Page 53 of Room for Us

Ethan drawls, “So he didn’t actually make them for you.”

“Ha. I guess not.” I sigh. “But he used to bring me my favorite chicken tortilla soup whenever I had a cold, and he’d suffer through cheesy romantic comedies on Netflix with me. He wasn’t all bad.”

“No one is,” he murmurs.

I nod. “You know, the worst part of divorce is realizing your spouse wasn’t a bad person. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy being angry at him. I guess I’m not anymore.”

“Do you miss him?” he asks carefully.

I shrug and meet his eyes with effort. “If I’m super honest… no. Maybe that’s part of the problem. Why this is so hard. When he cheated on me and asked for a divorce, I was humiliated and hurt, yes, but not as much as I should have been. Or could have been?” I force a laugh. “Sorry to be a total downer.”

His pale eyes scan mine. “You’re not a downer. But I do wonder how a woman as bright as you would marry someone she didn’t love.”

The barb lands, regardless of its sheath of velvet. I stiffen, my chest winding tight. The truth fucking hurts.

“I wanted out.” The words release on a breath. “Chris was my ticket away from Sun River.”

“Ah.” There’s no judgement in his voice, which is all that prevents me from bolting from the room. From him and the truth. “What were you running from?”

“The past,” I quip. “Isn’t that usually what people run from?”

His lips tilt. “Yes.”

Insects buzz outside the open windows. A breeze carries wet-earth scent to us. Even knowing that I risk him shutting down, I ask softly, “Is that what you’re running from?”

He blinks. I watch the struggle behind his eyes, trying not to attach too much hope to this moment. Trying, and failing. Please let me in.

At length, he answers, “Will you settle for a simple ‘yes’ right now?”

I nod, biting back a smile. Good enough. More than enough. He doesn’t owe me his life story. What drives him, what haunts him. But it feels like a victory nonetheless.

“By the way, you have some peanut butter”—his thumb grazes the corner of my mouth—“here.” He inspects his thumb, then sticks it in his mouth and sucks.

I don’t know who moves first, but we find each other somewhere in the space between. His arm bands around my waist. My hands frame his jaw. For one moment, we stare at each other, and I see everything in his eyes—the deep schisms of pain, the sweet desire. His intense need for me confuses him, but he doesn’t care to fight it.

Neither do I.

Our mouths collide hungrily, feeding on warmth and connection. He tastes like peanut butter and smells like a summer storm. Indefinable, risky, and electric. It’s his skin, I realize. Not cologne. I want to sink into him and roll around purring.

“Upstairs,” I gasp.

“Too far,” he answers and yanks my shirt off.

We stumble away from the stools, fumbling and pawing at each other like teenagers. He can’t find the clasp for my bra. I giggle as he curses and pulls it off over my head. I barely feel the scrape. The button of his jeans comes undone easily and I shove the fabric down his hips.

There’s a wall at my back. I don’t know which one and I don’t care. I tug at his T-shirt until he peels it off, then drag my palms greedily over his chest. Careless yanking at my shorts makes me stumble sideways. He catches me, pulls me upright, and pauses.

I have my panties on. His jeans are pooled at his ankles. I might be breathing or I might not be—my brain is a mess of bright light.

“I don’t have unprotected sex,” he pants, anguish on his face.

“You don’t have condoms,” I guess, my words thick. “I’ve only been with one person, and I was tested after he cheated. I’m clean.”

“Good. And same, but it’s not that.”

Oh.

I don’t hear my aunt’s voice so much as feel her words: tell him, tell him, tell him. Or maybe it’s not Aunt B.

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