Halfway to You(51)

“Not at all,” I said, sidling up beside him. A crisp breeze chilled my wet hair, but my robe kept most of the cold off my skin. My fingers slid around the curve of the second mug, and the chocolaty, earthy scent filled my nostrils.

Todd turned to me. “I’m sorry I . . .” He trailed off and started again. “I, uh . . . I’m sorry I was latched on to you this morning.”

“I’m the one who invited you into bed.”

“It was more comfortable than the floor.”

“Yeah, but the crying . . .” I rubbed my puffy eyes, too embarrassed to look at him. “That was too much.”

“Don’t ever apologize for hurting.”

“It was nice to be . . . held . . . for once.”

“For once?”

I didn’t need to repeat myself. He knew that being held and being held by someone who understood were two very different things.

“Well, I’m sorry if I made it weird.” He glanced away.

He thought he had been the awkward one? Had I given him the wrong impression by exiting the bed so abruptly?

“I liked waking up that way.” I took a long, slow sip of coffee before daring a glance in his direction.

His eyes were on me, clear and bright and serious in the morning sunlight. “I liked it too,” Todd said softly.

I wondered what he meant, but I was afraid to ask directly. I wouldn’t allow myself to read into his words. “Oh . . . good.”

“Ann.” His tone—flat and earnest—urged me to acknowledge something, but I was a ball of rubber-banded uncertainty; my emotions were too taut to risk stretching any further. I didn’t want to mess up as I had in Greece. I didn’t want to lose Todd all over again.

“Ann,” he repeated, tender this time.

“Yes?”

He reached for my face and traced a thumb along my bottom lip. I didn’t dare move, for fear that if I did, he’d pull away. But then he bent down and kissed me, and I was overcome. His lips were not as I had imagined, not pillowy or gentle; they were assertive. He devoured me with desire, drawing me closer as my limbs turned to liquid.

Too soon, Todd’s hold slackened, and he released me. Apprehension clouded my craving for more. I was sure he regretted what we’d just done. Yet when his eyes found mine, they were searching, as if he were trying to read my face. He appeared almost embarrassed by the kiss.

He was worried about me, I realized. My reaction. For all my self-doubt and restraint, there was no misreading his expression. He wanted this, but he wasn’t sure if I did too. His concern was endearing. As if I would be angry, the one who had already made plenty of hopeless attempts to do what he had just done.

After a few seconds studying my face, he frowned and stepped back. “Ann, I’m so sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed—”

I moved into his personal space, pressing my body against his, and placed a hand on his chest.

“Are you—?”

“Yes,” I interrupted.

“Ann—”

“Yes.”

“I just—”

I kissed him, like a pinch to confirm I wasn’t dreaming. When I pulled back and saw a smile twist onto his face, I knew the dream was real.

I grasped his hand and led him back inside my apartment. The air was still thick from shower steam; it made me feel like we were worlds away from any place we’d been before, a jungle of bursting blooms and lushness.

I wanted him. I’d wanted him since the moment I met him.

After a few languid moments kissing at the foot of my bed, I reached for the hem of his sweater. He paused, releasing a slow breath, and grasped my face in his hands. “This isn’t just sex for me, Ann,” he said firmly.

“I know,” I said, but I hadn’t, not until he said it. “Me too.” That I did know.

I slid backward, out of his hold, and shrugged out of my robe. He stopped trying to speak, to tell me what this meant. I wanted him to show me what it meant.

He hovered above me, his arms braced on the pillow beside my head, sheltering and strong. My pulse was as loud as Niagara in my ears. The anticipation stole my breath.

I apologize if this is embarrassing to hear, Maggie. Will you allow an old woman to indulge in a memory?

I know I don’t need to describe the mechanics of it. He took a lot of time for me, I remember, which was so unlike other men. He might not have kissed me on the mouth the way I expected, but elsewhere, his lips were everything I’d imagined. Plush and featherlight. He lingered until waterfalls of warmth gushed through me. I had been holding myself back from Todd for years, trying to respect his space—then, with him that morning, all that effort broke open like a dam.

When we were face to face again, I don’t think I’d ever felt so seen. Understood. Cherished.

Empowered.

I felt like myself with Todd. My most confident, beautiful self. And there with me, he was his most beautiful self too. The connection we’d established in our letters made it all the clearer. Though it was not the first time I’d had sex, it was the first time I ever made love.

Afterward, he left the bed to clean up, and I lay there fearing that when he reemerged, the darkness would’ve returned to his eyes. I had not forgotten the closed-off expression I’d seen in Greece that could pass over his face like a storm cloud. He’d explained it all in his letters: a personal history so tragic I wondered if Todd would ever open himself up again. Would he regret opening up to me, both in writing and—today—in body?