Maybe Never

by Nia Forrester

  Tracy said nothing.

  “We fight Tracy,” Brendan said. “We have fights that make me feel like I’ve had my insides turned out . . . fights that scare the shit out of me . . . because no one’s ever made me as . . . fucking crazy as you do . . .”

  “You never seem crazy,” she said quietly. “You seem to handle it just fine when we fight. You never even . . .”

  “Even what?”

  “Shout,” she said. “You never even shout.”

  Brendan gave a short laugh. “You want me to shout at you?”

  “No, but . . .”

  It was hard to explain, but his control, his equanimity was hard to take sometimes. Brendan made her positively churn inside, with love, with jealousy, with joy, with anger . . . all of those strong feelings wrapped up in one complicated ball that sat there in the center of her chest. And all it took for one strand of emotion to spring free of that ball was a word from him, a touch, a look . . .

  And she couldn’t even seem to make him break a sweat.

  “If it makes you feel any better, no one’s ever pissed me off as much as you . . .” Brendan said.

  That, of all things, was what finally made her smile break free. He leaned in, burying his face in her hair, pulling her against him. Tracy tensed at first and then her body—traitor that it was—softened and pressed into him as though finding its way home.

  “. . . or made me feel as strongly about anything as you do. I could never leave you, Tracy. I never will. Marry me,” he said. “Please.”

  ________

  Tracy carefully lifted the covers and lowered her feet to the floor, walking toward the French doors that led out onto the balcony. The air would be crisp, almost cold at this time of the morning, just before the sun rose. Grabbing the plush terry bathrobe from where she’d draped it over the armchair earlier, she pulled it on to cover her nakedness. In doing so, she toppled a brass vase which clattered then rolled noiselessly across the carpet. She didn’t bother looking over at the bed because Brendan would not wake up even if she had a marching band come parading through the room. Noise wouldn’t wake him, but the knowledge of her absence might, so she’d made sure to wedge a pillow next to him before she got out of bed.

  After sex, he slept like the dead.

  Getting him to make love to her at all had been a feat in persuasion, even though it was more than apparent that other parts of his anatomy wanted to. He was worried about the baby, which was so sweet.

  You’ll be gentle, she said to him. I know you will.

  And he had been. His hands brushing rather than grasping her hips, his breath stirring her hair, his movements slow—almost agonizingly so—and controlled. His thighs hard and firm against hers, his fingers interlaced with her own, his scent, his weight, his length, his hardness, his breadth . . .

  Brendan on her.

  Brendan in her.

  Brendan tasting her.

  She had missed all of it. And their reconciliation wouldn’t have seemed real without it. Her climax was long, and quiet and sweet. She cried. And he kissed her, and for those moments, she was complete.

  But even after he was asleep, Tracy could not.

  Brendan, saying the words, ‘marry me’ was something she had been completely without the strength or will to resist. In that moment, she couldn’t make herself say ‘no’ even as a tiny, worried part of her considered that maybe that might be the right answer. When they talked some more, he’d admitted that as much as he loved her, she wasn’t what he’d always seen in his future; that she was more tumultuous, volatile than he sometimes felt equipped to handle.

  That had to mean, didn’t it, that she shouldn’t marry him? That it would be selfish to do so?

  Glancing back at him in bed, Tracy wondered if she truly made him happy, whether she could be the kind of woman who would make him happy not just in moments, but over a lifetime. And not just now, but when he was his father’s age. Would they be that smiling couple who even though old and gray, wanted to hold hands all the time? And if that’s what he deserved, and she was unsure she could provide it, wouldn’t the greatest act of love be to let him go? She believed him when he said he loved her, and there was never any doubt that she loved him, but maybe that wasn’t enough, and maybe it never would be.

  It was true, if she let Brendan go, that would mean she would have the baby alone, but he would be an amazing father; she knew that without a shadow of a doubt. He would be as involved a parent as though they lived in the same house. She could not—even if she wanted to—keep him away from any child of his. He was best of men but she was not the best of women. At least not the best of women for him.

