by Cranford, B.
“Do you, though? Or do you still love who he was, before he changed—and you did too? Because unless you’ve been standing still, you’re not the woman now that you were when you two first met.”
“I haven’t been standing still.” Thinking about what had changed over the years, the discomfort I’d felt when I’d realized that my marriage was falling apart. The decision I’d made to fight for it. “I haven’t,” I added, more vehemently.
The smile my new friend—and yeah, we were definitely friends now, even though we’d just met—gave me acknowledged my conviction. “When my marriage ended, I realized that what I wanted out of it changed. It wasn’t just that he didn’t love me the way he should, it was the fact I wasn’t willing to accept anything other than what I deserved. And when John, my second love, decided he didn’t want to get married, I decided that wasn’t good enough for me. It took me a long time to realize that it’s okay to want the things you want. That you can’t let fear decide for you, just like you can’t let what should be happening decide for you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t marry him, but he was an idiot for not wanting that with you,” I said, wanting to break up some of the heaviness that had overtaken our conversation.
Except Anne wasn’t going to let me off so easily. “No, dear. He was a man who also wasn’t going to accept something that didn’t suit him. And that’s okay. That’s how we knew it wasn’t right, you see.”
I looked back out at the blue water, thinking about Lucas and about what he’d told me he wanted. About the way he’d promised that we could make it work, if only we were willing to try. “He makes me smile. And laugh. I laugh so much when I’m with him.”
“Lucas?” Anne asked, easily following the shift in conversation. “Good. You should be able to smile and laugh with him.”
“Do you—do you think it’s okay that we just met?”
“You and me? I think it’s fine.” She laughed, her own little joke bringing my thoughts into sharp relief.
“If we work at it, if we stick with it, it’ll work. I know it will, pretty girl.”
Lucas’ voice joined the dawning awareness that Anne had given me. In the same way that time didn’t make Anne my friend, time didn’t make my feelings for Lucas any less.
They might not end up being what I wanted them to be. Our zing might fizzle out until it was barely a blip. But that’s what we needed time for—to realize, to learn that. Or maybe to find out that our zing had become bigger and brighter and stronger.
“Bianca?” Anne stood, her body language telling me that this brief interlude, our short friendship, was coming to an end. “It’s time I started back.” She gestured down the path that took walkers and bikers around the Blue Lake. “Walk with me?”
Immediately, I nodded. “I’d like that.” I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye to her yet. I felt so very close to the kind of peace and the sense of self I’d been looking for.
“Talk to me some more,” she prompted as we began to make our way back to the reception center.
“I kind of feel like I’ve talked enough.” In fact, as we moved further away from our bench, my embarrassment at having dumped on this poor woman grew.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed.”
I started at her seeming response to my thoughts. “How did you . . . ?”
“Because I think you and I are a lot alike. I’ve been where you are—at the end of a marriage and at the start of a new relationship. All I can say is this—you need to have faith in yourself and make sure you set the standard that you want. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks when it comes to your happiness. Unless your happiness is dependent on hurting someone or something, in which case, get help.”
Laughing at the way she’d spoken those last few words, I nevertheless let her advice sink in. Part of me—a not insignificant part—had wanted Lucas from the start and had been loath to leave him.
But I’d given into both the idea of what I should be doing, and what I believed was possible based on my experience.
I should be finding myself.
I couldn’t possibly be feeling something so right for a man I’d just met.
Except . . .
“I think maybe I didn’t need to find myself, I just needed to believe in myself.” I said it aloud because I wanted to make sure, be absolutely certain, that I heard it. And also, I wanted Anne to know that somehow, despite my conversational missteps and pivots, I’d found my way to the conclusion to which she’d been leading me.
“I think so,” was all she said, a small smile creasing the already wrinkled lines of her cheeks. “Having said that, you can’t regret what you did or how you reached that conclusion. Because that’s going to get you nowhere.”
“No, no, you’re right.” Picturing the places I’d seen and the things I’d experienced as I’d traversed Australia—not to mention the time I’d spent getting to know Lucas a little more—I couldn’t bring myself to regret them. Not at all.
But there was something I regretted.
And it was something I feared might have stolen my future before I’d had the chance to accept how badly I wanted it.
* * *
March 16, 2019
From: Bianca Evers ([email protected])
To: Tamika Evers ([email protected])
Subject: Back in Melbourne
Hi Mom!
I literally JUST arrived back in Melbourne, after driving along the Great Ocean Road and stopping along the way. I feel like I’ve said this a lot about this trip but . . . it’s so beautiful. And a little scary, to be honest. Check out the photos I attached—driving on the other side of the road was an adventure, but they have signs along the way reminding drivers to drive on the left side of the road. At first I laughed, but um, I definitely realized how useful those reminders were pretty fast. LOL.
