After Dark (29 page)
“Well, I can’t wait to read that. And maybe my fucking brother should stop furtively taking you on dates.”
She giggled and I smiled.
“Come here.” She took my hand and led me to the side of the house, where a long bale of hay lay in the grass. A bright quilt hung over the bale. “Sit.”
“Okay…” I sat on the block of hay.
“How does it feel?”
“You want the truth?”
She nodded.
I patted the quilt. “Lumpy? And a … piece of hay is … poking me in the ass.”
Laughter burst out of Hannah. “Okay, get up, you dork. I guess they need more padding. But it looks cool, right?”
“For a quilted hay bale, sure.” I laughed helplessly. “What the hell, babe?”
“Don’t judge me.” She grinned and perched on the bale. “This is the seating for our wedding. I got the idea online. ‘Instead of chairs, throw brightly colored blankets and quilts over bales of hay.’ It’s gonna be quaint and … country cool.”
“Our … our wedding?”
“Yeah. Our wedding. Which we’re not waiting forever to have, because we’re getting married next month. See? I can be Matt Sky, too. I can make unilateral decisions like a dick.”
I stood there in the fading light, blinking at Hannah.
She clambered up to her feet on the hay bale, looming over me.
“That day Nate took me out for ice cream, I asked him for advice. Like, marriage advice. And he said to be honest about everything, what you feel and what happens. He said little secrets are like water, but if water gets into a rock and freezes, it can break the rock.”
I tilted my head. Thank God, Hannah had a speech, because I was speechless.
“And honesty starts with communication,” she said. “I need you to get that I am okay with us adopting the … guy. The baby.” She pounded her fist into her palm. She was beginning to unravel, blinking rapidly and sniffling. “That was never the problem, once I sat down and thought about it. The problem—” Her voice quavered pitifully.
God, what had I done to this girl?
I hugged her legs, pressing my face into her jeans.
“The problem is that you made me feel like you didn’t care what I wanted. And I have been waiting”—another weak fist-palm slap—“waiting for you to show me that you care. And you’re stubborn and you won’t ask what I want. And all I can think is that…” She hiccuped. “That you can’t choose between the two loves, and you know that I would never walk away from you because I love you, you arrogant asshole. The way I love you…”
Hannah was right, of course. She always was. And she was the better person in our romance, always, in all ways. She was stronger, truer, and steadier. She was the making of me.
I dragged her off the hay bale and hauled her over my shoulder.
I carried her into the house like that.
In the great room, in the dark, I pressed her against the wall.
“Here,” I said, “now, always like it’s the last time.”
We moved from the wall to the couch and from the couch to the floor.
“Breathe,” she said as I moved against her. She lay under me, on the rug in front of the fireplace, and I was inside her. “Breathe…”
Excitement practically closed my throat. I shuddered and slowed, gulping air.
It was good to be like that—so exposed to her, excited and desperate—and good to see her undressed and blushing, so exposed to me.
When I became frantic again, pushing us both to the edge, she grasped my thigh and back and let me feel the bite of her nails.
This happiness,
I thought.
Here, now, always.
This happiness, no matter the cost.
HANNAH
“He wanted me to give you this.” Chrissy tapped a cream-colored envelope against my arm. I took it and she slipped out of the room.
The envelope contained two folded pages. I shook them open.
October 18, 2014
Dear Little Bird,
You may be south of the border right now, having finally decided that I’m insane. In that case, I can’t blame you, and I salute your sister for delivering my note.
However, I hope you are up in our room, wearing a gown I am about to see. I already know you look beautiful. That is a certainty and not praise. I have been the beneficiary of your goodness and beauty for quite a while now.
Tonight, when you walk down the aisle and our eyes meet, only you and I will know
all
that has passed between us. That is the way it should be. This love is thickly plaited. And you know I am a little sad (are you laughing?)—of course, I have to be sad. I have written two full novels about you, and now I understand that no novel will hold you.
My heart can barely hold you. All that I feel for you.