  Once, a couple years ago, there had been a woman he was with . . . what was her name? Meghan. Yes. Meghan, who Tracy had spotted with Brendan and felt an immediate rush of a selfish, angry, panicky feeling because of how calming and soothing an aura she had. She’d seen Meghan and knew immediately that that was the kind of woman Brendan Cole was meant to be with, and the idea had so alarmed her that she had set out to, and had succeeded in taking him away.

  Walking back over to the bed, Tracy reached out and touched Brendan’s shoulder. She had missed him so much, that was all. That was why she’d recklessly accepted this new proposal. And he’d probably missed her as well, so they’d tricked themselves and each other into thinking that they could make this different, and right.

  And of course, they wanted to make it right, because they were having a baby . . . but Tracy still couldn’t get out of her mind how Brendan had changed on her as they began planning the wedding. What was different now? That she’d almost had a miscarriage? He wanted to rescue her; that was what he did. But she couldn’t allow him to do that this time. She loved him too much to let him.

  “Brendan,” she said, insistently shaking his shoulder. “Wake up. Brendan . . .”

  He mumbled in his sleep, his voice thick and exhausted. Tracy couldn’t help but smile, even though she knew that by the time she was done talking, and for a very long time after that, there would only be tears.

  “Brendan,” she said again. “We need to talk.”

  It had to be now, before she changed her mind and wanted to cling again, to hold on to him even though it would be wrong.

  He was on his stomach but now flopped over onto his side, barely conscious, speaking but barely incoherent, so Tracy had to lean in. When she did, he pulled her down against him and before she could say a word, almost effortlessly turned her so she was pressed backward against him in the way they customarily slept. Brendan’s hand stole under the tie at her waist, and into the opening of the robe, resting on her abdomen. It was hot, and felt good there, just over the place where she was beginning, finally, to look like a woman with-child.

  Brendan murmured something against the back of her neck, into her hair and the feeling of his lips and breath there made her shiver.

  “What?” Tracy whispered.

  “I thought of it,” Brendan said, his voice, only slightly clearer now.

  “Thought of what, Brendan?” Tracy asked, wearily, fully understanding that she was about to hear utter nonsense, produced by some dream he was having.

  “My . . .vows,” he said.

  Tracy froze and her heart galloped in her chest.

  “What?” she breathed.

  “I thought of my vows . . .”

  Her eyes filled. She held her breath. He was sleeping. He didn’t know what he was saying. She was hallucinating, or . . .

  “I take you, Tracy Emerson . . .” he said, his voice still difficult to hear.

  The first of the tears splashed onto Tracy’s cheeks, but she held still, listening.

  “. . . to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward . . .”

  Tracy’s chest was rising and falling as she contained the sounds she felt building inside her.

  “. . . for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health,” Brendan continued. “To love . . . and to cherish;
from this day forward . . . until death do us part.”

  She swallowed hard and then spoke. “You didn’t make those up, Brendan,” she forced out. “You’re . . . sleeping, and . . . and those are the usual marriage vows, the traditional ones . . . . . .” Her voice was halting, as she focused all her efforts on not sobbing uncontrollably. “

  “But . . . those are the perfect ones,” he said, his voice groggy. “Don’t you think so?”

  Tracy turned in his arms and stared at him, his eyes still closed, his mouth slack and relaxed.

  This man. This man she would love for the rest of her life, who had never left her even when she kept leaving him. This man whose patience with her—even though he was frightened of her changeable and restless nature—seemed limitless, whom she had almost left yet again . . .

  “Don’t you think so? That those are the perfect vows?” Brendan said, his words still hopelessly garbled. And for a moment, he actually tried to open his eyes to look at her before exhaustion pulled him under once again.

  “Yes, Brendan,” Tracy said. “I do.”

  ___________________