"Deanna came by."
"Oh? I don't suppose that's anything new." He smiles. He knows how chatty Deanna and I are – we can't resist girl talk and gossip whenever our duty schedules allow the chance.
"No." I take a deep breath, "did you mean what you said, Jean Luc?"
"I say a lot of things, Beverly. You're going to have to be more specific."
"That night. After dinner-"
"Which night, Beverly?" his voice is soft.
I sigh as I fiddle with my blanket. I'm getting nervous, but then again I am already committed, "After," I clear my throat, "after Kesprytt."
He reaches up and puts his empty plate down on the table and sits back in his chair. He says nothing for a long while. He doesn't even look at me; he keeps his eyes on his hands, which are folded in his lap. After a while, he gets up and closes the door for which I am grateful. This is not a conversation for prying ears.
He clears his throat, "why are you doing this, Beverly?"
"What?"
"I know you don't return my feelings. That night around the campfire, you were like a steel wall, cold and rigid."
"I had to be."
"I understand," his voice is low and soft and laced with melancholy. "I understand that you don't feel the same way. I thought that you might have – there was that moment when you pushed me through the barrier. I thought – I don't know what I thought. But then we came back that evening and you made it very clear that you didn't want what I wanted from our relationship."
"Oh Jean Luc," tears have started to pool at the corners of my eyes. There is a lump as big as a boulder in my throat and in a few seconds my voice is going to betray me. I reach out my hand to take his, but he remains inelastic. "I had to, Jean Luc. I had to shut you out that evening around the campfire."
He looks up, "why?"
"Well for one I was stunned."
"Were you really?"
"Yes. No. Well I always suspected that you felt that way, but we've become so good at hiding it from one another that I didn't think you felt that way anymore. You even told me that you didn't have those feelings anymore!"
"Only after I felt that iron wall go up! I didn't want to make you uncomfortable! We were all alone; it had already become exceedingly awkward!" Now I am grateful that Jean Luc closed the door. This is definitely not a public conversation. Although, the closed door my start some rumours….
He's standing up and now he's taken to pacing, "Jean Luc, I couldn't tell you the truth."
"You hardly said anything to me."
I put my head down, "I know."
"Why, Beverly, Why? After all these years, I thought there might have been something, that there could be something between us. Just tell me – was it all some sort of figment of my imagination?"
"Sit down, Jean Luc." The playing field has to be even for this conversation. He sighs and drops his shoulders as he ambles over to the chair.
"We're equals in this conversation. I can't focus if you're looming over me. Not to mention I'm still bitter that I can't walk." I add with a wry smile.
He looks at me, "noted."
I regroup, "I couldn't tell you that night. I'm having a hard time telling you now."
A sudden wave of compassion washes over him, "I'm sorry. Please, go on."
"I told you that night that I had always known there was something between us – an attraction right from the start. That's true. But what I didn't tell you is that for so many years I felt, and, and I…"
"And you what, Beverly?"
"I still feel the same way."
He let out the breath that he was holding. "Why didn't you say something?"
"When, Jean Luc? When should I have said something?!"
"I don't know – that night maybe? When we got back? Years ago? Take your pick!"
"No, Jean Luc. It's all too complicated."
"What do you mean 'it's complicated'?"
"Goddammit Jean Luc! Do I have to spell it out?!"
He was getting frustrated and I was getting angry, "please do," he gestured with his hands.
I lay back against the pillow and used my arms to pivot my body so that I am facing him more fully, "when we were younger, I always found you attractive. Not just physically, but I was always drawn to you: your voice, your passion, your certainty about life, your desire for exploration and the stars. Everything about you was novel and intoxicating. But, when we met, I was with Jack and he was your best friend. It was inappropriate for me to feel that way so I just told myself, convinced myself that those feelings didn't exist. And then I got married and I thought that somehow once Jack and I made vows to one another those feelings would just go away. But they didn't. I saw you standing behind Jack at our wedding and for a moment – a few moments – I wished that your places were reversed. But I hid it over the years."
"I always felt like you were overcompensating with Jack sometimes." His voice is cutting.
"Jean Luc!" Somehow I deserved that, but it still hurts like hell.
"I'm sorry." And he is. He knows that hurt – that it was under the belt. He sits back and lets me continue.
"You never said anything."
"What was I supposed to say?!"
"Something. Anything!" I honestly hope that these bulkheads are soundproof because his voice is well raised!