Here’s to you, Hannah, and our life together—my greatest happiness. Let me carry you to bed. Let me bathe you and make love to you. Let me fuck you (you know how I like it) and let me know you. Let’s fight and make up. Let’s be together in triumph and failure, here and abroad, as a family of two and a family of three. I want to do the good days with you and also the bad. Let me show you with my whole life how I love you.
I’m steady behind you.
Love, now and always,
Matt
I read the letter twice, though it threatened to ruin the makeup my sister had carefully applied.
My greatest happiness … now and always.
I blushed and hid the envelope in our bedside table.
Let me fuck you (you know how I like it).
Oh, yes, I do, Mr. Sky.
Thank God, Matt had issued that toast on paper, in private, and not at the reception. One never knew, what with his exhibitionistic flair …
I giggled and spun, my gown whispering over the floorboards.
“All good in there?” Chrissy called through the door.
“Yeah. Come in. I need some touch-up.”
“Did that asshole make you cry?” She bustled in, one hand hoisting her long maroon dress. The color suited her, and the empire waist and flowing skirt sort of hid her bump, not that I cared. The baby belonged at this wedding as much as Matt and I, and Chrissy was my maid of honor. “God, I feel frumpy.” She steered me to the vanity and dabbed at my eye makeup.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
“No way. You’re the beauty tonight, Han.”
My fingers twisted on my lap. I’d chosen a simple gown—airy tulle covered with petal shapes, a glass bead on each, which faded from white to a subtle blush at the train. Jamie, our neighbor from the Denver condo and my only bridesmaid, had styled my hair in a loose braid. A Sakura halo and Dalloway Earrings from BHLDN completed the look.
Fresh. Light. Simple.
I smiled at my reflection.
A simple girl. Just what you wanted, Matt.
“Are you sure you won’t be cold?” Chrissy rubbed my bare upper arms. My gown was, admittedly, springlike.
“Positive. I’m kind of burning up, honestly.”
Jamie peeked into the room. She squealed and almost dropped my bouquet, white orchids and calla lilies, the first flowers Matt gave me.
“Hannah, you look amazing! Your father is out here … whenever you’re ready.”
“She’s ready,” Chrissy said. I stood and she hip-checked me. “Ready as you’ll ever be, right? See you at ‘the altar
.’”
She made ridiculous air quotes around “the altar.”
Because we had no altar.
We had a loose arrangement of hay bale seats, an aisle of grass lined with tiny white bulbs and flowers, and synthetic rose string lights and hanging lamps in the trees. A broad tent covered the reception tables, and camping lights glowed beneath the tablecloths. Our drink coolers were old flower boxes, the gift table just a picnic table.
Everything was the way I wanted it, makeshift and rustic. Magical.
I met Dad in the hallway.
He didn’t cry, God bless him, but he also barely spoke.
“Beautiful,” he managed. “You. All this.” He gestured to my home. Matt and I had made great strides in the past few weeks, filling our rooms with tasteful country-style furniture, art, and lighting. We rushed nothing, but we brainstormed excitedly and shopped together.
Some rooms looked classically Matt: spartan and elegant.
Other rooms were all me: cluttered and colorful.
Somehow, our disparate visions melded harmoniously throughout the house.
We agonized over one particular room.
Though I knew Matt and our guests were waiting, I led Dad into the nursery. I had to show him. When we’d told Mom and Dad about our plan to adopt Chrissy’s baby, they clung to one another and cried. Then they clung to us and cried. Everyone knew Chrissy wasn’t ready for a child, Chrissy included. In that single moment, Dad’s low estimation of Matt skyrocketed and Mom’s sky-high estimation of Matt reached space.
“He won’t call it the nursery,” I said, squeezing Dad’s arm. “He calls it ‘the little room’ or ‘Seth’s room.’ I swear, he’s more put off by domesticity than I am.”
“Seth? Is that…?” Dad cleared his throat.
“Maybe. We don’t know. Too morbid?”
“No, no. So long as it doesn’t upset anyone.”
“It seems to make Matt happy. I’ve been thinking…” I watched Dad drift through the nursery, which wasn’t little at all. We’d left the walls light beige and hired a designer to paint Deco birches along one surface. Light, distressed furniture and linen curtains gave the room a bohemian feel. Matt lined a shelf with books he intended to read to the child. I placed a round crib with a pretty skirt near the window. “Um, thinking about … Seth James Sky Junior.”
