Lovegame(93)

It’s no ballroom dance like in the video, but he goes with it and it’s fun and sexy and exactly what we both need to break the tension on the first morning after we’ve actually managed to spend together.

The song comes to an end too soon, but I don’t feel so bad about it when Ian lowers me into a huge dip. I shriek a little, clutch onto his shoulders, then smack him playfully as he laughs at me. But the clouds are gone from his eyes and that’s all I can ask for really. It’s more than I was expecting when I got my first glimpse of his eyes this morning, so dark and resolute.

“The coffee’s ready,” I tell him as he brings me slowly back to center. “Why don’t you grab yourself a cup while I dish everything up.”

He makes a noncommittal noise, but then does what I say, depositing his coffee on the counter before grabbing the kettle off the stove and pouring me a cup of Irish breakfast tea.

Does the man miss nothing, I wonder, as I slide a plate full of pancakes onto the breakfast bar that doubles as a kitchen table. I’m not complaining, obviously, because tea, but geez. How am I supposed to keep up with a guy who remembers not only that I drink tea, but how I drink it, after only seeing me with it twice in the last five days.

“Sit down.” I gesture to one of the barstools as I grab the bowl of fruit salad, but he cozies up to my back instead. He wraps his arms around my waist, nuzzles kisses into my neck. And though I’m fully aware that he’s doing this at least partly because he wants to check out how bad my bruises are, I don’t actually care. Because he’s holding me and he’s happy—we’re both happy—and after everything we got through last night, that alone feels like a celebration.

We talk about everything and nothing over breakfast, politics and music and art and philosophy. At one point Ian launches a whole campaign to convince me that waffles are better than pancakes, but considering he’s eaten seven pancakes so far, I’m having a hard time taking his arguments seriously.

When breakfast is over and the dishwasher is loaded—with Ian’s help—we grab another cup of coffee/tea respectively and make our way out to the patio. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the sky is a gorgeous blue instead of the more typical smog gray, and the ocean is glistening invitingly.

For a second I think about talking Ian into taking a swim, but I recognize it for what it is. An avoidance technique. Because there are things I need to tell him, things that will affect our relationship and that I have no desire to try to hide from him. Not when he’s been so brutally, brutally honest with me. And not when I want so desperately to actually give this relationship thing a try.

And so I gesture for him to sit down in one of the patio loungers that is angled to look out over the ocean. Once he does, I settle in between his knees, my back pressed snug to his front so that we’re both looking out over the waves as they crash, strong and infinite, against the shore.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping I could borrow a little of their strength for this last big talk we have to get through.

I don’t know where to start, other than at the beginning. But still, I’m reluctant to do so when the morning has been so perfect so far. Ian and I don’t exactly have a great track record of sticking around after sex and I want today to be the day that changes that, that helps move us from the intensely physical to the intensely personal, as well.

But Ian, as always, knows when something’s up. This time he doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t push me to get started like he’s always done before. Instead, he strokes his hands over my shoulders and down my arms, presses soft kisses to the back of my neck, even holds me tight against him like he’s giving me permission to borrow as much of his strength as I need to get this out.

God, is it any wonder that I’m falling for him? The man is perfect. He makes me feel inadequate next to him.

It’s that feeling, more than anything else, that finally gets me talking. Because it’s a trust thing. I told Ian last night that I trusted no one and I know it hurt him to hear me say that, especially when he ended up telling me his truth, hard though it was for him. When I lay in bed this morning, holding him as we both drifted off, I knew I could do no less. Partly because he needs to know what he’s getting into and partly because if this thing between us is going to work, I need to give him my trust. No matter how hard it is for me.

It’s that thought, more than any other, that finally gets me talking.

“I told you earlier that I don’t trust anyone.” He shifts, like he’s about to say something, but I keep talking, refusing to yield the floor. If I stop now, there’s no way I’m going to get started again. “I don’t mean to be like that. It’s just Hollywood is a really shitty place to grow up. Then again, maybe everywhere is. This is all I have to measure against.”

A cool breeze comes off the ocean and I wiggle closer to him for warmth, pulling his arms more firmly against him. “I know I sound ridiculous. I mean, I had a lot of advantages growing up Salvatore and Melanie Romero’s daughter. I got to travel, I had the best tutors, I got to watch the magic of movies coming to life right in front of me. And I had pretty much every material thing I could possibly want. What’s not to love about that?

“Except, upsides like that always come with downsides, right? And mine was mostly that I had the two most self-absorbed parents on the planet. Oh, I knew that they loved me—I mean, I know that ’til this day. But I always came second or third or even tenth to what they wanted. What they needed. What they had to do to keep themselves in the public eye.