3 Will He Let Me In?
We wake up, seconds from each other. A quick intake of breath is the only outward sign of consciousness. I know he thinks of jumping away, but he doesn't want to offend me. I wish I could pretend we were still asleep. Two years since I've felt arms around me, since I've felt safe.
I get up and go to the bathroom to spare him the pain and embarrassment of pulling away. I don't look at him, he doesn't want me to. He's in the kitchen when I come out. His pillow's gone and he's got jeans on.
I clear my throat and suggest one of us goes to the store for food. Before he can respond, I grab my keys and leave. He doesn't try to stop me. I don't even know what kind of food he eats. I buy a little bit of everything and too much of nothing.
He helps me unpack the food wordlessly. I wonder if he was ever a talker. I also wonder if it was a mistake asking him there. His pain is infectious, cutting me deep. Reopening old wounds. I wanted to help him, but at what cost? Not by reliving the pain.
"Do you want to drive around town, check it out in the day?" he asks me. An olive branch I know. Maybe he wants to leave. Maybe I want him to go but he has no way. No car. So I nod and he grabs his coat.
People watch us. We're strangers. They think we're a couple. He still wears his ring. I don't. I stopped about four months ago. My hand still feels naked without that band of gold.
He opens doors for me and I wish we were a couple. I wish that band matched mine. I wish this hole in my heart would go away. We get pizza and beer and I hear him laugh. It's deep and rich and warms me, gives me hope. If he can laugh again, then maybe he could love again.
The mountains are beautiful. Stark and cold. Dangerous and beautiful, just like the man at my side.
It's getting cold, there a few flakes of snow in the air and it's only September. I shiver and he put his arm around me for added warmth. Such a gentleman, even when he's broken.
"Come on, lets go home," he says and my heart warms at the thought.
He splits wood for the fire. I watch him, helpless to do anything but. He's strong, stronger than I thought. He's in good shape, fast for his size. I hand him a cold drink and again watch him swallow. It's becoming one of my favorite pastimes. I think he knows it because he smirks at me again.
"So, Jennifer, when do you start work?" He asks. Is he really interested or just trying to make conversation?
"Monday. They put me on lunch for now, until I get used to it. I've bartended before John and I got married, but it's been a while. He wanted me to quit… he said it wasn't safe…"
He doesn't look at me as he asks, "How'd it happen?"
"We were in bed sleeping. A man broke in to rob us. I guess we startled him and he shot us. John died instantly." I tell him simply, almost as if I've practiced the speech. Perhaps I have, I've told it more times then I care to admit.
"How 'bout you?" I ask, careful not to press. I'm not sure he's ready to talk yet.
"She got hit by a bullet meant for me," he tells me but the pain is still in his voice. He doesn't talk about it much, even when asked. That's fine with me. I can live with it. I don't need to know the details to share his pain. His shame at living.
I nod then help him carry the wood inside.
Sunday I spend the day cleaning and doing laundry. I even do his. It was nice, washing a man's clothes again. Never thought I'd miss that. He thanks me, somewhat embarrassed and I just shrug. No great hardship. I was washing anyway.
I make some calls; get the landline set up, the satellite. He goes to the hardware store and gets a shovel and some salt for when it snows. It feels so much like home already that I can't imagine him gone. We work well together.
He helps me clean up after dinner and then he reads. It's sexy watching a man read by a fire. The flames making his skin a deeper shade of caramel. From what I saw the night before, he's that color all over. The thought makes my mouth water.
He drives me to work Monday morning and tells me he will be back later. I wonder what he will do all day long and I wish I didn't have to work. I would like to spend another day with him. Only him. Doing nothing… well maybe something, I think perversely.
I'm amused by my sexual thoughts. I haven't had them in a quite a while, even John didn't give me the nasty little ideas that Sean does. There's just something about him that screams of hot sweaty sex and slow burning love.
He walks in and my co-worker chokes on her soda. It's good to know that I'm not the only one affected by his looks. I feel an unexpected, almost violent surge of jealousy that quickly passes when he only spares her a quick glance.
He strides over to me and almost smiles. "When do you get off?" he asks me.
I try not to smirk at his loaded question. For him, I'd get off anytime. He must catch the amusement I try to hide because he smiles at me and takes a drink. He's smug. It suits him. I'd bet everything I own he has good reason to be.
"About two hours," I tell him. He nods and tells me he will pick me up then.
He walks away from us and me and my new friend Dana stare at his fantastic ass.
"Is he your man?" She asks me.
What do I say? Is he? I guess if he wanted to be, yes. But we've never touched like that, never even spoke of it. I lie. He's mine. She can't have him.
"Yes," I say and take his empty bottle from the bar.
He's back two hours later. He leads me from the building with his hand at the small of my back. I wonder if he even realizes it. I doubt it, just the type of man he is.
We get home and I start dinner; he starts a fire. After we eat, we stand outside briefly and watch the sun set behind the mountains. It's painfully beautiful, like the man beside me.
"I love it here, Sean," I tell him honestly. Again, hoping he'll decide to stay.
"It's beautiful," he mutters in answer.
"I've never seen the snow before, a real snow fall. They're calling for four inches tonight."
"Pretty early in the season still,"
"Yeah, I know." If we get four inches now, what can we expect in December?
"It'll get tough, all alone," he tells me like I don't realize it.
I close my eyes, not wanting to be reminded, "I know," Silence falls as quietly as the snow.
I shiver and go inside. Away from him. I want to cry. It's the first time in a long time I feel the urge to cry. I go to take a bath, soak away the pain and loneliness.
He's shirtless again when I come out. I notice the scar for the first time and reach out to touch it.
It's a bullet wound, there's no disguising that small circular shape. He grabs my hand before I make contact. I look up and meet his eyes. He releases my hand and I remove my shirt, showing him my own scar. It matches his. Same side. Same place.
His eyes are drawn to it, not my breasts. He sucks in a breath and his warm finger reaches out and touches me. I can't feel it, the skin's numb.
"It went through him first. His heart. He shielded me or we would have both died…" I tell him simply. Like it happened to someone else.
He takes my hand and touches it to his scar. "It went through me first as I chased him down. I didn't shield her like I should have…,"
There it was. His guilt. The reason he won't let himself live again. He feels at fault.
"We didn't have a gun." I say and then smile. "He was a kindergarten teacher. They don't have reasons for a gun."
"I'm DEA. I have too many reasons for a gun."
His hand slides up my rib cage, just under my breast. His thumb rests in the crease, teasing me. Waiting.
"Sean, they're gone now. We have to learn to move on." I whisper.
"I know," he whispers back to me.
His thumb moves higher, less then an inch but it is now on the swell of my breast. "It'll be the first time for me too," I assure him. He isn't alone in the fear and pain department. The guilt that hides there when you think about the next step, even if it's just wanting to think about the next step.
"We can wait till you're ready," I suggest
"I think I'm ready…"
I nod but have to ask him one more thing before he touches me, "Just make sure it's me you're touching,"
His eyes meet mine. So serious. "I know it's you, Jenny."