Nights With Him(100)

“I should have told you that night outside the perfume shop. Because I felt it that night. I felt it then, and before, and after, and now. And all the time. And as soon as I realized how monumentally stupid I was for not saying something so simple as I’m in love with you, I had to see you. I had to tell you all the things I should have told you a million times already. The things I let myself believe were too hard to say. The things I was afraid of because of the last time I said them to Aubrey. But you’re not her. You’re you. And I am in love with you, and I couldn’t wait for you to come back to the hotel. I didn’t come to Paris to not be with you,” he said, inching closer to the woman he adored.

“Why did you come to Paris?”

“I came here because I can’t be without you. And I’ve held too much back. I’ve kept it all in here,” he said, tapping his chest. “But I was feeling it all along. Denying it, but consumed by it. And I love that you call me out on my bullshit. And I love that you invited me to Paris. And that you let me spend the night with you. You let me into the part of you that you were scared of. The part that made you feel vulnerable. You brought me into all of that,” he said, and his heart beat so hard and so furiously, it might leap out of his chest and into her hands. But that’s where it belonged. With her.

Her brown eyes were so big, and a tear slid down her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb, and brought the salty streak to his lips. “Don’t cry,” he whispered.

She just shook her head, unable to speak.

“I’m not done,” he said. “Because I’ve done a bad job telling you how I feel. I thought if I kept it all inside, I wouldn’t hurt you. I thought words were what had ended Aubrey’s life. And that if I didn’t say them, I could somehow protect you. But you made me realize I was a stupid, fucking selfish idiot for thinking that.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

He nodded several times. “Yes, I am. I’m an idiot for not telling you in the doorway. I’m an idiot for not telling you at dinner last night, or later in the hotel room. Or even this morning. I’ve been so consumed with regret that I let it dictate everything in my life. And everything with you. And I’m not a shrink, I’m not someone who understands the fine details of emotions, or how people heal or move on. And I know you’re worried that I’m not capable of love.”

She started to speak, but he silenced her as he held up a finger to signal he had more to say. “It’s okay, I’d be worried too. And all I can do is tell you this—I have never felt this way for anyone. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. You consume my thoughts, you fill my heart, and I want so much more than thirty nights with you. I want the days, too. I want days like this. Good days and bad days. I don’t want another week. I want all the weeks. Maybe I’m a work in progress. Maybe I’m like a rough piece of clay. But I can be refined, and shaped, and become better with you. I want to go back to New York and not have an expiration date. I want you to let me keep loving you. The way I feel for you is without question,” he said, and now he didn’t resist the impulse to touch her. Because he’d done enough resisting. He needed to connect fully with her.

“I want that too,” she said in the tiniest voice, full of so much vulnerability.

He cupped her cheeks, holding her face in his hands, looking at her. At the woman he loved madly. Deeply. Truly. Without any regrets, without any reservations. “I’m going to tell you over and over how I feel. Because I need you to know. I always ask you to give yourself to me, and you do, and have in every way. And I want to give myself to you,” he said, and she was trembling under his touch. Her shoulders shook and her lips were parted. “If you’ll still have me.”

“Oh Jack, you know I will. You know I love you. You know I’m crazy in love with you. You’re not a work in progress,” she said, her voice breaking.

“I kind of am, but I want to be a work in progress with you.”

“We can be that for each other,” she said, tilting her chin up.

“You want me to kiss you, don’t you?” he said, their playfulness coming back.

“Always.”

“I will always want to,” he said, and kissed her in the garden, on the bridge, the weeping willow the witness to his deep and abiding love for this woman who’d challenged him, who’d changed him, and who’d healed him simply by loving him. That was what had truly washed away the regret. Yes, her words, her insight, her kind understanding of his past had helped him see all that he was clutching unnecessarily. But ultimately, he’d been letting go already. Letting go because she loved him.