So Much More(30)

She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m just a girl who fought like hell for her name.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was eighteen I legally changed my name to Faith Hepburn. And before you ask, it’s after Audrey and Katharine, because they were both amazing women. And it’s a pretty name.”

“That it is,” I agree. “Are you religious? Is that why you chose Faith?”

“Nope.”

“Faith in what then?”

Her eyes are bright, but slightly aged when she looks at me and answers, “Life.”

I nod. Of course. Everything is about living life to her, experiencing it.

“What about you, Seamus? What do you have faith in?” Before I answer, she adds quickly, “And you can’t say your kids. That’s obvious.”

Damn, that’s exactly what I was going to say. The only other answer that comes to mind is too depressing to verbalize.

“Well?” she prompts.

“I don’t know,” I lie, not wanting to bring this conversation down. “I can’t think of anything.”

“You have an answer,” she challenges. “I can see it all over your face. I can see it in the way your posture slouched. I can see it in the way your eyes dropped.”

I turn my head and look at her and then I sigh and slump back against the couch cushion behind me. “I have faith in decline; the decline of my health, the decline of my sanity, the decline of my happiness. Miranda’s going to make sure I hit rock bottom with everything she’s got. She’s going to strip it all away. I hate her, Faith. I really, truly, hate the woman.” She narrows her eyes as if she’s trying to figure out what’s going on and I answer the question. “She’s taking me to court in two weeks to fight for full custody.”

“What? She can’t take your kids.”

“It’s all up to the courts. It’s not fair, you know? That total strangers are going to decide my future and my kids’ future. All because Miranda has a hard-on for revenge and power and flaunting her money. Have I mentioned how much I hate her?” The last sentence I mix malice with sarcasm because I’d rather do that than cry. Or scream and punch a hole in the wall. And I’m on the verge of either now.

“You have to fight. With everything you’ve got.” She looks determined. The kind of determined I want to feel in my heart, that leaves no room for doubt.

I have too much doubt. It’s the bastard child of fear. I hate fear. So doubt sidles up next to determination in my heart. It doesn’t outweigh it. They coexist.

I nod in agreement with her. “I can’t lose them, Faith.” My voice is thick with the sadness and frustration that’s clogging my throat.

“You won’t,” she assures me. And then she stands and walks to the front door and opens it. She bends over and picks up the W…E mat, steps back inside, and closes the door behind her. Then she walks toward me and sets the W…E mat down on the floor directly in front of me. And after she steps onto it she smiles and says, “I need to hug you. Now.”

I take her hand she’s extended to help me up.

She looks down at the mat we’re both now standing on and back up to my eyes. “We,” she says. “You’re not alone, Seamus. I’m here.”

I hug her, and I let everything bad drain out of me. But I don’t give it to her. I let it siphon down from my head through my torso and legs and out my feet, just like opening up the drain in the bathtub. I can feel the fear and tension escape, if only for the moment.

And I feel her doing the same thing. The hug that started out strong, more physical than emotional, as if we both needed to prove that we were here and present for each other, lessened in grip and shifted to something more emotional and supportive. And it feels every bit as intense in strength.

“So much more than thank you,” I whisper in her ear.

“So much more,” she whispers back. And in those words I hear my soft place to land again, but I also feel a change in both of us. That wasn’t just acceptance of my appreciation, it was also an admission. A desire.

I’m at odds with my conscience. All too aware of the woman pressed against me. A woman I want to get lost in, if only tonight. I’m mapping out boundaries and lines in my mind. Lines I shouldn’t cross. And then my mouth is working on the specifics without me. “Do you have a boyfriend, Faith?” I ask it softly, like a wish, into the indentation of her collarbone.

“No,” she whispers.

I hear the word. I understand its meaning. But what makes heat thread through my veins is the hesitant, sadly hopeful tone of her voice. Hope that pleads for consequences…immediate consequences.

Consequences that have me arguing away lines and boundaries and touching my lips to her skin. Her shoulders lift slightly into the contact before settling out on a silent sigh.

I chase the sigh with my lips…and then with the tip of my tongue, tracing the hard line of her collarbone to the base of her neck.

Her hands twist up the back of my t-shirt in response.

I’ve always romanticized that physical intimacy should be a conversation. A loving exchange back and forth. I’ve never had a partner who was a willing conversationalist.

Until now.

Fingertips brush faintly up the backside of an arm, wrist to shoulder, raising goosebumps in response.