“This I got when I finished my PhD,” he said, then traced his finger higher. “This is when I got tenure.”
“Some bands are thicker than others,” I noted. “In fact they’re all different thicknesses. Is that significant?”
“It is.” He nodded. “Well, sort of. I decide on the thickness and placement of each band in the moment, really, just based on how I feel at the time.”
“So this one?” I asked, pointing to a thicker band closer to his elbow.
“That was my marriage,” he said grimly.
“Did you mark yourself when you two broke up?”
“I did,” he said with a chuckle. “I uh, it’s a bit childish of me, I suppose, but I had Danny, my tattoo artist, just go over the whole thing again, as if we were crossing it out. Now when I look at it, it has a different significance to me.”
“That’s clever,” I said.
“It’s a little spiteful.” He smirked.
“Maybe a little. But, I like them,” I said, reaching out to stroke my fingers over the lines. “It’s like tree-rings. A map. The story of your life.”
“Very much.” He nodded and caught my hand in his.
“By the time you’re sixty your whole arm may be black,” I said. “How do you decide? What merits a mark? How thick to make the band and where to place it?”
“I do what feels right. If something happens that moves me, I feel compelled to mark myself. Perhaps I’ll end up with a full sleeve of ink, as you say.” He winked at me. “But I don’t think so. I’m very discerning about what gets a mark. I think,” he said, musing. “I’ll end up with more of a bar code, really. And I’m excited to see the pattern that emerges in a decade or so. I want to let it unfold over time, spontaneously. Disordered and chaotic. Like the life that it reflects.”
“You think your life is chaotic?”
“I think all life is. We can’t control what happens to us, we can only cope with it. The best we can.”
“But we can, though,” I said. “If you work hard and make a plan—”
“The gods laugh when mortals plan, darling,” he said, smiling. “I found that out the hard way.”
His mood was softer now, more relaxed, so I took a breath and dared to ask the question that had been nudging at the edges of my mind for a few minutes.
“Why do you think you had another one? The nightmare?” I asked, my fingers coasting gently over the black band at his wrist. I hoped he wasn’t offended by the question, hoped I hadn’t spoiled the lighter turn that our conversation had taken.
“I still get them from time to time,” he said, his eyes watching my movements. “I probably always will. Although it took me a while to figure that out.” He pointed to his arm again, a black band about a quarter inch in width on his forearm. “This one, I got when I’d gone three months without a nightmare.” He traced higher. “And this I got a week later, when the nightmares came back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he smiled. “Because this one I got when I had gone a whole year without a nightmare. And when they came back again, I didn’t bother with another tattoo because by that point I’d figured out that this was probably going to be a life-long struggle.” He glanced up at me and winked. “Give or take.”
“Oh good, so you won’t have to dart out to the tattoo parlor tomorrow?”
“No,” he laughed. “As I said, I’ve gotten very discerning about the tattoos now. I’ve had to. I’ve got limited real estate available on this limb.”
“So no plans to branch out to the other arm, then?” I asked, smiling.
“No. God no,” he said, his gaze growing serious. “The nightmare…when you go through something like that, no matter how much distance you put between you and the event, no matter how much therapy and anguish, even when you think you’ve put it behind you, at any time it can rise up, like a snake out of the grass, and strike you.” His fingers stroked over my cheek, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. “I think, perhaps, you can understand what I mean?”
“I do.” I nodded. “Yes, I do. It’s always there, isn’t it? Lurking in the shadows.”
“Yes.”
“But…” I asked hesitantly, my fingers tracing circles on his wrist. I stared wide-eyed at his chest, unsure if I should ask a question I might not like the answer to.
“Go on,” he prompted me.
“Is there something I did that could have—”
“No,” he cut me off, gathering me to him. He kissed my hair, his hands ghosting over my shoulders to the small of my back. “No, I don’t want you to think that, not for a second. The only thing you’ve done is surprise me, and charm me, and thrill me. And as a result I think I’m just a little untethered at the moment.”
“Untethered?”
Rolling us both to the side, he pulled me up his body so that we faced each other, nose to nose.
“You overwhelm me, Jane,” he said, threading his fingers through my hair, kissing me sweetly, gently. “I am far gone. Undone.”
“And that inspires nightmares?” I asked, biting my lip.
“No.” He laughed. “But my defenses are damaged. My passions are up and hence the fortress walls are down. Really, I should have seen it coming, and prepared for it.”
“How? By building the wall higher? Stronger?”
“In a sense, yes.”
“Mmm,” I grunted, not happy with his answer, but God help me I could understand it.
“Hey.” He lifted my chin, capturing my gaze. “There’s a door. And you shall have the key.”
“That,” I said, pushing at his chest, embarrassed, “was corny.”
“Corny, romantic—there’s a fine line.” He grinned.
“With you that’s very true.”
“Do you hate it?” he asked. Propping up on his elbow, he ran his other hand up my thigh to rest on my hip. “All the Shakespeare and the flowers, and the weekend excursions to drafty post-modern houses that are prone to soufflé ruining black-outs?”
“It’s dreadful,” I said, trying to maintain a stern tone.