Dad laughed from deep in his belly.
“You’re bringing out the big guns, huh? I’m not going to be that father, blubbering my way down the aisle.”
“Daddy.” I hugged him tight.
Matt once said to me that losing his parents was like having the authors of his story destroyed, so that no meaningful narrative could follow. I understood.
“Come on,” Dad said, offering his arm. “We’ve got a ways to go.”
The night was cool and bug-free, thanks to an early autumn frost. I could see our lights glowing in the meadow among the trees. Dad held me steady on the uneven ground. My heart thumped and fluttered, unsure whether this was the best night ever or entirely terrifying.
As we drew closer, I began to recognize guests: Aunt Ella and Uncle Rick, Mom, Jay, Nate’s wife Valerie, Pam, Laura, Kevin, Stephen. Someone gave Owen and Madison their cue; I saw their small figures moving up the aisle, Owen with a little pillow and Madison scattering petals. I smiled as I watched Nate’s children, my soon-to-be nephew and niece.
There was Mike, who’d loaded me up with intel during two intensive “marriage counseling” sessions.
Matt has abandonment issues, anger-management issues, fear of static states, manic-depressive tendencies, paranoid tendencies, masochistic tendencies …
I remembered leaving his office dizzy, wondering what
wasn’t
wrong with Matt.
I also remembered seeing Matt at his worst, and staying.
Other aunts, uncles, cousins, and colleagues filled out our modest seating.
Nate, the best man—of course, the best man—stood by Matt.
And Matt …
I took my time in letting my gaze go to him, because I knew that once it did, I wouldn’t look away. He wore a gray slim-fitting tux with just a limning of satin on the notched lapel. A white satin tie with a Windsor knot disappeared behind his vest.
My heart can barely hold you.
The almost silver-gray of the tux, and his golden skin and fair hair, drew in the light of our lamps and candles.
Those hands of his, those long legs, that elegant frame—my eyes roamed. That chest, those shoulders, the neck and throat, his smooth jaw …
His face.
Our eyes met and I forgot the audience staring at me. His lips parted slightly, eyes widened fractionally. I wanted to run to him. Was it the surrounding darkness or the chill in the air, or maybe the presence of others?
Something …
Something clicked, and I understood that no one wanted me the way he wanted me. To have and to hold, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, until death.
So I went to him.
That is the story: I went to him.
* * *
“Were we idiots to let people crash here?” I whispered.
Matt chuckled and held a finger to his lips.
Right
, Nate and Val were just across the hall.
For the last four hours, we’d wined and dined our wedding guests and toasted and danced. Tomorrow we left for New York—the first of many cities I needed to see, according to Matt—and then Greece. No one had dared to deface his cars with cans, which made me grin. They also spared my brand-new Mercedes, a gift from my husband.
My husband …
He ruffled his hair and stretched gloriously, opened the bedroom window but left off the light. Outside in the dark, our little wind chimes tolled.
I watched him pry off his shoes and drape his coat across the bed.
God, he still made me shy.
I went to him only when he beckoned.
“There you are,” he said softly in my ear. “Are you real? Little bird, I think we can be quiet tonight.” He kissed my mouth and spread his hand across the V of skin on my back. He found my gown’s tiny zipper and tugged it down.
The garment dropped around my feet.
“Come sit on my lap,” he said.
He settled in the armchair in the corner of our room and I—calmly as I could manage in a garter belt, heels, and sheer bra—tottered over to the vanity and removed my accessories.
Be calm, be sexy,
I chanted inwardly.
This is your wedding night.
I turned to Matt. My jaw dropped, and my calm and sexy soared out the window.
He had his dick in his hand, eyes on me.
“I will never get tired of that reaction,” he murmured. “Come here.”
Sit on my lap … oh, boy,
that made a different kind of sense now.
I shuffled over, unclipping my garters as I went. He smiled at me, not with his usual wicked amusement, but with simple, youthful desire.
I kept on my heels and thigh-highs; I kicked off my panties.
