Chapter Twenty-Eight (Jane POV)

It's been five years since I've had the luxury of doing it but I'm surprised to discover that I still like watching Michael sleep. Very much. Currently, his arm is thrown across my upper chest and his face mere inches from my own so, anchored in position as I am, studying his beautiful face seems like as good a pastime as any. He always looks strangely innocent to me this way, he features so relaxed and unguarded, his soft, pink lips slightly parted, his dusky eyelashes fluttering as he dreams. I'm compelled to lift my hand and draw my knuckles lightly across his cheek because I have to touch him and remind myself that he is real. He won't disappear.

I could happily lie there forever just staring at him but, unfortunately, my bladder is pressing for my attention in a most demanding way. It's my newest pregnancy symptom caused my growing uterus putting pressure on my tiny bladder which results in frequent trips to the bathroom. Holding it is rarely an option either. So, when the demand to urinate becomes too real to ignore, I attempt to carefully scoot out from underneath him and make a dash for the bathroom. The second I start to move, however, Michael's arm tightens around me and he pulls me closer with a sleepy grunt of protest.

"Where you going?" he mumbles into my shoulder drowsily, "Stay here."

"Michael, I really have to pee, so unless you want me to flood the bed, let go," I whisper in laughing explanation while continuing to wiggle away, "I'll be back in two minutes."

He snuggles deeper into the tousled sheets once I break free and I'm pretty sure he'll still be asleep by the time I return. I quickly throw on a t-shirt and pad out into the hallway. In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror after I'm finished and I'm surprised by what I see. I almost don't recognize myself. The smiling face of the idealistic girl I had been five years ago looks back at me. My eyes are glowing. I can't stop grinning because my life feels very damned near perfect right now. It is a blissful satisfaction that I haven't felt in a very long time.

I used to wake up every day, ready to face what came, happy in my life but always vaguely aware that something wasn't completely right. Something was missing. Michael's absence from my life was always the specter that loomed on the edge of my consciousness. The acute pain that had once been there eventually faded but the ache for his presence did not. It never did…until now. That missing something has finally returned and I feel like myself again. I raise a tearful smile heavenward.

"Thank you," I whisper gratefully.

My plan is to tiptoe back into my bedroom and cuddle with Michael for another hour more before we're both forced to rise and dress but when I creep back through the door, I am surprised to find him awake and lying propped up by several pillows. I stop short with a soft smile, marveling at how adorable he looks with his puffy eyes and bed hair. "Hey."

"Hey," he croaks groggily in return.

I climb back into bed with him. "I thought you'd be asleep when I came back."

"I was but then I got to thinking."

"About what?"

"This is the second time you've slept with me."

I blink at him and choke an ironic smile. "No. I'm pretty sure we've slept together plenty of times, Michael. Are you sure you're not still having trouble with your memory?"

"My memory is fine. I mean since I've come back…this is the second time and we're not married," he clarifies, "You haven't mentioned that once. I guess I was wondering when you suddenly got into having casual sex."

My heart flutters a bit at the question, not because I'm ashamed of my choices but because I know that it's something significantly different from the Jane he had once known. I can sympathize with how that might be a little disorienting for him. But, magnanimity aside, I'm also afraid he might be disappointed or repulsed by the change. It's not the most feminist, girl empowering thought in the world but I fear his rejection more than anything.

"There's nothing 'casual' to me about what happened between us this afternoon, Michael," I whisper, "Not at all."

"You know what I mean."

I nibble my lower lip in rising apprehension. "Does that bother you?" I'm prepared to defend my decisions to the death if it does but I also really hope that I won't need to go there. In the end, however, I should have known that I was being anxious over nothing. This is Michael, after all, and there are no deal breakers with this man.

"It doesn't really bother me, per se. It's just different. You're different. And that's not bad, just surprising."

"Different how?"

"You're a lot more…um, I don't know…bolder, wilder than I remember," he explains with a glimmer of a wry smile, "There's this self-assurance that you have now that I find really, really sexy. It's like you've finally embraced your sexuality and you're celebrating it, which I think is a good thing."

"But…" I prompt when I sense he's left something unspoken. I try not to fidget in alarm. "Is this the part where we have a discussion about how many men I've slept with while you were gone?" I ask with some measure of dread.

"No. But that answer does confirm for me that you've slept with other men."

