To See You Again (29 page)

He releases me and rises out of his chair. "You
helped cook, too."

I scoff. "That's generous." He smirks at me and I
hip check him gently. He checks me back. We collect the dishes from the table
in silence and I feel like the air is charged between us. It's different than
the electric feeling I had with him in the elevator, but it's powerful just the
same.

He takes a handful of silverware from me and says,
"Sorry if I was a dick before. You just caught me really off guard."

"Well, if we're going to trade apologies, than I'm
sorry for just barging in and forcing you to make me dinner." I grin at him and
he grins back.

"Anyway, it's so nice to have you here, but I
really hope this doesn't mean I'm ruining any big plans for the night. I don't
know what Reba said to you, but I do know how demanding she can be." He glances
at me as I hand him a dish I've scraped for the dishwasher.

Part of me wants to laugh. Not because anything is
really funny, just at how genuinely messed up it all is right now. If he only
knew the plans Beck had had for me tonight! Actually, part of me does wonder
what he would make of Beck's proposal and my refusal of it, but there's no way
in hell I'm bring that up. His eyes widen. He's waiting for me. So I muster up
the closest thing to the truth I can handle. "Um, I didn't have anything
planned. In fact, it was kind of a shitty day."

A crease forms on his forehead and I recognize the
look of concern he wears. His expression is so familiar and comforting that I
have a strong desire to indulge in it. I don't know how many know it now, but I
used to think that was the piece of him he saved just for me. When I needed him
to be, he was always kind, always gentle, always there. I pull myself out of my
reverie and vow for that to be the last comment I make on the topic. Tonight
will not be about me.

He begins to fill the sink with warm, soapy water
and after a beat he looks over at me. "So, how shitty are we talking here?
Shitty like go to bed early because this day has sucked so much, or
really
shitty like slam your bedroom door and blast Counting Crows as loud as your
cheap speakers can handle?"

I'm a little thrown by his reference until I
recall doing something pretty close to that one night after an argument with my
boss over my timecard. I was so pissed. He was forever confusing me with this
other girl and thought my hours were all wrong. He'd basically accused me of
falsifying my timecard and while I kept my cool with him, I totally lost my
shit the moment I arrived home. It got sorted out weeks later, but that night I
was convinced I was only going to get compensated for half of what I was owed,
making paying rent that month nearly impossible. Collin was there when I got
home and witnessed my tantrum. As if he's been timing my recollection of the
event, a wicked grin erupts on his face just as I register the memory.

"That happened once!
Once!
You always
mocked me about it as though it was something I did every Tuesday night!" I
attempt to feign anger, but I just can't—there's so much relief in his teasing.
I feel like I've found him again just as we left each other so long ago. I
stamp down the urge to embrace him. He starts laughing hard and I join in.

"I mean, come on Rachel, you could've chosen Nine
Inch Nails or something, like a normal person," Collin huffs out between
laughs.

"What's your deal with Counting Crows?"

"My deal?" He pulls a hand out of the water and
unintentionally splashes us both, producing another fit of laughter. "I don't
have any
deal.
I just think you don't know how to pull off blasting rage
music, that's all." He shrugs and fights to suppress a smirk.

"Um, OK? I had no idea there was a
right
way
to do it. So, tell me, what would the correct choice have been? To blast Radiohead,
like you?"

Collin gives me a look of incredulity. "When did I
ever blast Radiohead?"

"Headphones count, dude. You played them so loud
while studying I didn't even bother to turn the radio on!" I see recognition
wash over him. Yeah, he knows what I'm talking about.

"What?" He cries in mock defense, looking
affronted, but comically so. We both erupt into another fit of laughter.

I wipe a tear away from the corner of my eye and
try to catch my breath as Collin does the same. We've been laughing the way
some people do just before they cry, when you're right at that place where
grief and joy intersect. My mother used to say she was getting her emotions all
mixed up, but I've always felt like the two were closely related, not opposites
at all. Real tears and laughter are the most tangible expression of our
authentic selves. It's hard to get truly lost in either, but when you do, the
release is always worth it.

Collin begins humming Radiohead's Creep and then
we both lose it again. Our laughter crescendos once more, before fading away altogether,
and I'm treated to a smile from Collin. Our burdens have been lifted, even if
it was just for a moment, and this exchange between us has been about so much
more than either of us could've expressed with words alone. I don't know what it
all means, but even if it was just for an instant, I felt like myself again.

We fall into a comfortable quiet as we load the
rest of the dishwasher and finish with the remaining items he prefers to
hand-wash. He washes, I dry. I feel it again—the serenity of being with someone
who knows you so well that silence can feel like comfort.

When we're through, he removes two wine glasses
from the cabinet and raises his eyebrows at me. "Merlot?" I nod and watch as he
uncorks the bottle and carefully fills each glass. I take one and then follow
him back to the couch, where we sit together again.

We talk about work, and he shares what it's been
like to run a business. He's surprisingly frank, and talkative, discussing
openly his fears and trepidations, stumbling blocks and successes. He coaxes me
into talking about my job, and I lament how I seem to have stalled out and lost
sight of my goals. He's supportive and encouraging and for the tiniest moment I
feel like I see myself, as he seems to—driven and capable. If there's one thing
Tim has succeeded at lately, it's been to make me feel like I'm neither. One
topic flows seamlessly into the next and I'm struck at how our connection with
each other feels as intact and as undeniable as ever.