I’m going to be staying (I hope) with my friend, Lucas, while I’m here. I know I mentioned last time we talked that I’ve kind of been a bad friend in the last few weeks, so I need to settle some things with him first. And I *might* have also hinted that we aren’t just friends? Well, I’m hoping to get confirmation of that too. I know you were worried about it and about me, but Mom, I promise, I know what I’m doing now. If things work out the way I’m hoping they will, maybe we can FaceTime while I’m at his place and you can meet him. You’d like him.
Okay, that’s all this time. I love you and miss you, as always!
B xoxo
18
Lucas
I kept Bianca’s promise that she’d be back soon—at least, I read it as a promise, even if it was more of a vague dismissal so she didn’t have to talk to me—at the forefront of my mind for over a week. And by the time I heard the knock on my front door the following Saturday morning, I was more than ready to have it out in person.
The longer I went without seeing her and talking to her, the more my anger simmered until I was one conversation away from a total boil-over.
Unlike the other times I’d heard someone at my door and hoped it was her, this time I knew it was. I don’t know how, but I did. Opening the door to see her standing there, her baggage around her feet and cradled close to her heart, I didn’t fight against the urge to pull her into my arms.
“Lucas.” Her voice was quiet and wavering, like she was on the verge of tears. Which was proven to be fact when I felt the first spread of wetness on my shoulder where her head rested.
“It’s okay, pretty girl. It’s okay.” It’s not, my mind supplied, but I wasn’t about to tell her that—not in that moment and honestly, maybe not ever. Given how bloody good it felt to have her body pressed against mine again, the temptation to shove aside everything—her silence—was strong.
Too strong.
I knew I had to fight back against it, or I might never know what happened.
Taking a deep breath, I relaxed my arms and stepped back slowly. I didn’t want to just drop her, but I knew if I didn’t move right
away, it would only become harder and harder. More and more impossible.
“I’m sorry,” she started, not looking at me. Her eyes were trained on her feet, and as much as I loved her hair—I’d longed to touch it, bury my hands in it again—I wanted to be looking at her when she explained herself, explained what happened.
“Not out here,” I replied, not ignoring her “sorry,” but rather filing it away to pick up on later. “Come inside first.”
She shrugged, lifting her head to look at me, her dark eyes lined with red and filled with doubt.
Did she doubt me or herself? I didn’t know and I wasn’t at all sure how I’d react if the answer was that she doubted me.
“Are you sure you want me to come in? We could—”
I stopped her before she finished her thought. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Okay. Thank you.” Turning to grab her small red case, she stopped abruptly. “Can I leave my things just inside while we . . .”
Talk. While we talk. She didn’t think I was going to let her stay with me—that was all I could think when my mind supplied the final piece of her sentence. My anger, still simmering, ratcheted up a notch at the confirmation that it was me she doubted.
“You’re staying here, aren’t you?” I asked instead of answering her, not wanting to even consider that maybe she didn’t want to stay with me. Grabbing the red case from her hand and moving it over the threshold, I set it at my feet. “Of course you’re bringing your stuff in.”
“I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know if you’d want me?” The last word came out high-pitched, making it sound like she was asking me a question, and I bit back a bitter reply.
Instead, I forced myself to remember what Ashton had asked of me—to hear Bianca out—and softened my voice. “I’ve wanted you every day since you left. I thought I’d made that pretty clear.” I reached up and rubbed my hand along my jaw, adding, “Please tell me you’re planning to stay.”
At her nod and whispered, “I am,” I blew out a shuddering breath and made quick work of bringing the rest of her things inside.
“We can leave them here for now,” I explained, “and move them after we . . .” This time it was me who trailed off. It was like the word “talk” had become taboo and neither one of us wanted to be the one to mess up and say it.
Like saying it would break the fragile little thing between us.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, waiting until she was in front of me to close the door, then leading her toward the kitchen. “Thirsty? Tired? You could nap, if you need to?”
She shook her head and reached out, grabbing my hand. The pulsing, sharp zing that had always seemed to exist between us jolted me and within one heartbeat and the next, she was back in my arms and I was kissing her.
A small whimper sounded in her chest as my lips pressed against her, my tongue already set to invade her mouth when it reached my ears. Pulling back required a strength I wouldn’t have claimed to have had, but I did it because I didn’t want to give her a reason to walk away again. If she didn’t want to kiss me, if she wasn’t interested in me anymore—
But no, she was the one who came back. If she didn’t want me in some kind of way, she wouldn’t have done that. Still, the choice was hers to make, not mine. So, I forced my gaze from her lips to her eyes and asked, “Okay?”
“More than.” She didn’t wait for her answer to sink in. No, instead she kissed me, her hands gripping my face and pulling me closer, closer, until there was nothing more than a whisper of air between us.
I lost myself in the feel of her mouth, the softness of her lips, the heat of her tongue as it slid against mine. My hands curved around her waist, and I couldn’t believe that it was her. That she was back, and I wasn’t just holding her; I was kissing her, and she was cupping my face like she couldn’t bring herself to let me go.
“Jesus, Bianca. Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?” I asked, breaking our kiss but not moving away. Our lips still brushed and, as my hands wandered up her back and down to her ass, then back up to rest on her lower back, I began to press a series of kisses along the edge of her mouth to her ear. Dropping my voice, I added, “How scared I was that you weren’t coming back?”
