“So you want to know why my fiancé and I broke up?”
“Yup.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I assumed.”
“Hmm, okay. Well, I guess for me, it all boiled down to a feeling I—er, we had. I’d been feeling like something was off for a month or so before the wedding; I think we both felt it. But it didn’t all bubble up and become clear until that last . . . week or so.” So far, so good. We. Stress the we. “And we just knew it wasn’t the right thing to do.” Whew.
But like an idiot, I pressed on. “The funny thing is, I think he’d still have gone through with it. I mean, if we didn’t talk about it ahead of time. He wasn’t in love with me, and I wasn’t in love with him, but somehow I don’t think he felt that was necessary for a good marriage.”
“And you?”
“I want it all. I want all-encompassing, knock-your-socks-off, can’t-live-without-you, can’t-be-in-a-room-without-wanting-you-naked love,” I said, closing my eyes and smiling as I said the words. When I opened them, there he was. “I can’t believe I just told you that,” I said, wanting to disappear. But he wouldn’t let me. He stared me down, his eyes searching and strong. I could barely breathe. His body now full of tension, his knuckles whitening on the brush he was holding, he licked his lips.
“Well, that’s what everyone wants, right?” he asked, finally returning to his whitewashing.
I returned to my regularly scheduled breathing. “Is that what you had with Julie?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
He stopped for a second, then continued painting. “We did at one point. And if you’d asked me that question the day before we were supposed to get married, I’d probably have said we still did. But in reality?” He finished up his corner with a resounding smack, then tossed his brush into the bucket. “We didn’t have that. Not anymore.”
He came down the ladder, disappearing from sight while he was on the other side of the stall, but then coming over to sit next to me. We both looked at our handiwork in silence. Then he asked, “What was his name?”
“Charles. Charles Preston Sappington.”
“Yuck.”
“Yuck? You don’t even know anything about him!” I protested, sitting up in a huff.
“Rich guy, right?” he asked, a knowing look on his face.
“Yes.”
“Country club? Well connected? Shirt never untucked?”
“Yes. Yes,” I said, then thought for a moment. “Yes,” I admitted to the last with a sheepish grin.
“I stand by my yuck. Yuck to Chuck.”
“Who was never untucked,” I added and he nodded seriously, as though that explained it all. We sat there another moment or so, looking at the work we’d done. “Thanks for helping me finish this up, by the way. Especially on a Sunday.”
“It’s in my contract, right?” he replied. “Nights and weekends.”
“Oh, yeah. Nights and weekends.”
A patch of sunlight had been working its way across the barn floor through a window high up in the rafters. It had finally reached us, and the day immediately felt lazy and unhurried. Like a sunflower, my head turned to follow the warmth, and I felt content for the first time in a long while. Warm, safe, and altogether gooey. When I turned to share this little bit of nonsense with Lucas, it felt perfectly natural to instead lean in and press my lips to his.
And I very nearly did. I looked at his mouth, those soft lips smiling back at me curiously. I tilted my head just enough to the left, and actually began the leaning in . . . but then stopped myself. He raised an eyebrow—he knew what I’d been thinking. Horrified, I leaned back, shaking my head.
“Did you just—”
“No!” I replied, hiding my face.
“Pretty sure you just tried to—”
“No!” I yelled at my knees.
“I think you almost—”
“No!” I repeated once more, thoroughly embarrassed. And then he was tugging at my arms and unfolding me and pulling me across the floor toward him. “Oh, God, I could just die.”
“Oh, would you quit.” He chuckled, and suddenly I was tucked against his side, his arm around me. “I’ve been thinking about this nights and weekends thing.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, holding my hands over my face so he couldn’t see my flaming cheeks.
“My friends are all married, and most already have kids, so they’re usually pretty busy.”
“That’s great,” I said, monotone.
“So, since I’ve been back from Guatemala, I’ve spent most of my nights and weekends alone. I take extra shifts when I can, but mostly I’ve been . . . well . . .”