Page 166 of Just One Look
Her hands tightened on the wheel, and she said, “Oh. Not June? Are you sure? We wouldn’t be able to do anything splashy on, what, six weeks’ notice? Would you miss that?”
He laughed. That was a sure sign that you were OK, if you could laugh. “I’m pretty sure it’s meant to be the bride who worries about that.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, no,” and he smiled again.
“I don’t want to turn thirty-four without marrying you,” he said. “We’ve got a new life, and I want it to start now.”
“Wait,” she said. “I just realized that I’ve never asked you when your birthday is. Another normal-person fail. Right. When’s your birthday? At least I didn’t miss it. Also, I believe I’m supposed to know your Zodiac sign. Don’t ask me why, but it seems to be a requirement. People are always asking, even at the hospital, where you’d think they’d know better.”
“Christmas Eve,” he said. “And I’m a Capricorn. Disciplined, responsible, and self-controlled. Surprise.”
She laughed, and he said, “Sorry it’s not more exciting.”
“Christmas Eve,” she said, and laughed some more.
“Why’s it funny?” he said. “Rotten birthday, but why else?” Trying to be narky, but he couldn’t, because he was happy. Sad, yes. Disappointed. That, too. But also, down below the surface, down deep … happy.
There was a whole complicated life down there, under the surface. A whole other world. He was going to explore some of that with Elle as soon as his neck was better. Take her up to the Poor Knights, stop to see his sisters, eat too many avocadoes and mandarins, and dive with her. They’d take classes, and they’d explore. The dark caves and tunnels, the orange and purple and electric blue of fish and clinging sea stars, and the passing gray wraith, barely a shadow against the sand near the shore, that was a ray. He was going to look at all of that with her and let himself feel her delight. He was going to let himself be happy, because he was enough.Theywere enough. They had work to do, and they had each other.
She said, “Why do we never do these things like other people? Why are you asking me this on the motorway? I’memotionalnow!You’re not supposed to drive when you’re emotional! It interferes with executive functioning. All right, I’m going to try to say this. First, you make me fail on compartmentalizing, and the other night was terrifying. Having non-stunted emotions is a pretty …”
“A pretty vulnerable place,” he said. “A pretty soft place.”
She sighed. “Yes. You scared me to death, and I’m so glad that you’re out. I’m sorry, I know it’s hard, but I’m still glad. I don’t want a rugby player, or I don’t want you because you’re a rugby player. I wantyou.You healthy and working hard to do your next thing, whatever it is, that’s what I want. I’m sorry if that’s another fail as a rugby WAG.”
“Think you could deal with me being a coach instead?” he asked.
She seemed like she’d forgotten to breathe. She didn’t even say anything for a minute, just exited the motorway, heading for Ponsonby. Heading home. “Did they decide something?” she finally asked.
“Yeh. Not being announced yet, but Rhys is moving Finn to assistant coach, and I’m on strength and conditioning. Physio, eh. That diploma worked out after all. It’s my start, and Rhys’s team is one I’ll always want to be on. And I still want to know why Christmas Eve is funny.”
“First,” she said, “that’s great. That’swonderful.I’m so proud of you. And—all right. Do you know why I came here? Notherehere, to the airport, or Ponsonby. To New Zealand.”
“Uh … yeh. Because you needed a life.”
“No.” She was smiling all over her face. She waslaughing.“Because on Christmas Eve last year, I fell asleep with my head on the coffee table in my terrible, sterile white house, with no plants and no art and barely any furniture and an almost-empty bottle of wine beside me. Not just wine. Rosé. Also with no blinking Christmas lights.”
“With no blinking Christmas lights because …? And you hate rosé.”
“I know, right? It doesn’t even know what it wants to be. It has no commitment. I was desperate, though, and that was all I had. And no lights because I had no tree, obviously. Tell me we get to have a tree. I want a tree. I want all sorts of things now, you know? It’s like the floodgates opened, and here I am, full of wants. I could turn out to be impossibly traditional, because I’m going to want holiday decorations and cheesy Christmas music and … and possibly baking. Huh. I’ve never baked anything. I wonder if it’s hard.”
“So,” he said, “Christmas Eve. Also, there’s this matter of our wedding.”
“Oh. Yes. I mean, I want to get married, too. I want …” She broke off, and then she was up the hill and on their street. In front of the brick wall with the door built into it. All of it as solid as it could be, but you could get inside that wall, and the inside was good. She was pulling into the garage, and then they were climbing out. Through the door and up the stairs and into the house, with art and bricks and warmth and light and Webster frisking, with friends and wine and laughter and a whole life. “Christmas Eve was my crisis,” she told him. “Last year. When I broke up with my boyfriend.” She was in his arms again, and he’d been waiting to kiss her too long, as far as he was concerned. “Which I’m not talking about, because of Item Three on our list. No cheating, and no exes unless unavoidable, because we’re what matters, and we start now. How did Item Three go, by the way?”
“Item Three,” he said, “went awesome.”
“So you’re not slutty anymore,” she said.
“I’m not slutty anymore. Except with you.” After that, he had to kiss her, because there was no choice.
A long time later, their clothes were scattered around them and he was lying on the bed on his back, where she’d kept him the entire time, protecting his neck with the ferocity of a swan guarding her wounded mate. Webster was lying in the doorway, presumablyalsoguarding him, now that what he so clearly thought of as the unacceptably noisy and annoying part was finally over. Webster didn’t approve of sex.
As for Luka? He was happy. His happiness might be bittersweet for a wee while, but it was filling his chest. It was here.
Elle seemed to know, because she kissed his neck, stroked a hand down his shoulder, his arm, and said, “I never exactly answered you. I’d be happy to marry you before Christmas. I’d be happy to marry you anytime, but especially soon, and especially if that means it has to be small. Social anxiety’s a thing.”
“Or,” he said, “sensitivity’s a thing. Emotion’s a thing, and wanting to be safe when you share it, maybe.”