I want to sink through the floor because I can't imagine what he must be thinking. Not about the fact that I slept with other men but that I slept with other men while he was being held captive and tortured. It's difficult to look him in the eye right then. "Oh, Michael, I-,"

"—It's okay! It's really okay," he's quick to reassure me before I can spiral into a vat of guilt and self-doubt. He goes a step further by reaching over to pull me into his arms. When I'm settled against him, albeit tensely, he presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. He strokes my back in slow, soothing circles until I finally start to relax. "I am not trying to make you feel bad," he reassures me softly, "Nor do I want you to feel bad. You thought I was dead, Jane. It's not like I expected you to become a nun. I don't feel like you cheated on me or anything so, put that thought out of your mind."

I peek up at him through the curtain of my hair. "Really? You don't?"

"Come on. Did you honestly expect me to be upset about it?"

"Maybe a little," I confess meekly, "I think I'd be upset if it was the other way around."

"No, you wouldn't. You'd understand, just like I understand."

"So then, if you're not angry, how do you feel?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure that you've slept with Rafael…"

"Oh God, Michael," I groan in consternation but when I attempt to twist away from him he holds me fast.

"It's fine. It's fine. It's totally fine," he insists gently, "I'm just wondering when did it change." I stare at him in clear discomfort. "Come on," he cajoles, "We should talk about it."

I respond with a vehement shake of my head. "I don't want to."

"Jane, don't be like that. It's a part of who you've become and I want to know that woman. I want to know everything about her. Tell me everything that I've missed. Start from the beginning and don't leave anything out."

He's so calm, so sweet, so sincere about it that I find myself relaxing against him and telling him everything. I explain to him how, for the first three years following his death, I hadn't been interested in a relationship, much less sex. At least, with anyone besides him. It had been a gradual realization for me that the sexual part of myself hadn't died when he did. And so I'd experimented, first with Fabian and then with Adam, with whom I had also fallen in love and then finally there was Rafael. That last part is the hardest to tell because I know that it's difficult for him to hear but he never once turns away from me or shuts down emotionally when I do and for that I am eternally grateful.

Forty-five minutes later, when I'm finished speaking I chance a cautious glance up at him. "So…that's everything," I whisper, "Do you feel differently about me?"

"Of course not. I'm glad that you didn't let my 'death' paralyze you," he says, "When I was being held captive, I thought about you all the time, what you must be thinking and feeling, and my biggest fear was that you would give up. I hated thinking that you wouldn't have any joy in life because of what happened and I didn't want that for you."

"For a long time, that's how I felt, Michael. Life didn't have any meaning for me after you were gone," I confess to him gruffly, "It took me years to find my balance again. I even wrote a book about us partly because I thought it might help me process my grief."

"I know. I read it."

"What?" I scramble upright at his casual admission, my eyes flared wide. "You read my book?"

"My mom mentioned that you'd wrote one but she wouldn't tell me the name," he says, "So I googled and found it on my own. Later on, I saw it on the shelf at the store and I bought it on impulse."

I'm caught somewhere between elation and trepidation right now. I want to ask him a dozen questions but I force myself to play it cool. "You never told me."

He shrugs, as if he didn't just drop the most monumental news on me ever! "It never came up."

"So…" I press impatiently when he doesn't say anything more, "…what did you think about it?"

"I think you've really grown as a writer," he says.

I melt at the compliment. "Really?"

"Yeah, you have. I could tell that you've gotten a better grasp on what you're trying to convey. Your writing is more focused, more…emotional. And, honestly in hindsight, I think I'm glad to see what happened with you, me and Rafael through your eyes," he tells me, "Although, when I read it the first time around that was a little tough."

"The first time?" I echo with a small smile.

He tries to suppress his answering smile and fails. "Maybe I've read it more than once," he admits sheepishly, "The point is, it gave me some perspective on why you fell in love with Rafael. I guess I understand why you were drawn to him in the first place. It was good for your first published work ever."

"My only published work ever, you know. The critics hated it. They said that it 'fell flat' with promise unfulfilled."

"It was your first book, Jane. You've got to work through the growing pains. You know that you're a good writer, so take everything those critics said and turn that to your advantage. Make something better."

"That's pretty much the same thing Rafael told me."

"I guess he can be smart sometimes too."

I giggle and fall back against his chest. But as I lay there, listening to the thump, thump, thump of his heart, my smiles fades a bit because I wonder how much of his flippant remark was a joke and how much was spurred by bitterness. "Are you bothered by the fact that I fell in love with him again, Michael?" I ask, "Be honest with me."

His heartbeat increases slightly with the question. "It doesn't thrill me," he admits gruffly, "But it is what it is. I can't change it. And it does explain Petra now that I think about it."

I twist a frown up at him. "What about Petra?"

