Part 6
The last time my eyes were open, the moon was well above the buildings that are now carving chunks out of it.
"We'd better stop," I say against Rick's lips.
"Seriously?" he says into the nape of my neck.
"Afraid so."
"Yeah, all right," he grumbles, and puts some space between him and me.
That wasn't so difficult, I muse. It's one thing to indulge in less than proprietary behavior when you're in the middle of the desert; but until tonight, I didn't want to get anything of that sort started again.
In books, there are two kinds of men who fall in love with the heroine: the chaste lover who loves from afar, and the courageous lover. The authors assume their female readers desire the courageous man, whose passion is so strong that he becomes incensed with the heroine refuses his advances. I dreaded seeing my Rick turn into that that sort of lover, leaving me to feel like Cinderella at midnight when the coach and footmen turn into ordinary pumpkin and mice.
"Guess I should go," he says gentlemanly, but his heart isn't in his words.
I agree in kind.
He rests his arm across the back of the loveseat; I lean my head on his shoulder.
We watch the lanterns from a motorcar below move like ghosts down the dark, silent street. Mist hangs in the air, conjuring the perception that we're back in the desert, alone together on the blank sea of sand. I miss warm Egypt. I wonder if I'll ever be able to think of it and not be reminded of . . .
"I've been studying his myth," I say.
"Imhotep?" It is one of many times Rick has said something in step with my unspoken thoughts. I take heart that perhaps we aren't so mismatched as we seem.
"It's astounding, the lengths he went for love. Sneaking behind the pharaoh's back, conspiring to launch a coup."
"I'd do it."
"You would?"
"Sure. For someone I loved, who loved me."
His intention does not go unnoticed. I am more than aware that I have not responded in kind to his earlier pronouncement. But the words are stuck. How can I firmly know if I love him? I have no experiences against which I can compare such a feeling and say, 'Yes, this is the same' or 'No, this is different.'
"Well," I say because something must be said, "according to what I've read, there's absolutely no way he can be re-resurrected."
"Glad to hear it."
"It was an amazing stroke of luck that he was raised to begin with; us finding that book, and just happening to read the correct inscription."
"Yeah, you've got some pretty astounding luck, there," he says affectionately.
I think of the astronomical odds that brought Rick and I together – that Rick happened to have the key with him when my brother happened to choose Rick's pocket to pick; that we got to Rick at the jail less than a quarter of an hour before his sentence was to be carried out, that the rope didn't break his neck….
The realization that had just one small variable been askew, Rick and I never would have met fills me with a dread akin looking down an abyss. The ache of mere 'what ifs' fill my soul so completely that I realize, in a flash, the truth.
"I love you," I say.
Rick looks down at me in surprise. Which is nothing compared to how I feel. Perhaps this is what love is: something that escapes planning or prediction, defies all higher contemplation, and simply exists. Something you can't go looking for, but rather wait for it to find you.
"I just realized – I mean, it just came to me . . ." I can't explain it; I can only hope he understands.
"Yeah, apparently this is the magic balcony of revelation," he says conversationally.
"I love you," I say experimentally. It works. It fits. It's right.
"I heard you the first time," he says. His blue eyes twinkle like stars over a desert sky.
"Stop teasing and kiss me," I say.
He does.
*
Continued in Epilogue