“Shall I just knock it off, then?”
“Don’t you dare.” I grinned at him.
He kissed me, his lips slanting over mine softly. He teased, gentle kisses that nipped at my bottom lip and sent my head swimming.
“Thomas.” I whispered his name against his lips, and then laughed when he fell back on the bed, his arm stretched over his forehead dramatically.
“I’m ruined,” he moaned. “You’ve ruined me.”
“Thomas!” I pushed at him playfully. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Oh sweet beauty, say it again.”
“What? Thomas?”
“Yes. That. It is my soul that calls upon my name; How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like soft music to attending ears.”
“Shakespeare?” I laughed.
“Always, darling.” He smiled, looking up at me. “Forever.”
The smile drained from my face. Forever. I felt my heart sing, and my gut clench when I heard that word. Forever, with Thomas. We stared at each other, neither of us speaking. One word had shocked us both into silence.
The light in the bedroom changed. Dawn was rising. Warm and pink, it glittered in the air and dappled over the comforter. A shaft of light broke through the bed’s curtains, and set Thomas’s eyes on fire. They glowed, a shocking blue for a split second before he covered his face with his hands. The spell was broken.
“Ow.” He rose, shifted to the end of the bed and snatched the curtains closed. “Stupid sunlight.”
I laughed as he flopped back down beside me, grateful for the distraction that had saved us from a long awkward moment.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“For what?” I asked, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.
“For being you.” The heat in his eyes shot straight through me. He threaded my fingers with his and dragged me towards him, his lips crashing over my mine ha
rd, his tongue swept in, tasting, exploring. I groaned into his mouth, my hands fisting in his hair. I clasped his face to mine, and he gripped my hips, rocking his hardness against me. I was drowning in his taste, his scent, the feel of his hands splayed across my back. Panic ripped through me unbidden. Overwhelmed, I drew back and faked a yawn.
“Poor angel,” he purred. “You’re worn out.”
“I am very tired,” I said, yawning again and nodding a little too vigorously. I had no idea what was wrong with me, but unease had settled in my belly like a brick and I felt a rising tide of emotion swelling in my chest. I needed some space from him, some relief, and yet I didn’t want to leave his side. Unconsciousness felt like the safest escape. “I’m sorry,” I said, my gaze flitting to his in apology. “I think I need to sleep…”
“Of course,” he said, pulling me against his chest. He spooned my body with his own, drew the bed covers up over our shoulders and settled his chin into the crook of my neck. “Goodnight, sweet Jane,” he said.
“It’s morning,” I said dazedly, watching the dance of sunlight that filtered softly through the bed curtains.
“Then good morning, sweet Jane.”
“Good morning, Thomas.”
* * *
It was my turn to cry. I lay there, in his arms, his skin warm against mine, the steady, even rhythm of his breathing telling me he was in a deep and peaceful sleep. He’d moved in his sleep, twisting me with him, limbs tangled in the bedcovers. We lay face to face now, and I drank him in, admiring the fine lines of cheekbones, the sweet curve of his lips, the dark fringe of his lashes against his cheek. He was so beautiful my heart ached, and tears pooled at the corners of my eyes. I lifted a hand slowly, wiping my face dry. This was bliss, this moment, this man. This glorious, soulful man, who’d shared his heart with me, his pain. My chest constricted and my throat felt tight. I wanted to dance and weep both at the same time. I’d lain there for hours it seemed, although from the dim morning light it was still early dawn. I couldn’t sleep. My mind was buzzing, trying to unpack these feelings, trying to make sense of the chaos of contradictory emotions that were swimming through my mind. And then it hit me, a sucker punch to the gut. My heart caught on before my head did, and I heard the words hammering faintly at the edge of awareness.
No no no, don’t you dare, my head said. Don’t say it.
But we felt it before, the first time we made love, my heart argued. Why are you surprised?
That’s different, my head hissed. That was in the middle of sex, that was hormones and candlelight. It passed.
No it didn’t.
Yes it did, my head insisted. Of course it did!
Then how do you explain this? asked my heart. This is heaven, this is joy, this is everything…This is…
“Don’t say it!” I said out loud, clamping a hand over my mouth when Thomas stirred against me. He rolled over, releasing me from his grasp and I felt his absence acutely, as if I’d just lost a limb.
See, said my heart. This is love.
“Fuck,” I whispered, staring at Thomas’s back as it rose and fell softly with each breath. “I love you.”
* * *
The house was chilly, the tiles in the hallway absolutely frigid. For a moment I considered sneaking back into the bedroom for a pair of slippers. But I didn’t want to wake Thomas. I’d wrapped the robe around me when I left, but when I came upon his discarded dress shirt in the dining room, I’d traded one for the other, slipping my arms into the fine cotton and cocooning myself in his scent. I walked to the living room, turned the fireplace on for warmth and then found my phone. I texted Sasha.
U up?
When she didn’t answer right away, I walked to the kitchen in search of coffee, and was just pushing the brew button when my phone buzzed.
Yes. Why?
Oh sorry, I texted. Did I wake u?