"She came to my hotel room a few months ago to ream me out for coming between you and Rafael," he explains, "This was back when I still couldn't remember much so I didn't know who the hell she was. Having her go off on me was more irritating than anything else. I couldn't understand her stake in any of it. She came there to fight on Rafael's behalf, which is actually weird in hindsight. I thought Petra wanted him for herself."

"You've missed a lot. Petra's into girls now."

He gasps dramatically at that juicy tidbit. "What? For real?" And then he mumbles in sarcastic aside, "I guess it makes sense though. She was married to Rafael after all. That's enough to turn anyone off men." I poke him playfully for that irreverent comment but dissolve into laughter completely when he says, "You're not into girls too, are you? Although, if you are, I'd be open to watching."

"Ew, Michael! Really?"

"I'm just saying."

I cover his mouth with a warning look but it's difficult to keep my smile at bay. "Stop talking."

He kisses my palm and pulls my hand away. "Okay, okay," he laughs in defeat, "But it's a lot to take in. You getting in touch with your inner freak. Petra being into girls. What's next?"

"We're friends."

"What?"

"Petra and I are friends…very close friends in fact," I tell him, "Although she's aggravated with me at the moment because of Rafael, she and I are pretty close. She actually helped me a lot after you died."

"And Rafael too, I assume."

"Let's not talk about that."

"Why not? It's a fact. You were in love with him. You were going to marry him. We can't pretend like none of that happened or like your relationship with him didn't grow and deepen while I was gone. We can't pretend like he doesn't know you as well as I do, probably better in fact."

"You'll know me like that again," I assure him quietly, "It will take time. That's all."

"I know that."

"I just don't want you to worry. I don't want you to think you're not enough."

"I'd be more worried if you thought that," he counters softly, "Listen, you asked me a few minutes ago if I was bothered by the fact you and Rafael were in love but I think the real question is…are you bothered by it?"

Once again, his enduring patience and insight prompts me to be completely open with him. I tip my head back to regard him. "At first, I was. When Rafael and I happened again, I was afraid of what that meant because of all the history between us and everything that happened with you.

"I started to wonder if that meant that Raf and I were inevitable somehow," I continue in teary, trembling confession, "And that made me wonder if you had lived and we were still married, would I have eventually gone back to him. I mean, I actually forgot the anniversary of your death because I was with him and that had never happened before. It made me feel awful."

"Jane, it's okay that you forgot. It doesn't mean you loved me less," he whispers into my hair tenderly, "And forgetting makes sense because, eventually, time dulls the pain and I'm glad that it did. I would have much rather you spent that day happy than mourning me."

"I don't understand how you can be so accepting of all of this."

He brushes his thumb across the curve of my cheek. "I love you. Your happiness has always meant everything to me. But I have to ask…do you still feel that you and Rafael are inevitable? Because if you're at all confused about your fee-,"

I kiss him quickly before he can finish the thought. "I'm not confused about anything, Michael," I whisper against his lips, shifting over to straddle his body as I do, "You're the only one I want."

If Michael has any intention of arguing about that further, he forgets all about it when I link my hands with his and pin him back into the bed for another kiss. This time I explore his mouth slowly, sweetly. I nibble across his jaw, down to his neck and shoulder, rocking my hips against his until I feel him harden in response. He pulls his hands free to cup my face, searching for my mouth with his own. Panting in mutual desire, we work together to position the tip of his erection against my swollen opening. When he enters me, I gasp aloud of the sensation.

I lean back, bracing my hands against his chest as I ride him purposely, masterfully and entirely confident in how I want to please him and be pleased in return. He slips his hands beneath my t-shirt and kneads my breasts in tandem with his thrusts. Our fitful grunts echo simultaneously with the rhythmic creaks of my bedsprings.

This is what I've missed, the incredible pleasure of being filled so completely by him that I don't know where I begin and he ends. I don't want to close my eyes and lose myself in the sensation. I want to watch him. My desire is heightened by the flickers of ecstasy that chase across his face, the grimaces of building desire, the way he groans my name as he sinks himself inside me again and again. When my orgasm takes hold it's spurred on by his rumbling eruption of pleasure as much as my own.

Afterwards, I collapse weakly against his chest, my heart thundering. He is shaking and breathless and so am I. A smile stretches across my mouth when I feel him smack a sound kiss the crown of my head.

"Whoo!" he yips softly in that way that always makes me giggle, "I'm definitely, definitely liking this new side to you." I'm still muffling my laughter against his chest when he whispers in a deeply regretful tone, "We probably can't stay in bed all day, can we?"