"Beverly, you know full well what would have happened if I had said anything. It would have been a monstrous betrayal towards my friend and what if you hadn't reciprocated my feelings? I would have had no one! It was a lose-lose situation!"
He's right, but still – it hurts. "Well?" He asks. I cock my eyebrow in confusion, "Well, what do we do now? You know how I feel about you. I know how you feel." He pauses, "no… no actually I don't. How do you feel, Beverly? Be honest with me."
"I think you know." Please don't ask me to say it!
"No, you need to say it. I need to hear the words."
I sit here looking defiantly at him. I can't see my face, but if I could I am sure it would look like it did when I was disciplining Wesley. But then he gets up and moves from the chair to sit on the edge of my bed, very close to me. I can feel the heat radiating off of his chest. His thigh bumps mine. Slowly, he takes my hand in his own, curling our fingers together, "say it, Beverly," his whispers.
If I say this to him – I mean if I really say the words, there is no going back. We can't just leave this room and resume our normal friendship. We can't fall back into comfortable ambiguity. There's no more hiding after this. There's no escape. Saying the three words he wants me to say will be committing something final and almost binding. If I walk away now, we'll never regain our friendship.
"I love you." And there it is. There are the three words I've wanted to say to him for 25 years, almost. There are the three words that I've kept buried in my heart. There are the three words that I wouldn't even admit to myself for so many years with regards to my feelings for him. And now he just sits here, holding my hand. He says nothing.
"Jean Luc, say something." I think he's still stunned, even though at this point he was expecting it.
"Beverly, I," his grip tightens on my hand. Why is this so hard for him to say? "I'm trying to come up with the words that will adequately describe how I feel about you. Saying 'I love you' seems so horribly inadequate."
"Oh, Jean Luc," tears come to my eyes for the second time this evening.
He reaches up and wipes the tears from my cheeks, "I'm sorry." He whispers.
"Don't be. I think at this stage we're both sorry."
"What do we do now?" I ask. For some reason this whole affair seems terribly anticlimactic. For some odd reason, I imagined sweeping grand gestures. I imagined roses and candles and loud declarations of love followed by passionate, frantic, almost animalistic lovemaking. But things never work out quite like they do in fleeting girlish fantasies. The reality of the situation is that I'm sitting in a bio bed, I smell awful, my hair is matted in the back, and I still can't walk. I can't even feel my groin at this stage. But, for some reason, it still feels right. It feels like a huge burden has been lifted off of my shoulders. Breathing, somehow, feels easier.
"I love you. Beverly, I love you so much. I love you so completely that loving you and wanting you has become and integral part of who I am." His hand moves through my hair.
"Ouch!" His fingers reach a snarl.
"Sorry," he grins sheepishly.
"Don't be," I whisper. "I'm sorry that this isn't more romantic. I thought that when this all finally happened – if it ever happened, which I seriously doubted for a long time – that it would be a little more 'erotic'?"
He looks down at our joined hands, "Beverly, there will be plenty of time for 'erotic'. Trust me."
I let out a small laugh, "Oh I can believe it. You know," I lean into him, lower my voice and octave and whisper, "have I ever told you about the Howard women and our insatiable libidos?"
It's fun to watch Jean Luc get all flustered. A blush creeps up his neck and goes all the way to the tip of his bald head. I can tell that he's breathing faster and my finger near his radial artery tells me that his pulse is racing. He clears his throat and shifts his body. I start to giggle. It's satisfying to see how much of an effect I have on him while even just in a hospital gown, 6 days removed from a shower and makeup.
He smiles back, "You're going to be the death of me, woman!"
I bring the conversation back to a more serious note, "what do we do now?"
The grin leaves his face and he becomes somber, "now we fix things, Beverly."
"Fix things?"
"Now make a new slate. Now we do what is painful. Now we get everything out in the open and we hold nothing back even if it terrifies us. We have to be honest with each other if this is going to have any hope of working."
"Everything?" This is going to be interesting.
"Everything," he lets go of my hand and gets up, "but not tonight." He starts to collect the dinner plates, putting them back in the container that he brought with him.
"When?" I ask, shoving the cleared table away from the bed.
"Tomorrow. It's late and I think it's enough for this evening."
"You're right," I let out a deep yawn.
He dims the lights, kisses my forehead, and whispers, "goodnight, Beverly. I love you."
I have a feeling that it's not the last time I'll hear those words.