“I wish I could just shut off my brain for a little while,” I finally whisper, breaking the lengthy silence that fell over us when we lay down. Admitting that out loud feels like defeat, but it’s the truth.
John’s arm tightens a little around my shoulders.
We’re lying in bed, John on his back and me draped along his side with my head on his chest, neither of us anywhere close to sleeping. I only let him convince me to lie down because I hope he’ll eventually drift off. As for me, I don’t think I’ll ever sleep through a night again. Certainly I haven’t since Eric’s been gone.
“If it hurts like this for the next five years, I think it’ll kill me.”
To his tremendous credit, John doesn’t hasten to reassure me that it won’t. He knows I know that.
Instead, he rolls to draw me more fully into his arms, wrapping himself around me so that his body and the covers form a warm little cocoon for me to snuggle into. It doesn’t stop the pain, but it gives me a safe place to feel it, and I don’t know that I’ve ever been more intensely grateful for John’s presence than I am right now. If he weren’t here–
My mind shies away from the thought, and I burrow even deeper into John’s arms.
He makes a soft sound, a little hum that I can feel as much as hear, and begins to rub my back in slow, sweeping strokes. It’s soothing, the steady rhythm almost hypnotic, and without even meaning to I begin to match my breathing to the movement of his hand. In…out…in…out…
The tight knot in my chest loosens a little, and it’s such an intense relief that I would probably cry if I could. But that ability deserted me earlier today. I’ll never understand why God made human beings with a limited capacity to cry and an unlimited capacity to feel pain. It seems so unfair.
Of course, that’s the least of what I’d like to say to God right now.
John shifts slightly, mercifully drawing me out of that line of thinking. I return my focus to his gentle touch and let it lull me into…not sleep, but something like a very light trance state. It’s lovely, and I’m perfectly content to remain there for as long as possible.
At some point I do realize in a vague, distant sort of way that I’m petting John in return, my hand lightly stroking his chest and drifting down his flank. I don’t realize it’s arousing him until he shifts again, and I can suddenly feel the evidence against my hip.
I freeze.
John goes still as well. “S’alright, sweetheart. I can’t help responding to you, but I know you’re not exactly in the mood.”
Which is true–I’m not. Or at any rate I wasn’t. But the closeness would feel good, and if there’s anything on Earth that might shut off my brain for a little while, that would certainly be it. Isn’t that unfair, though? To ask that of John when I’m not even sure I can–
John eases back a little and hooks his fingers under my chin, bringing my eyes up to his.
Time stops, and suddenly we’re having one of those moments where I’m certain he can see right into my soul.
Please, I think, not even sure what I’m asking.
His hand shifts to cradle my jaw, and he closes the distance between us to nuzzle my face. I let my eyes fall closed, and he drops tiny, soft kisses on my forehead, my nose, my chin, my cheeks. Until finally his lips brush mine, and I open to him, seeking. Wanting. Needing.
Please.
His mouth slants over mine, and I am lost.
John kisses like it’s his native language, like this is what he was born to do. I’m fluent, but John is eloquent, and I’ve never been able to resist him once his mouth touches mine. I can be angry, frustrated, scared, hurting, anything, and he can kiss me, and all of that just…goes away. If it’s not actually magic, it comes dangerously close.
He knows it, too, which would be scary if John were the kind of man to abuse that power. Thankfully, he isn’t. Not that he’s above ending an argument by kissing me senseless, but that usually works out pretty well for both of us, so I don’t mind.
But it’s very rare for him to do what he’s doing now, to deliberately bring that power to bear to break through my defenses. This kiss, though… Defenses? What defenses?
He rolls us until I am pinned beneath him, settling into the cradle of my hips so that I can feel his weight, feel the hard heat of his body against mine, feel him wanting me. The kiss deepens yet again, and I make an involuntary sound against his mouth, a helpless little sound of surrender that doesn’t even sound like my voice. I’ve lost track of where his desire ends and my own begins, or maybe there’s just no difference anymore.
The rest of the universe falls out of focus, and there’s nothing but John. I love it when he covers me like this, physically sheltering me from the world. I know I’m safe. I know I’m loved. I can feel anything here in this place with him, and know I’ll be all right.
So I let go.
John’s touch awakens something primal in me, always has. Something that has nothing to do with my conscious mind. Something that recognizes him as a source of incredible pleasure and craves it like a drug. It’s the part of me that couldn’t stay away from him–not when he was another woman’s husband, not when I was another man’s wife, not even when he had no idea who I was or who he was or what we felt for each other. It knows what it wants, and it wants John.
I let that part of me take over, and liquid heat races under my skin, pooling everywhere he touches me. Suddenly it’s not enough to feel him over me, holding me, surrounding me. I need him inside me, and I arch against him, clutching at his back.
He rises up over me, braced on his arms, and says, “Look at me.”
