The pale gray light streams though the windows, lighting gently on her sleeping face. He has been up for half hour at least, just watching her. He still cannot believe what happened, what he's done, and he's afraid and so incredulous.
He remembers how afterwards she had laid there on her side quietly, her eyes so huge and full, brimming, tipping, spilling. Her mouth trembled bravely. His breathing was ragged and deep, body liquefying, melting, relaxing.
She'd been scared to meet his eyes. In the blue darkness, her fingertips clenched into a small fist on the pillow and she'd pulled the sheets around her closely.
He was hesitant to speak.
"Are you ….are you ok?"
She had nodded, head bent, hair hiding her face. A tear slipped out, tracing a gleaming trail on her damp skin.
His fingers pushed her hair back. Her wide, tortured eye met his.
"Rory, are you sure?"
She nodded again, vehemently, and offered a tiny smile.
"It was just so much. I feel different now than I thought I might."
He felt a quick stab at these words.
"Different how?"
She realized the unspoken and quickly looked up.
"Not different, physically." Still shy, she looked away, hiding her burning face. "That was nice," she whispered, and he knew what she had really meant and smiled to himself, relieved.
"I just feel a little scared now," she said, her voice a little strange and sad. "I can't organize my feelings I don't know what to…do….."
He understood..
"It's alright," he answered softly, somewhat overwhelmed himself at this thing he's done, this crime, this desecration.
She clasped his hand, and her eyes fluttered closed, and her breathing became even.
In the grey dawn, now, he is watching her sleep, the curve of her neck, the soft slope of her cheek. It is hard for him to rationalize this. He takes out a cigarette, and decides against it, falling back on the pillows.
She is watching him.
Hair messy and rumpled, eyes thick with sleep, she sits up against the headboard next to him, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging them. Neither person says anything.
"Do you think we were wrong?"
He cannot read her expression, but considers her words carefully.
"Why?"
Her head droops forward even more.
"Because, Jess, you never even said you loved me."
He brings her coffee, and smokes his morning Benson&Hedges. They trade newspaper pages silently, methodically, like an old couple.
When they are done, they fold it back up and drop it to the floor. A pause follows.
"Jess, I……."
His gaze is intense and piercing.
"You what?" he asks sharply.
"I want to know if you still hate me."
He tilts his head, his smile somewhat bitter.
"After what just happened?"
"Jess, sex is hate as much as it is love. It doesn't explain anything. When I came back from Washington and started this..thing…again, you still were angry at me, and you left me just to retaliate. How can I even be sure this isn't more of that?"
He shrugs, irritated. He wants to say the words but he is too proud, so proud.
"It hurt," she says simply, her head turned away, looking at the wall. "We didn't speak that whole spring. And here we are now, and this is what's come of it. Now you want me again."
He gets out of bed, his gaze pinning her to the wall.
"I loved you since you kissed me. Nothing ever changed. You made me hate you too, but that doesn't exist now. And I know you want to get even again. And you did, on that beach in Savannah, that night. You won again Rory, you always win."
He paused, and his hard eyes softened, tired.
"And that's fine with me. I don't want to play anymore. It's up to you now."
She bites her lips as he walks away, face in her hands. There once was something terrible burning inside her, something so heartwrenching everytime she saw him.
Now there is nothing there. She knows what she really wants to say now.
She creeps into the clouds of steam, pink limbed like the Venus, pearly and damp. Her arms gently embrace him, her water-wet mouth seeking his, and her kiss is an answer. She has forgiven.
He slowly covers her in foam, turning her into a pink and white cloud, as she giggles into his neck, her laughter muffled; they touch and kiss and bathe off the night before, and towel each other off softly. She lays him down, quite serious now, propping him against the headboard and experimenting shyly. His eyes widen and his mouth presses into a thin line as he groans, a sound separated from his body somehow, as she bends her head and makes love to him. He's helpless in her hands, weak as a child, trembling under fingertips, her lips. And she lets her pride go, and assures him for the last definitive time that she has forgiven.
They sunbathe on the white beaches, dip their feet into the frigid water and walk through the tall pines of the Maine forests until time runs out.
She checks her calendar and her face stiffens. He is driving, but still sees it out of the corner of his eye.
"What is it?"
She turns to him, mouth set and determined.
"The next stop is Martha's Vineyard, a.k.a. Richard and Emily's place."
They stare straight ahead, dumbstruck.
"Jess,-"
"I won't say anything," he interrupts, voice calm and devoid of feeling.
"It's for the best," she answers in an identical tone. "We need to be careful."
