Page 99 of The Anchor Holds

We had coffee and breakfast on the balcony, sipping and eating with a quiet contentment that should’ve only been established after years together.

Yet like everything with Elliot, it felt natural. Sitting wordlessly on a balcony without a device in my hand or at my ear was not natural for me. My spine tingled with the need to be hunched over a laptop, doing something, but I resisted the urge, glancing over to Elliot’s relaxed posture, trying to mimic it.

Once I’d let myself take a few slow and measured breaths, I’d actually kind of enjoyed it. Not something I’d do every day. But I knew we weren’t going to be there, on that balcony, in that hotel, away from the world. I was free to be the version of myself I knew I could never sustain.

Elliot didn’t mention leaving the room, didn’t display any kind of urgency as the morning grew late. He didn’t stop me when I called to extend the reservation to another night.

We didn’t overtly speak about the arguable ridiculousness of staying at a hotel less than forty minutes away from the town we both currently resided in. He seemed to understand that I couldn’t go back there yet, and was not only willing to stay with me, no questions asked, he acted as if such a thing was normal.

We ate room service. We fucked. We watched old reruns of TV shows. It was the best day of my life.

Elliot didn’t push me, didn’t order me to do anything that wasn’t sexual. But there came a point when even his stamina found its limit. And I’d grown bored of TV and avoiding the elephant in the room.

I hadn’t gone as crazy as actually deciding to tell him the full truth and nothing but the truth, but I needed to release the pressure I was feeling at the base of my skull that had nothing to do with my hangover.

We were perched on the sofa, TV still running, me wearing his tee and panties, him in nothing but boxers. Without even trying, he looked like he could be selling underwear on a billboard in Times Square. Not for the first time, I marveled at his rugged beauty. The ease in which he carried himself. Everything about him was captivating. Soft and hard at the same time. Masculine yet nurturing.

He deserved answers. He certainly didn’t deserve to be shot at in his backyard because of who he chose to warm his bed.

“I’ve often wondered why I’m like this,” I said, looking out the window. The sea was calm today. The ocean inside of me was raging.

“I come from a disgustingly normal family.” I gripped the stem of my glass and kept watching the sea. “Not perfect, no one is. My parents have gone through rough patches, there have been money problems, fights.” I waved my hand dismissively, even though some of those fights were cemented in my memory.

My parents had made an effort to keep us out of their relationship. Rowan and Kendra were younger than me, not by much, but young enough to be asleep on the rare occasions when my parents raised their voices. That or they were distracted on the even rarer occasions when they fought while we were awake.

But I stayed up late, was not easily distracted, and was hyperaware of anything that could disrupt the peace in our lives. Something in me, even then, was bracing, waiting for impact. I took on every fight as a harbinger of divorce, an omen of destruction that never came.

“Nothing insurmountable, nothing unforgivable,” I told Elliot, now old enough to understand that the fights my parents had were nothing but releases of pressure in a happy and healthy marriage. “There was love in our house, we were accepted for exactly who we were. No one set impossible standards for us. Yet I came out setting them for myself. Constantly pushing myself, knowing that I was going somewhere different.” I turned to look at Elliot.

I was drinking a seltzer, needing something to do with my hands. I lifted it to my lips, barely even tasting it.

“I convinced myself that the absolute worst life possible was a quiet, peaceful life in a small town.” I let out a bitter laugh. “And look where I am.” I spread my hand out at the ocean, not referencing my exact location but rather the point I was in life. “Living in my brother’s house in a small town in Maine, with afisherman boyfriend, somehow happier than I ever was in my penthouse in New York and the life I deemed so important.”

Elliot stilled when I said that. He had respected the distance I put between us, as he often respected many of the choices I made. Until he didn’t want to, that was. Until he somehow sensed that I didn’t want him to either. He was that attuned to me. The way he watched me… Always with an intensity making him able to spot the smallest of tells of my discomfort. My need for his comfort.

He took the drink from my hands and set it on the side table. His hands immediately went to the sides of my face, caressing my jaw. “Say it again,” he whispered.

I blinked, shocked at the intensity in his expression, at the way he was holding me.

“Say what?” I asked, genuinely confused. I’d said a whole lot just then, and I couldn’t understand what might’ve elicited his reaction. I didn’t let it slip that I was falling in love with him, did I? I hadn’t properly admitted it to myself. Admitting it to him would be a deadly mistake, considering I was still planning on ending things. I just kept amending the date. Because I was selfish and greedy. But I was also committed to not letting him ruin his life.

Lettingmeruin his life.

He stroked the side of my jaw with his thumb. “That you’re happy,” he whispered, eyes roving over my face.

It confused me that such a statement had caused such a visceral reaction in Elliot. Though it had been a difficult thing to come to terms with, to even recognize since I truly hadn’t felt long-lasting happiness during my decade in New York. I’d felt drive, satisfaction, power. But never happiness.

“I’m happy,” I whispered to him, though it felt like a mistake, much like the four-letter word I would never say to him.

Fuck it, if I was going down…

“Youmake me happy.” I spoke even more quietly that time. Short of telling him how I truly felt, this was giving away my power. And not in the sexual sense of obeying him. It was acknowledging that he had the power to make me happy, therefore, he had the power to make me miserable.

Not that he would ever wield it that way.

Elliot didn’t say anything for a long while. He just stood there, staring. “I make you happy.”

I nodded, refusing to speak because I didn’t trust that romantic gibberish wouldn’t start leaking out of my mouth.

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