I glance over at my bedside clock. "Sadly no. Mateo will be out of school soon. He and Abuela will be here in less than an hour."

"Plus, you never did your grocery shopping," Michael reminds me.

"Oh, damn it! I completely forgot!" I groan in afterthought, "I guess that means we'll be having canned beans for dinner tonight."

"How is that any different from the usual?" he teases me.

I fix him with a narrowed glare. "For your information, my skills in the kitchen have improved greatly in the last five years."

"Define 'improved greatly,'" he challenges.

Lifting my chin haughtily, I declare, "I can now slice vegetables without including a trip to the emergency room. Boom!"

He commends me with mock applause. "I'm impressed. You're able to avoid bodily injury now. Who cares if you actually made the meal or not? Bravo!"

"Get out of my bed right now if you're going to be sassy," I order him with a good-natured smile.

Grinning, Michael scoots from beneath me and climbs from the bed. I lean back into the pillows and brazenly admire the view he provides. It's been a long time since I've had such unlimited access to his naked body and I want to enjoy it to the fullest. I want to marvel at the changes. He's never been very muscular but I've always enjoyed his lean, sleek contours. There are new scars and grooved areas that weren't there before, faded reminders of the hell he endured. He's still thinner than he used to be but, on the whole, no less beautiful to me. More beautiful, in fact, because of all that he had survived.

However, Michael is completely oblivious to my avid perusal because he's too busy conducting an intense search of my bedroom floor. He turns about in the center of the room, his eyebrows knit with a confused frown. "Did you lose something?" I ask him cheekily.

He smiles at me in dismay. "Yes, actually. My clothes. Where did I put them?"

"Oh those," I laugh with a dismissive wave, "They're all over the house, remember?"

With a growing smile, I watch his face as he recalls exactly how that came to be. "Oh right. I remember. We were pretty eager to get naked, weren't we?"

"A little bit." We exchange goofy smiles with each other before I say, "I can get them together for you if you want take a shower. You've got a long drive back to Fort Myers. I'm sure you want to get cleaned up first."

"Oh, right," he grunts, slapping his forehead, "I didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?" I ask, puzzled by his weird expression.

"I actually don't have to drive back to Fort Myers tonight," he admits hesitantly, "Because I have an apartment here in Miami."

"You do? Since when?"

"Um…since three weeks ago. I just signed the lease," he says, "I planned to tell you today but we got a little sidetracked."

"Oooh. I want to see it."

"Of course," he agrees without reserve, "But it's not much so don't get too excited. I've got about five pieces of furniture and that's it. I will take you up on that shower though because I need to head back to the station to finish up a few things and I'm pretty sure I reek of sex." He regards me with a half lidded stare full of seduction and asks, "You wanna join me?"

I'm replying to his invitation before he's even finished making it. "Yes." We exchange yet another round of wide, goofy grins. "Just let me get our clothes and I'll meet you in the bathroom."

I dart around the house like a mad woman, plucking up our scattered articles of clothing in under thirty seconds. Once I've gathered everything, I waste no time getting to the bathroom. Michael is already under the spray when I enter. The air has become thick and balmy from the water's temperature and giant tufts of steam rise up from the shower stall. I had forgotten how much he loved to have a hot shower. He'd always emerge pink and dewy and I would tease him about trying to steam himself alive.

Feeling a little nostalgic, I stand in the door for a moment and watch the silhouette of his body beyond the frosted glass as he washes up. Oblivious to my presence as of yet, Michael whistles a happy little tune. I think I might be able to sneak up on him but, as soon as I start to creep inside, he pokes his head out from the shower.

"What are you waiting for?" he demands, squinting at me, "Get in here!"

"You knew I was here the whole time!"

"Of course. How'd you enjoy the show?" I roll my eyes. "I'll give you another up close and personal," he promises, bobbing his eyebrows at me.

Needing no further invitation than that, I dump the clothes on the floor in an unceremonious heap and then whip my t-shirt over my head. I'm just about to jump in with him when the doorbell rings. We both freeze in place and regard one another with wide eyes.

"Are you expecting someone?" Michaels asks slowly.

I shake my head. "Maybe they'll go away." But as soon as I make a move, the doorbell sounds again…and again…and again.

Michael makes a face. "I don't think they're going away, Jane."

"Oh, gah! It's probably my dad," I theorize in an irritated huff as I haphazardly yank back on my clothes, "He's the only one who rings the bell like a maniac." When I'm finished getting dressed, I peck a kiss to Michael's pouting mouth. "Give me five minutes to get rid of him."

