She's not surprised when her call to his mobile goes unanswered. She tries to relax, opens another bottle of wine, paces. She rings him again on his home line, but he still doesn't pick up. He's switched his answering machine off. She briefly considers driving to the station. Surely he'd take a call from her work line in case it was an emergency. As appealing as the idea is, it smacks of dishonesty and she nixes it. She also rules out storming his front steps and banging on his door. Too invasive. Experience tells her that confrontation is rarely the best way to deal with Tony. Email seems the least intrusive, but the cold, monochromatic words leave so much room for misinterpretation. After nearly two hours of stressful silence, in which he doesn't call, Carol finally heads off to bed. She'll think better on a good night's sleep, and, what's more, the bedroom seems to be the one place where she can actually entertain thoughts that seem too fanciful for her stoic living room and sensible kitchen. She knows that if she's going to find a way out of the mess she's created, she needs to start thinking about what happened tonight and what that could possibly mean for - dare she even think it - their future.
He'd touched her. He'd done it before, of course. He'd even kissed her chastely in the not so distant past. But he'd never touched her like he had this evening. His warm fingers, pressing softly into the flesh of her belly. She knew he was merely trying to stress a point, but the sense of possession had been overwhelming. His strong hand claiming her had nearly made her swoon. And just as quickly, he'd withdrawn. Pulled away. And in that instant she'd known, with utter certainty, the she wanted to feel him that close to her again. She wanted what he had talked about. Intimacy. Joining. Something that felt more terrifyingly real than anything she'd experienced with men she'd said, "I love you" to in the past.
In bed, she thinks of him. She imagines what it would be like to have him laying next to her, to feel the sheets rise and fall with his breath. How she'd kiss him goodnight. And what it would feel like if he stirred in the night and reached for her. For the first time in years, she allows herself to think of him this way, and she knows without a doubt that it's what she wants. She hopes that perhaps it might be something he'd like too. And tomorrow she plans to make it clear to him that she wants more from him than just the raw material.
It's a frightening thought, telling him, because it may change the nature of their relationship. No, not change. Dismantle. Knowing that she wants him might very well be the knowledge that pushes him away. It might bring him closer. Is he waiting for an invitation? Or is he just looking for a reason to bolt? She wishes she knew. There have been moments, charged moments of singular intensity where she was all but certain he was going to tear off her clothes and pin her to the nearest wall. And other confusing moments when she feared he'd disappear out her doorway never to be seen again. Admitting to him that she'd like him to be, not only in her life, but in her bed is a risk. One that she knows she has to take. She will have to be clear, concise, non-confrontational, and to the point. She thinks. Ponders. Mulls. Plots. And finally lights on an idea. A gesture that will leave little open to interpretation. She'll set the plan in motion in the morning. But first, sleep. And with her plan to take decisive action once and for all comes the most restful sleep she's know since meeting Tony Hill.