I open my eyes, and his come into focus above me, the darkest blue they ever are. He doesn’t look away, not even as I reach down to take him in hand. Our bodies move automatically, my hips tilting as his weight shifts, the steps of this dance well-known to both of us after thirty years as lovers.
Thirty years, and this moment still feels like the first time. Always.
“Oh. Oh, John…”
He’s never asked that of me, never once in all those years said Say my name. But the way he responds when I do speaks for itself.
He begins to move, and I rock up to meet him, watching him watching me as my pleasure builds. It’s so hard to keep my eyes open, but it’s worth it to see this heat in his gaze. This isn’t going to take long at all, not for me, not with him looking at me like that.
Yet my own climax still manages to take me by surprise, catching me between one breath and the next and wringing a sharp, startled cry from my throat. I clutch at John’s back, feeling the movement of muscle beneath his sweat-slick skin, clinging to him as pleasure rolls over me in waves.
John’s control starts to slip, perfect rhythm giving way to something a little more desperate, a little less careful. I like the way that feels, so I do for him what he did for me, fixing my eyes on his and letting him see my desire. I sink my fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and his breathing changes in a way I recognize as one of his tells–he’s close to the edge.
And so am I, again, if I ever really came down from the first time. My vision is starting to tunnel, which is a sign that when I go this time I’m probably going to be gone a while. But I’m determined to watch John before that happens.
In the end we pretty much fall together, John’s body going suddenly wire-taut over mine just an instant before bright white light explodes behind my eyes. I do see him, though, just for that brief moment, and it’s the sight of his face that I carry down into the warm, velvet darkness that envelops me.
*****
*****
I wake to bright sunlight and the faint but unmistakable scent of coffee, and I have about half a second of complete panic before I remember that today is Saturday. I’m not late for anything.
I’m still not quite prepared for the sight of the bedside clock, however. Ten seventeen? That can’t be right. We went to bed at nine, and even accounting for the extracurricular activities, there’s just no way I’ve been asleep for eleven hours.
But my phone, when I turn it over, confirms the clock’s opinion. Good Lord. No wonder I feel rested.
It takes me a while to disentangle myself from the covers. Well, the part of the covers that are still on the bed, anyway. The duvet seems to have made a break for it and is nowhere to be seen, and the top corner of the fitted sheet is loose from its moorings on my side, and I’m basically sprawled in the center of the mattress with a blanket and part of the top sheet wrapped around me like a burrito. I’m torn between laughing–it’s been a while since we wrecked a bed quite this thoroughly–and wondering how in the world John managed to get out of this mess without waking me.
I can hear him rattling around down in the kitchen, though, and that combined with the coffee smell is enough to get me up and moving.
I spend a few minutes in the bathroom, appropriating the button-down John wore yesterday from the hook on the back of the door in the process. It’s slightly long on him, which makes it practically a dress on me, and with the sleeves rolled up and most of the buttons fastened it’s perfectly acceptable Saturday morning attire.
It also goes nicely with the combined after-sex/bedhead thing my hair has going on this morning, which I can’t be bothered to do anything about right now. Partially, I’ll admit, because I know John likes me with messy hair, especially when he had a hand in messing it up. I rake my hands through it a couple of times and call it done.
I find John in the kitchen, barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt. He’s so busy with his breakfast preparations that he doesn’t immediately notice my presence, so I stand in the doorway and watch him for a minute, just enjoying the view. He’s standing on the opposite side of the island chopping peppers for omelets (or so I assume from the array of other ingredients), looking relaxed and comfortable and very much at home.
I wait until he lays the knife aside to speak. “Hey, sailor.”
He looks up, gives me the once-over, and smiles a smile I’m certain only I ever see. “Hey, gorgeous.”
Bedhead, no makeup, half dressed, and he genuinely means that. How did I get so lucky?
I step around the island to join him and tilt my head up for a kiss. He obliges, and we spend a leisurely little while at that, until the coffee maker beeps to announce the end of its cycle and John releases me.
“I know better than to stand between you and your coffee.”
I give him a look but pour two cups anyway, turning back to hand John’s to him before bringing mine up to my nose to breathe in the steam. The sound I make is possibly slightly suggestive.
John looks amused. “Shall I leave the two of you alone?”
“Only if you want me to take over the breakfast prep.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he says quickly.
“How about if I just keep you company?”
“That sounds like a plan. What do you want in your omelet?”
I look around at the spread. “A little of everything, I guess. How many people are eating breakfast here?”
“Just us, I hope.”
I do end up helping, if setting the table counts–it’s tough to burn the flatware–and in just a few minutes we’re sitting down to omelets, toast, fruit salad, and orange juice, all of which seem extra tasty this morning. I’m more than halfway through my food before I come up for air and realize that I haven’t even paid my compliments to the chef.
“Thank you. This is delicious.”
John smiles. “Thanks. It’s good to see you eating.”
That draws me up short. “Have I not been eating?”