"Make it three," Michael calls at my back.

I'm still giggling at his eager edict when I pull open the front door and find Rafael standing on the other side of it instead of my father. The laughter instantly vanishes from my face. "Raf?" I say, in that moment painfully aware of my rumpled appearance from an entire afternoon of sex with Michael. I know it's unlikely that he can tell that just by looking at me but I'm self-conscious nonetheless. "What are you doing here?"

He brushes past me into the house without waiting for an invitation. "I need to tell you something. I didn't know if he would try to contact you and I wanted to give you a heads up before that happened!"

I don't really register the words he is saying even though I hear them because all I can think about is Michael in the shower at that very second. The potential for disaster is enormous. My only option is to blow Rafael off. "Hey, Raf, sorry but it's not really a good time for me right now."

"I just want you to know that what I did, I did because I love you," he prefaces, plowing into his explanation as if I'd said nothing at all, "I want you to be happy, Jane. That's really important to me. In hindsight, I realize that maybe I didn't think it through."

"What did you do?" I ask, my mind already turning over scenarios, "Is it about Mateo? The hotel? What?"

"Maybe you should sit down first."

He can barely restrain himself from prowling the living room like a caged animal and that only heightens my concern. "Just tell me," I growl impatiently, "You're freaking me out right now!"

"I told Michael that you were pregnant," he blurts in a dramatic rush.

I blink at him because his surprising news isn't so surprising to me. "Oh."

He blinks back at me. "Is that 'oh' as in okay or 'oh' as in you're mad at me?"

"It's oh as in oh," I reply wryly, "I already knew."

Rafael expels a long, low groan of consternation. "So, Michael did confront you after all then," he deduces mournfully, "I was hoping to get to you before he did."

"It's okay."

"Jane, I am so, so sorry. I never should have overstepped that way. But you were miserable and I knew you needed him. I wanted to help."

"I know," I acknowledge softly, "And it's okay. It's really okay."

I'm searching for a way to gently reveal to him that Michael and I have reconciled when Michael emerges from the back of the house, freshly showered with damp hair but thankfully dressed albeit shoeless and with his shirt untucked. "Babe, I tried to wait for you as long as I could but, I really have to…" He starts to trail off in the remainder of his statement just as he catches sight of Rafael standing there. "…go." he finishes in a slow expulsion of breath.

I check the impulse to scurry into the nearest corner while Michael composes himself. "Oh," he says much the way I had one minute earlier, "Hey, Rafael."

Rafael glances between us, no doubt noting my disheveled appearance and Michael's wet hair and bare feet and drawing the most obvious conclusion. When he looks away, his jaw clenched tightly, I know that he has. "Hey, Michael."

The three of us stand there awkwardly, each of us unable to speak a word to ease the suffocating tension. I glance back and forth between Michael and Rafael. Neither of them will even look at the other. I know expecting either of them to "man up" in this situation is a fruitless endeavor so I decide to put on my big girl panties and do it myself.

"Michael came to see me after you told him about the baby," I tell Rafael, "We're back together."

"I can see that."

"Isn't that the reason you told him in the first place?"

"Yeah…yeah…" he agrees gruffly, "Of course. Congratulations."

"Thank you, by the way," Michael interjects, "I know how much it must have cost you to do what you did today. It means a lot."

"It was the right thing to do," Rafael replies in a mildly dismissive air, "The important thing is that you two are getting along. You're expecting a baby together after all."

"Thanks for looking out," Michael mutters and I think it's mostly because he doesn't know what else to say. I can sympathize. Truthfully, I don't know what to say either. I know how much Rafael must be hurting to be here with us this way.

But he betrays none of that pain when he says, "I'm actually glad you're here, Michael."

Michael regards him warily, visibly suspicious of that statement. "You are?"

"Yes. The three of us should discuss what we're going to tell Mateo."

"The three of us?" Michael and I echo simultaneously.

"Yes," Rafael replies without reserve, "You and Michael are together now, Jane, so he's going to be in Mateo's life. He should be a part of the discussion, especially since it involves him."

I can sense the resolve in his tone but also the bitterness that sours his words. I don't doubt that Rafael is being sincere. I also don't doubt that he hates every second of it. And if the expression on Michael's face is any indication, he senses Rafael's inner conflict as well.

He and I trade an uncertain glance before he asks Rafael, "Are you sure about this?"

Rafael looks over at me when he answers, his eyes dark with unspoken emotion. "No, I'm not sure. But I don't really have much of a choice, do I?"