“No, I want you to stay,” I say. And I do, I want him to stay more than I can articulate clearly to anyone, even myself, really. He’s been so nice about it, it never really occurred to me that I was really making him wait, but I realize now, looking at him, really looking at him, that it must have been a great effort for him to wait for me and be so casual about it. Now that I’m paying attention, it’s so obvious. His lust for me is seeping out of him like an animal in heat, which sounds bad, but I don’t mean it that way; I mean it like it seems natural. Like all of a sudden it seems like something I don’t have to be afraid of. Not with Clark, at least. Clark, who has been like something out of a black and white movie – an old-fashioned gentleman from a time when men laid their jackets over puddles. I love him so much, it seems like it can’t be contained inside my puny human ribcage. It seems bigger than everything.
And like that, the decision is made.
Without ceremony, I take off my t-shirt and smile at him. He’s surprised, and even steps back a bit.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Totally.”
He smiles and takes his shirt off too. He acts tough, like he’s just going to stand there all handsome and shirtless, but then he melts, which is so him, and folds me into him. Inside his embrace is the safest I’ve ever felt, save maybe being in my mother’s kitchen so long ago, but it’s a different kind of safe, and maybe just because I’m a different kind of girl now, I prefer it. It almost makes me feel like I don’t even need to be a superhero. I can’t imagine all arms feel this way; Clark’s are magical. But maybe it’s like that for anyone in love. He kisses me softly, more gently than he ever has before, like he’s giving me a chance to change my mind. But I don’t want to change my mind. And when I open my eyes, he’s looking back at me. He smiles in the middle of our kiss, which is one of my favorite things about kissing him, and I know I’ve made the right decision. When we fall into the bed a few minutes later, I’m very glad the sheets are the one thing I didn’t paint.
Later, lying together like spoons in drawers, he starts asking me questions. They’re a little dangerous, but they’re covered in kindness and love so I’m not quite so afraid of them anymore. “Is there any reason for the color yellow?” he asks, and then quickly adds. “Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s an inspired choice, but it’s…odd.”
“My mother. I, you know I don’t remember her much, but I do remember, well, I think it was our kitchen. It was painted yellow. The memories, the images, makes me feel safe and happy…warm,” I say. He’s quiet for some long moments and I can feel him craning his neck, looking around the room a little, exploring it beyond the yellow.
“Is that why you don’t have any…stuff? Because of your mom and dad, and the home and the way you were raised?” he asks gently.
“I guess,” I say. “I never really thought about it much.” There’s another long silence and then he’s kissing me on my shoulder.
“Well, I love it. It’s – I don’t know how to say this – but it doesn’t really surprise me. You’re different from anybody I’ve ever met, and so, of course you live in a crazy-looking all yellow room.” I smile because I know he means it and we fall asleep in my butter room closer than we’ve ever been. I wonder if it’s the closest we’ll ever be. Is there something closer than this? He’s so worthy of the things I’m giving up to be with him.
In the morning, after seeing a rat in the motel hallway the size of a housecat, Clark changes his mind and asks me to move in with him. My mind reels with possibilities.
The walls bend and shift, reeling along with me.
My carefully constructed house of cards slides around precariously and begins to swallow me whole in its deconstruction.
How can this request be both everything I secretly want – a picture perfect normal life with Clark and a day job (okay, two) and paying bills and having plants and maybe even a pet – and yet simultaneously feel so scary and wrong? Like something I’m nowhere near ready for. Less than six months ago, I was homeless and lost. How can I be ready to have all this and not screw it up? But I can see on Clark’s face it’s an offer that isn’t casually made – and that it won’t last forever. Turning it down may mean it never comes to me again. In fact, his face looks not unlike an open door, one that could close at any minute. I feel the two MEs pulling in opposite directions, the one that’s all superhero and secrets running for the hills screaming, and the one that craves a perfect little life with him reaching out and trying to bolt itself to the floor next to him. I can almost imagine both lives actually existing – and being amazing – I can’t imagine them co-existing. Does every girl feel this way, superhero or otherwise? Two lives and two worlds pulling us in neat pieces? What you want versus what you’re built for, forever at odds? Maybe I’m no different than any other girl on earth. Maybe the decision is always this hard, this full of compromise and fear.