I tense my muscles and don't react.
She tries again, her breasts pressing against my back, her breath warm against my neck, now.
I tense again and don't, cannot, react. Instinctively, I tighten my legs, hoping she won't reach around and discover the truth.
Ain't nothing going on.
I'm not breathing.
This was not supposed to happen. How did my world lose its meaning despite all my good intentions?
Her lips now linger a hair's breadth above my shoulder. Suddenly, she presses up even closer against me, hands stroking, caressing. There's no space between us; my heart is trapped between her goodness and my hypocrisy.
She told me everything. Everything. And I told her nothing. My heart sank into the ground when I realized that unlike me, she was all in, she showed me when opened up to me about Rory's father.
I should have said something.
Her hands shift lower, one creeping around the hard plane of my thigh, moving towards something that is not there.
And then it stops.
Her lips still hover over my shoulder. Her breath grows cold as she too stops breathing.
I want to scream out loud, tell her it's not because of her. In the back of my mind, I scream a silent, desperate plea: just fall asleep, already. Go no further.
It's the fourth time this week.
I know it's wrong--all of it. Not just because I can't tell her about April. I can't even tell her that it's not because I don't love her, because dear God, yes, I do. But I'm desperate and lost; she is my life preserver and I can't reach for her.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I told her this wouldn't work unless we were completely honest. I practically made her grovel to obtain my forgiveness.
And it's not supposed to happen that I can't get it up when the sexy, stunning woman I love is pressed up against me, one hand stealing up under the hem of my t-shirt, her other hand reaching lower.
It's the fourth time this week.
No. It's not supposed to be this way. But if she finds out, it will all be ruined. It will be the third time she's let herself do this: think she's finally found love, comfort, safety.
Then it starts. I feel her tremble, and I know she's crying. There's no space left between us anymore and each quiet sob ripples through my body like one of those earthquake waves. And because she loves me, and remembers how I told her that I can't stand crying, she's trying to hide it from me.
It's the fourth time this week.
But she's pressed so close against me.
I've turned what was the greatest thrill of my life: that of all the guys out there, she chose me to share not just her life, but her body, into a horror.
Were I the man I led her to believe I was, I would gently turn over, fold her into my arms, maybe whisper a couple of words of love and then let my actions speak...make love to her. Show her that not all the elements of the universe got together to screw her life up.
But I am not the man I led her to believe I was.
Were I the man I led her to believe I was, in the morning, I would hold her and tell her about April, press my face against her heart and beg her to forgive me for waiting more than a moment to tell her, ask her to help me.
But I am not the man I led her to believe I was.
Were I the man I led her to believe I was, after she'd had a moment to process the news, I'd tell her again that I'm gonna marry her...and that I'm gonna be there for her and Rory, and for April.
But I am not the man I led her to believe I was. And I am in exactly the same place that I was in before.
So, as Lorelai continues to cry, I lay next to her, immobile. Paralyzed by my fear of losing her, my arms lie locked at my side.
One helluva Thanksgiving, indeed.