I ask about his stepbrother, and he becomes more
serious. As he talks, I study the expression lines adjacent to his eyes, crow's
feet, my mother would call them; they don't detract from his handsomeness in
the slightest. In fact, this is my favorite version of Collin. His hair is a
little messy, he's casual, and we're just talking about anything and
everything. I'm listening to him, but I still find myself drawn to these tiny
wrinkles, stealing glances at them, especially when they're amplified by his
smile, which much to my relief, seems to be appearing more and more as we talk.
I ponder my attraction to these tiny lines, and then realize I have no
recollection of them from our late teens or early twenties. They didn't exist
then, of course. I feel pangs of regret take hold; the sensation is almost like
jealousy. I wasn't there when those creases formed and deepened. How much I've
missed! The appeal of growing old with someone seems to make more sense than
ever.

I want to be with you when all your wrinkles form.
I want to know the story behind each scratch and every scar life gives you
.

Reveling in how conversational Collin is tonight,
I ask about a nearby painting hanging on the wall. It's of a young boy, maybe
seven or eight years old, he's kneeling, staring at his reflection in a pond.
Behind him children play ball in a field. You don't get the sense he's being
left out; he's alone by choice. It's as though what he's looking for is
somewhere in the water, not with the kids in the background. My assumption was
correct that it's one of his. The emotion in it is tangible, unlike the
flaccid, commercial ones, (I suspect Leighton chose) hanging on the other
walls. He doesn't offer a lot of insight into it, but he doesn't need to for me
to feel like I understand where it came from. He segues into a discussion of
photography, and then I find myself feeling courageous enough to approach him
about the basement.

"So, I feel like I should tell you something."

He tips his chin to me. "Go ahead."

"When I came to drop off the borrowed clothes,
Reba showed me the photograph in the basement…the one of me." I suck my lower
lip into my mouth and try to hold his gaze, but he rolls his eyes and looks
away.

"Why am I not surprised…?" he mumbles.

He says something else I can't quite hear and I find
myself holding my breath. He stares off into the kitchen, and I begin flinging
thoughts all around in my head, trying to find the right thing to say.

Before I can, he turns to face me again. "So, did it
freak you out?"

"No!" I answer too quickly.

Collin cocks an eyebrow; his bullshit sensor has
been tripped. I take a breath; let's try this again.

"OK. Yes, a little at first, but not anymore. It's
a great photo. It actually made me feel…" I pause, conjuring the courage, "…kinda
beautiful."

He shifts his body closer to mine and now our legs
are touching.

"Well, you
are
beautiful." I feel my face
go hot, and I bow my head.  "I'm sorry, Rachel, that was probably inapro—"

Before I lose my nerve, I grab his face in my
hands and press my lips to his, cutting him off. He's stunned for a split
second, and then much to my relief, he begins kissing me back.

Collin

Grabbing my face and kissing me like that—just
might be the hottest thing Rachel has ever done. She's always been so
controlled and restrained. I have no idea what I did to earn this, but whatever
it was, I hope I can repeat it. It's taken me a second to get over the shock of
it, but now that I have, every inch of my body is responding to hers. Her lips
are warm, and soft, and her kiss is perfect, just as I remembered it. I trace
her lower lip with my tongue and she responds passionately, grabbing a fistful
of my shirt as she kisses me urgently. I pull her closer, and have to remind myself
to control my grip—I want her so badly. She pushes her fingers through the hair
at the nape of my neck and I run mine through her long, thick waves. She shifts
on the couch again, trying to get closer, and I swiftly pull her onto my lap. Without
my lips leaving hers, my fingers explore the soft exposed skin at her waist
between her shirt and jeans. She makes a satisfied noise, and I'm lost. She
eases her hand under my shirt and begins raking my back with her fingernails—
holy
shit
—her touch feels so amazing. I am so unbelievably turned on that
suddenly no amount of contact with her feels like enough. I tug on her hips,
closing as much space between us as I can, and she thrusts against me—provoking
a moan from both of us.

Then, without warning, I have the most poorly
timed epiphany ever. I
don't
know why the hell this is happening and
that should matter. It fucking needs to matter, whether I want it to or not,
and I can't ignore the alarm bells ringing in my head, no matter how much I
want to. Why the hell
is
this happening? What about her boyfriend? If I
keep this going, we are headed for another devastating crash, one that I don't
think I'm equipped to survive. I've never been so torn in my life between mind
and body. Everywhere we are touching feels electrified. It's clear she wants
me, and I sure as hell want her. The last thing I can imagine doing is severing
this connection, which is why I feel completely certifiable when I gently push her
away from me. I rest my head against hers as we both breathe heavily. "I can't
believe I'm going to say this, but we should probably stop."

 I feel her forehead leave mine. I'm trying to
ignore the similarities rapidly multiplying in my head from tonight and the
last time we kissed. I'm not going to be that guy all over again. The one she
kisses and regrets. The one she loses her relationship over. The one she
doesn't see or talk to for years on end. I want her to choose me. If she
doesn't, I'll have to live with that. I wont take her like this, though…not
again. 

She exhales a long, slow breath and I open my eyes
to look at her. "You're right, Collin. I should go."

I feel her resistance, and my own. I hold her hand
as she eases off of my lap. I squeeze it once before releasing it as she
stands. I need to say something. She turns to go and I immediately follow her. She's
almost to the front door when I ask, "Did I upset you?" I don't want to hurt
her. I try to squash the panic I'm feeling.

She looks up at me; her crystal blue eyes stare
straight into mine. "No, not at all. Stopping was the right thing. That
was…well…" Her voice trails off as she looks down at her feet. "It's just late
and we've both had a really long night. I need to get home."

To Beckett
—I finish the sentence for her in my head, and my heart aches in
response.

"Let me get your coat." I scoop it up and hold it
behind her as she slips her arms into the heavy, woolen sleeves. I stand in the
foyer while she gets her shoes on, and then hand her her purse. I'm not running
this time. I need her to know that. "Can I call you?"