Lowering her hands from my face, she dropped her head to my shoulder and slid her arms around me until we were locked tighter together than ever. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Luc.”
I wanted to ask her what happened, what news she had to share, if she was okay, whether she understood just exactly what her disappearance from my life did to me, but instead I held her.
For long, long minutes, I held her, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against mine, the warm brush of her breath through the thin cotton of my T-shirt, the tickle of her hair against my chin. I couldn’t bring myself to let her go, but neither could I accept her apology, which I know wasn’t lost on her. My silence when she said “sorry” once more was accompanied by the tightening of her hands on my skin, her nails digging in, but not to hurt—it felt more like she was adding one more anchor to ensure we couldn’t be pulled apart.
When we finally moved, it was like we’d decided it without speaking, a coordinated step apart, hands and arms falling away until we stood face to face. Reaching for something meaningful to say, and then for something anything to say, I broke the silence only when I couldn’t stand it anymore. “You never did say if you were hungry or thirsty.”
Yeah, yeah, I know it was asinine, but honestly, I couldn’t think straight and just being able to speak at all seemed like a big fucking accomplishment.
“I’m not.”
“Tired?”
“A little, yeah.”
“Do you want”—I made a weird kind of hand gesture, then shoved my hands in my pockets because I was feeling all kinds of awkward—“to have a sleep or anything?”
Her smile was a mixture of amused, considering I’d already offered her a nap once, and uncomfortable, like she was no more enjoying the shift in our relationship than I was. “No, I’m good. I think we need to just sit down and get it over with?”
“Yeah.” I paused. “It’s weird, right?”
“Awkward is probably a better word, but yeah. I hate it,” she added, a familiar sadness in her eyes that reminded me of the first time I’d seen her.
All I’d wanted to do then was make her smile and laugh and the impulse hadn’t lessened. If anything, it was stronger now that I knew her, knew what and who had made her hurt in the first place, except there really wasn’t anything I could do about it. At least, not until we finally talked.
Uh, that fucking word.
Deciding that there was no point in delaying it any more, I moved toward my kitchen table, trying not to think about the last time she was in my house and at my table. Pulling a chair out, I waited for her to sit, but she didn’t. “Bianca?”
“Can we sit on the couch or somewhere a little more comfortable?”
Shit. “Yeah, of course. Come on.” I waved her forward as I moved to my couch, my memories this time of talking to her while I lay stretched out on the cushions, listening to her voice and wishing she was closer.
“Wait, I, ah . . .”
Her voice trailed away, not like she’d slowed to a stop, but as if she was moving out of earshot. I turned in time to see her dash away from me and toward the bathroom that adjoined my bedroom, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other—I think—on her stomach.
“Bianca?” I asked, already heading in the same direction, struck by how suddenly she’d gone from asking for a softer place to sit to throwing up in my toilet. By the time I fell to my knees beside her, she had the lid open and was hunched over it, making distressed sounds. “Shit, pretty girl. Are you okay?”
She waved one hand in my direction, which I thought was maybe a direction for me to leave her alone, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. Not when she was dry-heaving, having already chundered twice in quick succession.
“What can I do?” I asked, feeling helple
ss and trying to remember what you were supposed to do for someone when they were sick. Wet flannel to the back of the neck? Hold her hair? Glass of water, maybe? I was lost, and confused, and trying to work out if she was sick again or sick still, considering that one of the last times I talked to her, she’d dashed off to throw up then too.
“Nothing, nothing,” she said into the toilet bowl. “Just give me a second and it’ll pass.” She raised her head and turned it toward me, still mostly leaned over in preparation should another wave hit her. “You don’t have to stay with me.”
Shifting from my knees to my bum, I reached a tentative hand out to rest on her back, rubbing small circles. It felt like a mostly useless gesture but that’s all I had to give her in that moment. I was an osteopath, not a medical doctor. If she’d wrenched her shoulder or fucked up her back, I was her man, but spewing in the toilet? I had nothing.
“I want to stay,” I said, realizing that too many moments had passed since she’d told me I didn’t have to, but wanting to reaffirm anyway that I wasn’t anywhere I didn’t want to be. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She nodded, her eyes not leaving mine. I waited for another second or two before the urge to find out what was going on hit me too hard to ignore. “What’s wrong? I thought you were feeling better. That’s what Ashton said, anyway.” Or did she? I couldn’t remember, but I was certain that if Bianca had still been unwell, her friend would’ve mentioned it. Wouldn’t she? “You didn’t—I mean, you looked like you were fine when you came in.”
“I’m not sick,” she said, her eyes falling closed as she turned away.
“Could’ve fooled me.” I meant it as a joke, but Bianca didn’t laugh and didn’t reply. “Bianca?”
She shifted until she was sitting cross-legged in front of me, both of us jammed into the space around my toilet. When she opened her eyes up, regret and nervousness warred with one another. “Lucas, I . . .”