by Sara Cate
It’s nice to have time to just update my sister on my new life at the co-op, everything I learned, and the jobs I’ll have after it’s over. Before I know it, we’re saying goodbye, and I’m already desperate for this program to be over so I don’t feel so separated from her anymore.
As the hours go by, I start to lose hope that Alex is coming. Why would he come? I didn’t tell him I’d be here. This isn’t his sort of scene anyway. It’s stupid of me to not invite him and then expect him to show. Who does that?
The show starts to wrap up just as the sun peeks below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and blue. I get caught up talking to a couple straggling through the festival when I see him approach.
I lose my voice mid-sentence. He’s walking against the natural grain of the crowd toward me, in his jeans with a long-sleeve shirt and a lazy hoodie on over it. His beard has grown out, and it shows the white patches along his chin line. When my eyes lock on his, I lose my breath.
Watching him approach, my throat tightens and I wonder if he’ll hug me. Will he just say hello and move on? Or will he sweep me up in his arms and carry me away? Part of the irrational brain hopes it's the latter.
Instead of wondering for long, it’s me who closes the distance, stepping up to hug him as soon as he’s close enough to touch. His arms fold around my midsection, squeezing me tighter than Cadence did, and we don't speak as we just hug each other for a long breathless minute.
He smells so familiar; it makes tears prick my eyes. Where his shoulders used to be narrower, he’s built muscle, and his skin has lost its summer tan. It brings out the blue in his eyes I notice as he leans back.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he whispers to me, our mouths just inches apart.
“You’re not late,” I answer, letting myself get lost in his eyes. I’m not grappling with my choices anymore. He’s here, and it feels amazing.
Just when I think he might kiss me, and I don’t know how I would feel about that, he pulls away, looking at the wall behind me.
His eyes go wide, and he steps forward giving it the same look he gave the girl the first time I painted her. “Sunny…” he whispers.
“It’s a rain cloud.”
He answers me with a smile. “I know it is.”
The rain cloud is really so much more than that though, and I watch as he stares at it, finding every small detail I hid in the design. The gray cloud rains, but instead of water, music falls from the gray orb. There’s a tree sprouting, a spatter of color, cherry blossoms, a candle like from a birthday cake, a human heart, and a fire. It is everything we are and everything he made me. It’s us. The single biggest thing in my life so far, and I knew he would see it eventually, but I'm so glad it’s here where I can watch his reaction.
His hand touches my back softly, and I fight the urge to crawl into his arms again. He’s quiet for a moment as he stares at the painting. Finally, he looks at me, his eyes lingering on my face like he’s looking for something.
“Can I take you out for dinner?” he asks carefully, looking around.
My heart pitter patters harder in my chest. Dinner with Alex, sitting alone with him, to just be near him. I’d walk away from anything for that.
“Yeah. We’re just about done anyway,” I mumble, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.
“Are you sure?” His hand touches my elbow and I practically melt.
“I’m not in prison, Alex,” I laugh, and he smiles, creating little wrinkles around his eyes.
After saying goodbye to Hanna, I meet Alexander on the sidewalk, and we walk together to a place in the city that apparently has the best chicken and waffles. Being around him feels natural, like we are still the same two people together, even if we’ve changed apart.
While we walk, he asks about the program and I tell him everything about the friends I've made and what I’ve learned. As we come up to the restaurant, he opens the door for me, and I walk past him, letting his eyes on my face send a warm rush of blood through my veins.
Sitting across from him at the small table, I can’t take my eyes off his face. He’s softer than before, like he’s healthier, happier. Twisting my napkin in my fingers, I don’t dare to let myself hope. I keep preparing myself to hear him say he’s seeing someone, and I hope that when that happens, I hold a smile instead of bursting into tears which is what I want to do.
“How are you?” I finally ask when he lets me stop talking about myself. I twist the napkin between my fingers a little tighter.
He nods, holding a tight-lipped expression. “I’m okay,” he answers.
“Just okay?” I can tell he’s holding something back, and I’m not sure I want him to open up any more than that.
“Just okay. Some things are really good, but other things…” his eyes meet mine.
And I understand. There are parts of my life that are wonderful, new, and exciting, but beneath all of that, I’m miserable. It evens out to just okay.
My hand moves across the table and touches his hand. Immediately, his fingers are squeezing mine, and my body is on fire.
What now? Can we go back to what we had? Would it make all of this pointless?
We eat quickly, and he offers to walk me back to the co-op since it’s dark now. We’re silent again, but the energy is anything but easy and calm. My hand itches with the nearness of his, and I'm dying to reach out and hold his.
Just as we pass a dark alley, I’m swept away from the sidewalk, and I meet his chest with a crash, stealing the breath from my lungs. I don’t even bother gasping for air. All I care about is his lips, so when he leans down, I wind my arms around his neck and pull his mouth to mine.
We kiss each other hungrily, his body grinding against me like it’s the first breath we’ve taken in months. He moans into my mouth as I devour his lips. I will never let him go; I tell myself. Now that he's back in my arms, there is no way I can let that go.
