I knew what he meant by living my life, and I shook my head. “I’ll never feel this way about anyone … ever again,” I said, crumbling inside but keeping it together.
“Yes, you will,” he said.
“No, I won’t. Not even close,” I said, thinking that I could flirt in bars, go on dates, have sex. But that I was finished with love. Done.
He draped his arm on the back of the sofa, angling his body toward me, and said, “Shea. I thought I could only love Connie … And then … this happened. And it’s been scary and wonderful and so special. I guess I’m trying to say that … you just don’t know what can happen in life. And you have to be open to things …”
“But I don’t want to love anyone but you,” I said.
“And I didn’t want to love anyone but Connie. Life is funny.”
“Life is tragic.”
“It can be … But you can’t stop living. You can’t give up.”
“But aren’t we giving up now?”
“No,” he said. “We’re doing the right thing. There’s a difference.”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t so sure about that.
“You’ll be all right, Shea. You could do better than an old football coach.”
“You’re not old,” I muttered, envious of all the couples whose only barrier was a couple of decades.
“I’m not young. And let’s be honest … you should probably be with someone younger … so you can have a family … children of your own … I’m probably too old for all of that …”
I caught his probably, fleetingly imagining having a baby with him, but then said, “Why does everyone keep talking about that stuff? I’m not like other girls. I don’t need all those things.”
“I know you’re not. I know you don’t. But you might. You might someday. You need to keep an open mind.”
I nodded, letting my head drop to my hands. “I knew it,” I said, speaking mostly to myself.
“You knew what?”
“That last night would be our only chance to be together.”
“Yeah, you did call that one … But we’ll always be friends,” he said—one of the saddest declarations in the world.
When I didn’t reply, he said, “And we’ll always have football.”
“And you can call me ‘girl’ again,” I said, trying to put on a brave face. “You haven’t done that in a while.”
“You got it, girl,” he said.
“We just can’t touch,” I said, gazing up at him.
“Right,” he said, looking as sad as I felt.
“Or kiss,” I said, staring at his mouth, then back into his eyes.
He looked deep into my eyes and nodded.
“Because we made a decision and it would be wrong to go back on it,” I said, trying to convince myself.
He nodded again, as his face moved ever so close to mine. Close enough for me to catch a whiff of that damn aftershave.
“You’re going to have to stop wearing that, though,” I said. “When you’re around me.”
“What?”
I shook my head and shuddered a little. “That aftershave. It kills me.”
“So does your perfume,” he said. “Please do something about that perfume.”
“Deal,” I said, his face moving closer still, our breathing growing deeper. “But how ’bout … one more kiss?”
“You mean like this?” he said, his lips grazing mine.
“Yes. Just like that,” I said, as that familiar dizzy feeling overcame me. “And then, after tonight … that really has to be it. Forever.”
“Unless Lucy changes her mind,” he said, kissing me more urgently, his hands entangled in my hair.
“She won’t,” I breathed.
“I know,” he whispered. “So let’s make this count …”
Forty-three
For three days, I wallowed in self-pity and heartbreak, never leaving my apartment. I barely ate, slept at odd hours, and lived in my pajamas. Every time the phone rang, I jumped, hoping it would be him, telling me he couldn’t do it. But that never happened, and, with every passing hour, I grew more depressed, until I eventually turned my phone off altogether. There was nobody I wanted to talk to.
On the fourth night, just as I was beginning to remind myself of my mother after her divorce, Lucy appeared at my door. I considered not answering it, but did. We stared at each other as if months had passed since our last conversation, until she asked if she could come in. I said yes and stepped aside, letting the door close with its own weight.