Page 94 of If This is Love

I was suddenly more terrified than I’d ever been in my entire life. I’d caught a glimpse of the promised land and the stuff of my wildest dreams, and I had no idea if thatwas what she was eventually going to tell me:

That what we were doing was too much for her. That none of it felt right after she’d thought about how far I’d pushed her in my kitchen. That she realized it all just made her miss her husband all over again and maybe even worse than she already was. She’d been saying things like that the whole time we’d known each other. In fact, the first day we really met, the day I scooped her up off the sidewalk, she’d said in herheartshe wasstill married.Maybe she felt like what we’d done was cheap. She was a deeply spiritual woman, and I knew that kind of intimacy was sacred and holy to her. And we hadn’t talked through any of the more intimatethings that might make it clear whether I had any right to touch her how I did tonight. She’d already said she knew I might draw that conclusion, and all of this suddenly felt like I’d fucked up everything andhurt herjust because I was so desperate tohave her.

And once again, I felt like a steaming pile of shit. How unsurprising.

But at least I was holding her. At least shewantedme to hold her. At least she was saying that like broken record, her lips on my neck once again.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here.”

I was so glad I was here, too. Because unlike the beginning of this date, I wasn’t sure how long she was going to let me be here. I was suddenly worried that if she suddenlywasn’there in the near future, it would be my fault.

24

GABE

ALGIERS POINT, NEW ORLEANS

Afew days later, Ruth was her typical, cheery self. Everything was fine the following morning during our run and at Sunday lunch, and it was like nothing had happened at all. That was a relief, but I was still extremely rattled by Saturday night. And since she seemed perfectly fine and normal again, that meant if I wanted to talk about whatelsemight have upset her so badly that night, I was going to have to bring it up. Being the person to broach an uncomfortable topic wasn’t exactly my forte, so I was just going to be in the dark until I grew a pair of balls.

But again, in the meantime, everything seemed just fine.

Until Tuesday afternoon at the job site, when I got a call from a random number with a DC area code.

“Gabe Martinelli,” I answered.

“Gabe, this is Emma.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear for a second, dropping my arm at my side while I gritted my teeth and mentally made all the noises I wanted to make out loud.

Ugh, fuu-uuck, grrrrrraawwwr-gaaahh!

I coughed to clear my throat and then held the phone to my ear again. “Hey, Emma, how’re you doing?”

“Fine,” she clipped in reply without missing a beat, “I was wondering if you were sick of this bullshit yet and wanted to meet me somewhere,just us, sowecan talk.Just us.”

I didn’t know what I was expecting from this unexpected phone call, but it wasn’t this. “There’s always bullshit I’m sick of, so I need specifics.”

“As in, without myhusbandsticking his nose in the middle of everything because he’s hung up on shit completely unrelated to whatweare trying to do.”

Okay then.

“Well, I’m at the property for another half hour, and then I could meet you wherever.”

“Great, just tell me where, and I’ll be there.”

“Um.” This was so fucking far out of my wheelhouse. “There’s a place on the Westbank called the Old Point Bar.”

“Perfect. I’ll be there in an hour.”

And then the call disconnected.

I glanced down at Gunner, who was sprawled out on the dirt on his side but had picked up his head to stare at me while I was on the phone. “Hope you’re ready to bring your A game, brother.”

He thumped his tail twice and then dropped his head, stretching out his legs before settling back into his late afternoon nap.

* * *

About an hour later,I pulled open the door to the Old Point, and Gunner and I strolled in. The usual suspects were all here in their usual places, and there was only one person who stuck out like a sore thumb at the far end of the bar.

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