“God, I missed you,” he breathes against my mouth, and I quickly reply with the same.
“I missed you, too.” Our foreheads meet, and it’s like the last four months don’t exist anymore.
His hands are on my hips, then around my waist, holding me tighter than ever before. The questions swirling around my brain have quieted, but they are there, lingering, waiting.
“I don’t have to go back just yet,” I whisper against his lips. “As long as I’m back by breakfast.”
A low growl hums from his chest as he pulls me tighter. “I... can’t…” he says, and my shoulders deflate, a cold sweat sweeping over my body. He can’t? Sensing my panic, he continues, “I made a promise…”
My body falls away from his. “A promise to who?” If there’s someone else, I don’t know what I’ll do, but it’s something I don’t want to consider. I can’t.
“A promise to...myself,” he finishes, knitting his brow and looking down at me, waiting for me to understand.
And it takes a moment before I realize what he’s saying. My eyes pop open and I grasp his arms tighter. “You haven’t…?”
He shakes his head slowly. “In four months.”
I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling. A swelling pride engulfs my chest. Alexander Caldwell has voluntarily given up sex for four months as a promise to himself. Not me. Not his sister. Not anyone else. Just himself, and it feels like my heart is about to explode with pride.
When I can’t fight the smile any longer, I launch myself back into his arms. “That’s amazing, Alexander. I’m so proud of you.”
“I don’t want you to tell me if you’ve...you know,” he stammers.
“Alex,” I whisper. “I never stopped being yours.”
His cheeks redden, and the corners of his lips turn up in a smile. Kissing me again, I let myself get lost in his nearness.
“Will you wait for me?” he breathes, taking his mouth to my neck, and it feels impossible. I don’t want to wait another second for him, but I know this is what’s best for him. After everything we’ve b
een through, this could be the thing that brings us back together.
“I will always wait for you.”
Sunny
It’s been two weeks since the art festival, the night I saw Alexander, and not a day has gone by that we haven’t spoken. Every night he calls and we talk, his voice in my Bluetooth headphones while I paint.
The inspiration comes so much easier now. The paint runs out of my fingers with ideas, color and life on the canvas since that night.
We don’t talk about the future. We don’t even talk about the past. Mostly, we just talk about meaningless topics—our favorite memories as kids, things we were better at, what we would do if we could start it all again. It’s like I’m learning him all over again, meeting the same man again, but knowing him differently. Falling in love with him again.
He keeps the dark things to himself, and I don’t pry. Alexander talks now like he’s healing, and I don’t want to be the one to bring up the bad things, so we dodge topics like sex, love, and relationships. For me, he skips talking about my parents, the split, and how many times I’ve been smacked around by my mother. The conversations are superficial, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel. We’re not as fucked up as we once were, and the future looks bright.
I only have six more weeks until I’m free. There haven’t been talks of job prospects yet, but I feel them coming, and part of me is dreading them. What do I do if I’m offered something amazing far away from here? Do I ask him to come with? All I can really think about right now is going home, his home. Our home. My side of the bed that is still waiting for me.
Alexander and I built our lives together before we started our relationship. Before we allowed ourselves to start anything. And now I know that we should have waited until we worked out some of these things we need to work through. And part of me knows there are still so many landmines ready to ruin it all if we don’t get through it before the program ends, and we truly begin.
He cuts our talk short one night, and I can tell he’s feeling anxious. Normally, he’s in such a good mood, light-hearted and easy to talk to, but tonight I can feel the restlessness in his voice. I want to tell him it’s only six more weeks, but I don’t know if he’s unsettled because he misses me or he misses sex, and I don’t think I want to know.
It’s only 8:30 on a Friday night when he calls it a night. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he mumbles across the phone line.
“Okay.” What else can I say? We haven’t defined the boundaries of our new relationship. How the hell am I supposed to know what I can say at this point, but I feel him struggling and I can’t be there to help him.
I don’t sleep well that night. Something is gnawing at me while I toss and turn, checking his Instagram like a stalker because I’m desperate to know if he’s home or out. I finally doze off somewhere after one in the morning when my phone rings. His face is on the screen, and I panic, sitting up in my top bunk to answer it. The room is silent, but most of my roommates sleep with headphones in to block the sound of everyone else shifting, snoring, or coming in late from the studio.
“Alex?” I breathe.
Before I hear his voice, I hear the wind blowing. There is distant music—and I know he’s out.
“I fucked up, Sunny.” His voice is like gravel, deep and pained.
The blood drains from my face. “No,” I answer, half-plea, half-statement. He wouldn’t fuck up, not now, not after everything.
Suddenly, the room is stifling, and I have to get out. Climbing off the top bunk, I slip on my flip-flops, and I run out of the room, through the studio, to the street out front.
“Where are you?” I ask in a rush. I’ll go to him. I’ll fix it. I just need to see him.
“I thought I was ready to go out. I thought I could handle being out with my friends again. I missed that, Sunny. I missed having fun. I never missed that when you were here.”
“Alexander, where are you? I’m on my way.” I just start walking, without direction. Which is stupid in the middle of the night for a single young woman, but his voice is in my ear, and I have to push out the realization that Alexander fucked someone else. I just need to be near him. I have to fix this.