Three little dots flickered across my screen for a moment and then stopped. My phone rang, it was Sasha.
“Hey, you didn’t have to call me,” I said.
“Yes I did,” she answered. “What’s wrong?”
“Ugh.” I sighed and leaned against the marble countertop. “I’m kind of freaking out a little bit.”
“What do you mean? Did something happen?”
“Yes, no…yes.”
“Did you two shag yet? Was it bad?”
“Yes, no. I mean, shit, I can’t even fucking talk I’m so freaked out.”
“Well take a breath and sort it out because I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“We,” I stammered into the phone. “We had sex, and it was amazing, and something, something happened and it changed and it wasn’t just sex, it was like, I felt this deep crazy connection to him.”
“That’s lovely. Does he feel the same?”
“I think he does, because we kind of talked about it without really talking about it.”
“How does one do that?”
“We sort of danced around it. Kind of just agreed to not discuss it, to put it aside and just not talk about it right now.”
“Okay.”
“And then last night, in the middle of the night we had a really intense sort of, just…” I wasn’t sure how much to say. I figured I needed to be vague, since Thomas’s past wasn’t mine to share.
“What?” asked Sasha.
“I can’t get into it in detail, because he shared something private with me. But it was really…it was deep. We had this pretty heavy conversation and it was so much. It was just so much.”
“Okay.”
“And then he fell asleep in my arms.”
“Okay.”
“And I think I love him.”
“You think?”
“Yeah,” I whispered, my voice cracking with emotion. “Yeah, no, um, I’m pretty sure I just fucking fell in love with him. Fuck.”
“And this is bad why?”
“Because, Sash! What the fuck? I can’t even sleep with a guy without falling in love with him?”
“Oh, don’t be stupid. You’ve slept with tons of guys and not fallen in love.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Sod off, you know what I mean. You’re not a ninny who falls in love easily. If you’ve fallen for him, it’s because he’s special, he’s worthy.”
“Sure,” I sniffed.
“You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I said. “I told you I’m just freaking out.”
“Just freaking out.”
“Yeah, I mean just because I feel like I love him. I mean, I’m not sure exactly. It could be just hormones or pheromones or whatever. We’ve both been pretty strung out emotionally; things have been a little intense.”
“Did you tell him how you feel?”
“God no! I’ve been playing it safe I guess, trying not to say anything rash in the heat of the moment.”
“While that’s probably wise, I’ve got to tell you, I’d bet the club he feels the same way. Or he will soon enough.”
“Fuck.”
“Risk, my darling. I told you, life is about risk.”
“Not mine.”
“Everyone’s. We cannot live without it, I’m afraid. Literally, life itself is a risk.”
The light on the coffee pot came on. I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder, found a mug and fixed myself a cup.
“Jane?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. Just making coffee,” I said, taking a loud slurp to prove it.
“Mmmm.” She sighed. “You are scared.”
“Okay, yes I’m scared,” I said, setting the mug down on the counter. “Of course I am.”
“Of what?”
“What if this is real? And what if he doesn’t feel the same?” I said. “I can’t even…I’ll be devastated.”
“And what if he does?”
“That’s almost worse,” I said.
“How?”
“We are in totally different places in our life, Sash. He’s getting divorc
ed, lives in another country, teaches at a university. He’s got a life, like already working, with all the pieces in place.”
“Well, if he’s getting a divorce I’d say that’s one piece at least that’s definitely not in place.”
“Yeah but how can I fill that? I mean I wouldn’t want to, even. I just graduated for Chrissake. I’ve got a life to build, stuff to do. I’ve got plans.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Well, I’ve got plans to have plans. You know what I mean.”
“If you say so.”
“I mean, what would I do? Drop everything and move to England and get married and become a Professor’s wife and have kids and shit? No thanks.”
“You don’t want kids and shit?”
“No! I mean yes I do, just not right now.”
“Okay.”
“I did all that before, Sash. You know I did. I dropped everything for a guy, lost myself in his life and his world and forgot who I was and I can’t do that again. I won’t.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay. It’s not okay.”
“Love.” She sighed. “Just be. Just feel what you feel, and take each moment as it comes, and make each decision only as needed. Don’t decide the future, good or bad, before it’s even begun.”
“How do I do that?” I asked, raising the coffee mug to my lips.
“Breathe. And just let it unfold.”
My cup stopped midair. Unfold. That’s what Thomas had said.
“Right. Breathe. Unfold. Got it,” I said grimly.
“Oh Jane,” she said, sighing heavily. “Look, I’ve got to run. I’ve got to catch a flight to New York. But call me again if you need me. I’m always here.”
“Thanks. What’s in New York?”
“A property I’m buying. I’m opening another club.”
“Oh wow. I had no idea.”
“I know. I’ve been quiet about it. But…”
“What is it?” I asked her, my curiosity piqued.
“Listen, I was hoping to bring it up formally with you, in person. But along the lines of your plans to make plans…there’s a job for you in New York if you want it. Running a club for me. Well, co-managing. I’d like you to be in charge of all the, shall we say, aesthetics. The food, the acts, the decor.”
Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3) Page 3