Page 50 of Honeyed

Alana backs away so I’m no longer touching her, a sob hiccupping up her throat.

“I’m not trying to, I promise. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all of it. I’ve been a coward for so long, thinking I was doing the right thing, the respectful thing. And then we got married and it just … none of it mattered. Why the hell was I doing any of it when I could have had you? The minute you slipped that plain gold band on my hand, nothing in the world felt more right. I’ve been yours for far longer than just these months married, baby. Since the beginning, my heart has belonged to you. I’m so sorry, Al. I’ll try harder. For a long time, this was my main setting, keeping things in and forging ahead alone. But you’re right. It’s us now. For a lot longer than now if you’ll have me.”

My insides heave from exhaustion, my brain frazzled from the twists and turns of this conversation.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” She breathes, her voice seeping with tiredness too. “I’m sorry, too. We should have had this talk much sooner, shouldn’t have avoided it for so long. It’s just that answers like the one you just gave send me right back to doubting that this could be real. That we could actually be together … even though we are together.”

That has us both chuckling.

“I guess we’ve never done things in the proper order, huh?” She finally lets me pull her into a hug, and I stroke her cheek as I look into her eyes. “Last night meant everything to me, baby. I’ve been wanting to do that for so long, and you giving that to me again is the greatest gift. We’ll figure this out, I promise. Let’s just keep talking, keep being open. And definitely, let’s keep doing that.”

I point to the bed, and she hits me in the shoulder, not hard, and my sentiment has her giggling. And blushing again. Dammit, that blush has my morning wood turning to stone.

“You’re the only boy I’ve ever seen.” She entrusts me with this knowledge, and I can tell it’s the most vulnerable she’s ever been with me, even if we were stripped naked and joined together last night.

Alana is tough as nails and in control of most everything. But with us, she has to trust I’m going to meet her in the middle.

Instead of saying anything, I take her mouth, trying to answer that openness with a gesture instead of more words. She pushes her body against mine, and we pour everything into this kiss, our teeth knocking together messily as I try to convey all the love I have for her into this action.

It’s a Herculean effort to keep those three little words in my throat. I’ve been in love with her since we were kids, and now I’m finally in a place to be able to tell her, but I can’t. Not like this. Not after hurling our past in this way.

Plus, it feels like everything is too raw right now. Between the sex, the unpacking of our history, our proximity to each other at all times …

Yes, I’ve never stopped being in love with her. But there is time to develop all of that without putting more pressure on us right now.

At least we’ve spilled all the tea onto the table and are finally trying to sop up the mess.

20

ALANA

Even though Warren and I technically put our past to rest with that fight and made up with many long kisses, things feel stilted between us.

We got everything out in the open, all the hurt and miscommunication, but we haven’t had sex again. It’s been five days since he rocked my world and shattered every boundary between us. But now, every time he looks at me, I can see the hint of sadness and difficulty in his eyes. Like he’s done me wrong and needs to repent but isn’t sure how to handle me with anything but kid gloves.

Except the only way I want him to make it up to me is on his knees, between my thighs. I’m too scared to admit that, and thus has begun the vicious cycle of silence we always fall into. Why the fuck can’t we just be on the same wavelength like I wish we could?

Sure, we ride to work together most days, sit at the same kitchen table for dinner, cuddle on the couch at night while he watches a game and I read a book. Something is still off, though, and I know he can feel it too.

Case in point, he won’t touch me or kiss me with a ten-foot pole. Not even when we were in front of my family or our friends. For five days, he’s basically avoided me at all costs when we’re at the restaurant. Which is how I find myself sitting in the dining room with my laptop, Evan’s feet propped up on the chair beside me.

“What if we do some sort of cooking lesson with me?” He taps his chin, trying to brainstorm an auction item for Hope Crest Restaurant Week.

The celebration, which features the bars and restaurants of our little Delaware Valley town and nightly specials or discounted price fix menus to entice residents to come out and sample the local cuisine, kicks off with a big town square “gala.” Not that it’s fancy, but there are live bands playing all night, appetizers from the participating restaurants, and an auction to raise money for the small business fund the township board created ten years ago.

“Are we trying to scare people off? Because that would accomplish it.” I don’t look up from the Lily logo I’ve been trying to perfect in Photoshop.

It’s been weeks, and I still can’t create a design I like.

“What are you talking about? I’m a kick-ass teacher!” He throws up the tennis ball he’s been attempting to bounce off the ceiling.

“You made Lucy cry no more than ten days ago,” I deadpan, reminding him about our aunt, our actual flesh and blood, who asked to come make ravioli with him in the kitchen.

“She wasn’t rolling out the dough correctly.” Evan’s stare is completely serious, as if I should understand why he sent our father’s sister into hysterics.

“No, we’re not auctioning off cooking lessons with you. No one would end up coming to dine here. I should have August show them the ropes of service. That might be fun, an experience.” It would definitely be something out of the ordinary.

“She is the best of us.” A look flits over his face, and I swear it’s something close to admiration.

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