“I’m sitting on the roof of the Hyatt.” There’s a slur in his voice, and I know it means he’s been drinking. My stomach rolls.
“Just talk to me. I’m coming to you.”
“No, Sunny. I called because I want to talk to you. I need you to know everything about me. If we’re going to do this...if you’re coming home to me, then we need to get the heavy stuff out of the way. The really ugly stuff. You know it.”
I do know it. But it doesn’t mean I want to hear about him with anyone else, and my mind is not about to process what this means for us. Did he cheat on me? Are we technically together? I told him I was his...but would I take him back if he did? Pushing the heavy thoughts aside, I breathe a heavy sigh into the phone.
“Then talk to me.” I stop at the stop light and look toward the city center. The Hyatt isn’t the tallest building in Pineridge, but I can make out the lights of the sign. I could be there in fifteen minutes by car.
“Remember that blonde woman who came to the house? The one I fought with. It’s her birthday. I thought I could handle it, and the drinks started pouring…”
“Alex.” My voice is pleading with him. I don’t know if I can hear this part.
“Her and I have always had an easy physical relationship. I knew she was lonely, too. I knew coming out tonight would be bad, but I was so fucking bored at home. I missed you so goddamn much, that I couldn’t stop myself.”
Tears prick my eyes. Somewhere in the back of my throat, anger bubbles and I’m ready to scream. “What did you do?” I ask through grit teeth.
“I panicked, baby. I should have gone home, but I just thought some fresh air would help so I came up to the roof, and the fucking door locked on me. Now I’m stuck up here, sitting around an empty pool, and I thought about you.”
I swallow, pacing back toward my apartment building, trying to piece together what he’s saying. “Did you...break your promise, Alex?”
“No,” he says with a hint of sadness in his tone. “But I almost did, Sunny. I almost drank too much, promising to go home with her, like we do every year. I wanted to.”
The air leaves my chest, and I drop onto the steps leading up to the front porch of the studio. “Alex,” I breathe. “You scared the shit out of me.”
It’s quiet a moment, and I stare across the city again, imagining him up there. Knowing it’s too far, much farther than when only our backyards separated us.
“Remember that night when I stood at my window, and I let you see me?”
I hear his heavy breath as if he’s laughing on the other end of the line. “Of course, I do. I knew you were trouble even then.”
“I wanted you, Alex. I wanted you to be my first because I trusted you.”
“Do you still trust me?”
“Yes, I do,” I answer, biting my lip. “I trust that your heart is good. That you know the mistakes you’ve made, and even then, I trusted that you would be different with me.”
“The things I did in the past, Sunny. Those weren’t mistakes. I was irresponsible because I could be. I broke girls’ hearts. I was cruel on purpose, and the reasons I was so fucked up would only be excuses I don’t deserve.”
Only our breathing fills the line for a moment until he finally mumbles so quietly, I almost don’t hear. “I don’t deserve you either.” And it feels like a sharp knife to my chest. How can he feel that way when I want him so badly? How do I take away this pain for him, opening the doors for our future?
Standing up, I walk up to where the patio chairs sit on the porch, and I bundle my legs up inside my large sweatshirt. Then, I brace myself for what I’m about to ask.
“Then tell me everything,” I whisper into the phone. “Say it all now and then let it all go. Allow yourself a fresh start, and if after I hear everything, I still think you de
serve us, I’ll come to the house after this is over.”
There’s a strangled sounding breath, and I know he’s fighting tears on the line. After a minute, he starts talking. He starts with his teen years, growing up with such little supervision and too much money. How he threw away his college years partying, trying every drug he could get his hands on, and forming an unhealthy relationship with sex that evolved over the years.
He tells me about the business ventures he started and abandoned, how desperately he misses that life. How he feels he doesn’t deserve an ounce of happiness anymore.
“Remember that girl from the gallery party? The one I went out back to smoke with?”
“Yes,” I breathe, afraid to hear the rest of this story.
“She was married to my best friend for ten years, and during that trip to Mexico last year, I fucked her in the hot tub. I hurt the person who cared about me most, and for what? Sex?”
“Is that how you got that scar?”
“Can you blame him? He threw my ass into that coffee table, and I didn’t even fight him. I knew I deserved it. That’s when I knew I needed a change, Sunny. I couldn’t live with myself anymore, so I sold my condo and moved into the house.”
It was the most painful part of his story, and something about it, knowing what he’d put himself and the people he loved through pained me.
More than once through his two-hour long dialogue, he wept. It was a completely different Alexander than I knew, but I stuck through every word, wishing I could wrap my arms around him.
By the time he finished, we both watched the sky start to lighten up on the eastern horizon. He didn’t ask me anything as the conversation came to an end, and even if he had, I wouldn’t have told him. This was about more than whether or not I still trusted him. The things he told me were hard to hear, and I could make excuses like he said. I could say he was a different person then or he had his own issues, but making excuses doesn’t make it any easier to accept. He fucked up, and yes, in some ways, he was fucked up.