“Not very much, no.”
Huh. Maybe I wasn’t imagining things yesterday when I thought my favorite jeans felt a little looser than they should. I haven’t been deliberately starving myself or anything. Food just hasn’t had much appeal.
This morning it definitely appeals. To the point that when John offers to make me a second omelet, I take him up on it.
And while he’s working on that, I sit and sip my second cup of coffee and think seriously about how much better I feel this morning.
It’s like some sort of fog has lifted. Thinking about Eric’s situation still hurts like hell, and if I sat here and dwelled on it I’m sure I could work myself right back into a state. But I’m capable now of not doing that. I’m not fine–fine is going to take a while, probably months–but I’m coping.
I slept without nightmares. Coffee smells like coffee again, and food tastes like food. I can think the thought Eric is in prison without feeling like I’m going to shatter into a million pieces.
It’s sobering to realize what a basketcase I’ve actually been without even realizing it.
And John has been so wonderful through all of it. Waking me from the nightmares, holding me while I cried, putting food in front of me whether I ate it or not, making sure things got done around the house when I’ve dropped the ball, and generally going above and beyond the call of duty to make sure I got what I needed. All without saying a word about it. Like that level of devotion is par for the course.
To say nothing of last night, when I basically threw myself at him like I was falling off a cliff, not even managing a Catch me in warning. Knowing that he’d catch me anyway, though I’ll admit I didn’t picture it turning out quite the way it did. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I feel really good this morning.
Being a psychiatrist, I’m well aware of the neurobiology behind this feeling of well-being. I’m perfectly capable of discussing pheromones, endorphins, and oxytocin with an academic’s dry authority. I have done that, in fact, in a lecture hall filled with blushing undergraduates. There are valid scientific explanations for all of it.
But that doesn’t keep me from boiling it down to a highly unscientific summary in my mind: John fixed me.
He sets the second omelet in front of me with a flourish and drops back into his own seat, and companionable silence falls over us for a few minutes, me eating and him slowly working his way through another cup of coffee.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he finally offers.
“I think you found my reset button.”
He’s got a mouthful of coffee, but that eyebrow is definitely a question.
“Last night,” I clarify. “It’s like you re-booted the system, and this morning when everything came back online it was working again.”
It takes him a second to get the coffee down. “Wow,” he finally manages. “Honey, if that’s your idea of tech support, call any time.”
God, how long has it been since I laughed? Long enough that I’d almost forgotten how good it feels.
“Okay, it’s a strange metaphor,” I admit when I get a hold of myself again. “But the statement stands. I feel so much better this morning.”
“Good. I’ve been a little concerned.” Which for John translates to worried out of my mind.
“I know. You’ve been wonderful, and I appreciate it more than words can say.”
“My privilege,” he answers, and leaves it at that.
Or would, if I’d let him.
“No, don’t shrug it off like that. I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
John looks down, and I get the sense that he’s working to put something into words.
“You work so hard keeping everybody else’s head above water,” he finally says, and looks up at me again. “Mine, the kids’–half the damn town’s, it sometimes seems like. You deserve to have somebody play lifeguard for you. That used to be my job. Then I abandoned my post, and I didn’t think you’d ever trust me that way again. It still feels like a miracle that you do. So I meant what I said, Doc. It’s my privilege.”
Tears well in my eyes, and I have to swipe them away to see him properly. “You sure about that? Because it’s not such a great gig sometimes. Bad pay, lousy hours–”
“It’s the fringe benefits,” he answers, completely deadpan, making me laugh again through my tears.
“You’re crazy.”
“No.” Now his expression couldn’t be more serious. “No, I just love my work.”
A strange sense of peace settles over me, and I open my mouth without really knowing what I’m going to say.
“That’s good to hear, because it’s actually a permanent position. If you’re still interested in making it official.”
John freezes. I don’t even think he’s breathing.
“John?”
“Did you just propose?”
“I hope so. I’m a rookie, though. How’d I do?”
Now he’s the one laughing and crying at the same time. “Well enough to get a yes, which is all that matters. Come here.”
We end up meeting in the middle halfway around the table, and the hug he gives me lifts me right off my feet.
“When?” he eventually asks, his voice muffled in my hair.
“Well, I don’t think you can get a marriage license on Saturday, so Monday, I guess.”
“Not much time to plan a wedding,” he says cautiously, even though it’s obvious that if I suggested leaving right now to hunt down the Justice of the Peace at his home, John would be on board with that plan.
“We’ve had a wedding.” We’ve had quite a few, if you want to get technical. “I want our marriage back.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, holding me tighter. “Yeah.”
Big wedding or not, there’s still quite a bit to do between now and Monday, not the least of which is making about a thousand phone calls. Belle at least will kill us if we elope.
But that can wait. It can all wait. Until we feel like letting go of each other. Or until the end of time, whichever happens first. Either way is fine with me.
The Jarlena Journal 