeingly out the window. "Breathe, Allison. Breathe," she mutters. Her head is still spinning from his sudden reappearance. She can't believe he was waiting outside for her all this time. Though in retrospect, maybe she shouldn't be surprised that he didn't buy her cold-hearted act. He always did have that uncanny ability to see right through people's facades to their true motives. She was certainly no exception.
Two well-defined forearms appear suddenly to grip the counter on either side of her and his breath stirs her hair as he speaks. "You didn't ask me what I wanted to drink."
Her heart threatens to pound right through her chest wall, but she somehow manages to hide her response to his nearness. Her voice is steady as she replies, "I figured you'd prefer the beer." She turns around to face him and raises an eyebrow. "Was I wrong?"
He looks down at her, taking in the challenge issued by that arched brow and he wonders what she'd do if he kissed her senseless right here in her kitchen. He starts to lean in, but before he has the chance to find out, she's turning back around to face the sink and is opening up the cupboard to the right in search of a glass. Reluctantly he drops his arms from either side of her and says, "No, you weren't wrong. Vodka's for girls." He picks up his cane from where he'd hooked it over the back of a chair and limps back towards the living room.
"Good thing I am a girl then," she says turning back around, glass in hand, "because I'm having vodka and cranberry." She's surprised to find that she is once again alone in the room. How does he do that?
After a few minutes, she joins him on the couch with a large glass of well-diluted cranberry juice for herself and two open bottles of beer for him. He nods his thanks and picks up the nearest bottle, downing half of it in one long swallow.
In her absence, he has turned on her (pathetically small, in his unasked for opinion) television and tuned into a daytime drama. She reaches for the remote, intending to turn it off so they can talk. His large hand reaches out to cover her own. "Give me a minute, okay?" he mumbles.
She nods her understanding, leans back on the couch and tries to involve herself in the show, but all she can think about is her hand still trapped between the remote and his. His thumb lazily strokes the side of her smallest finger. He doesn't look at her.
An hour passes in silence, both of them taking the time to gather their thoughts and relearn how to relax in the other's company. She makes a couple of more trips to the kitchen, ostensibly to replenish their drinks, but also to regroup whenever she starts to feel herself sinking too far into his aura. She knows she has to learn to maintain her sense of self around him if this is ever going to work. He won't mean to take advantage, not at first anyway, but eventually he will if she lets him. She knows she can do it; it'll just take some practice, that's all.
The second time she returns to the living room with refills, the television is off and he is looking at her expectantly. The floor is yours, his expression says.
She sits back down beside him, setting the drinks on the table in front of them. "Did you mean what you said before...about there being something between us? Because I don't think I can go back to being your pen pal. Not now."
"If all I wanted was a pen pal, I'm sure there are prisoner outreach programs I could look in to." He smirks.
"Right, well then why did you say all the things you did on the phone?"
He picks up his beer and takes a drink before answering. After swallowing, he says, "Timing is everything, Allison. When you called, Wilson had just found one of your letters."
She opens her mouth, a horrified look on her face, but he holds a hand up to stop her from speaking. "It's okay, he didn't read it. He did, however, see that it was from you and he gave me a bit of a hard time about it."
"He didn't know we were in touch," she realizes, all at once feeling very insignificant. Wilson's his best friend. If he didn't know about her then..."You were keeping it a secret," she accuses. "You're...ashamed...of me?"
"No!" he practically shouts, before continuing in his normal tone of voice. "No. It wasn't like that at all. It wasn't a secret, but it was something I considered to be private – just between us, real but not quite real. Important...very important...but separate from the rest of my life."
He watches her carefully for a reaction. The fact that her normally expressive face is blank is a clue that he's fumbling this badly. Silently begging her to at least try to understand his point of view, he continues. "After he knew, and I tried to think about merging whatever was happening between us into my perpetually fucked up life...well, my immediate, visceral response was that I couldn't do that to you. You deserve a better life than what I can offer."
The blank look is gone, replaced with one of indignation. "Isn't what I do or do not deserve, my choice to make?" she demands.
He holds up his hands in surrender. "Yeah...yeah it is. And that's part of why I'm here. When Wilson was talking about the lovely young Dr. Cameron...suddenly you were no longer the strong woman I've come to know over the past year, but instead the naive young girl who used to work for me. A girl who, as I've since found out, never really existed at all, except in my own perceptions of you. You're all grown up and not nearly as naive as the image you used to project. And, well, I'm not really known for my altruism anyway. So, if you think you can handle me, that's your call. If you still want to that is.
She smiles. "I want to."
He lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding and smiles at her reflexively before leaning back and reaching for the remote again.
This time she's the one who covers his hand. "You said that was part of the reason you were here. What's the other part?"
"Oh...right. Almost forgot."
He turns over the hand that is on the remote and threads his fingers through hers. At the same time he turns toward her and reaches out his other hand to tangle in her long hair. Leaning closer he whispers, "This is the other reason," as he lowers his lips to hers.