Late Fall Page 13

  “So you keep saying.”

  “I keep saying it because you never seem to listen.”

  “I am listening.” He rubs a hand over his jaw, like he’s trying to channel some sort of angst in an innocuous way. “I just can’t believe that hiding away like this is what you really need.”

  I actually groan. “Is it not possible that people cope in different ways?”

  “Of course it’s possible. But you’re not talking to me at all. You’re pretending that everything is fine, when I know it’s not.”

  “I’m sad,” I say, raising my voice because he just won’t leave me alone. “I’m sad. I cared about Marjorie, and now she’s dead. I watched for hours as she died. How else am I supposed to feel? I’m sad. I’ve told you that. What else do you need to know?”

  “I want to know why you feel like you can’t act sad with me! I want to know why you think leaning on me, even a little, means you’re weak.”

  “I don’t think that.” It’s a lie, though. He’s got it exactly right. “You don’t understand me at all.”

  I stand up because ending this conversation is the only thing left available to me now unless I want to break down and sob because I can’t hold back the emotions anymore.

  This is just too much to deal with on top of Marjorie’s death.

  “I know you’re trying to help, but you don’t understand me at all. And I think I’d like you to leave now so I can go to bed.”

  This should work. After all, the apartment is mine, not his. He has to leave when I tell him to.

  He stands up too. “I’m not going to leave until I know that you’re okay. And right now, you’re not.”

  “You have to leave. I am okay.”

  He’s shaking his head, his expression tense and determined. “You’re not okay. Why are you lying to me?”

  “Please, Dave,” I say, at the very edge of my control. I’m shaking all over now, but there’s no way to stop it. “Please just leave.”

  He makes a throaty sound and reaches out to pull me into his arms. “I’m not going to leave,” he says against my hair. “Not when you need me. I don’t know why you think I will.”

  And that’s it. I start to cry.

  Once I start, I can’t stop, and it’s really quite messy and embarrassing. I sob against his chest as he holds me wrapped in his arms.

  I never do this. Never. Even with Jeff, I only let him hug me after the worst of it was over.

  Dave is saying again, “I’m not going to leave you,” and I can tell that he means it.

  In spite of everything I know about myself, the words, the touch, the knowledge of who Dave is, make me feel just a little bit better.

  eleven

  We end up on the couch together.

  It’s partly because I’m so exhausted I’m not sure I can keep my feet. And it’s partly because we don’t want to let go of each other.

  I know being so touchy isn’t usually my thing, but it feels like the right thing at the moment—what both Dave and I need. And it’s nice.

  I’m not crying anymore. All the emotion has worn itself out. It’s really nice now to feel his arm around me, to feel his body against mine, to feel like he’s genuinely here for me—all the way, just as I need him to be.

  We don’t turn on the television this time. We just sit together, listening to the sound of the drizzle outside. I’m stroking his chest and belly with my hand, and both our bodies are relaxed.

  He must be able to sense that I’m feeling better, because he loosens his arm from around me and starts to caress my hair. Then he murmurs, “Why was that so hard for you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just not used to … I’m used to dealing with things on my own.”

  “But you don’t have to now.”

  “I know.” I swallow hard because I’m starting to feel guilty, like I somehow failed him, failed our relationship. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. I just want to know why it was so hard, why you felt like you needed to close me out.”

  For most of my life, I’ve avoided conversations like this. They never seemed really necessary, since my relationships usually worked fine without a lot of soul searching. Even with Jeff, we were intimate with our bodies but not with our words.

  So I’m uncomfortable with this, but I don’t want to disappoint Dave again. “I wasn’t trying to shut you out. I’ve just always handled hard things by myself, so it doesn’t feel natural for me to lean on someone or look to someone else for help. I know it’s not right—and it’s not fair to you—but the habits of a lifetime are hard to break. I’ve always been alone.”

  He’s still stroking me, and I feel him nodding, as if he understands. Then he tilts his head down to brush a kiss into my hair. “You’re not alone anymore.”

  I look up at him now, because I want to see his face, because I want to see his expression to really understand. His eyes are sober, a little hesitant. “I’m not?” I ask, the slightest bit of crack in my voice.

  He leans down to kiss my lips softly. “You’re not.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.”

  He smiles and pulls me into a gentle hug. I hug him back and then relax against him once again.

  We stay like that for another half hour, until I’m having to shift every few minutes to get more comfortable. My hip doesn’t do this position very easily, and the rest of my body isn’t used to it. Either my back hurts or my leg hurts or my hip hurts, however I position my weight. I don’t want to pull away from him, but I’m not sure how much longer I can stay like this.

  “Do you need to adjust?” he asks, after I shift slightly to keep the weight off my hip.

  “I think so. I’m sorry. My joints aren’t appreciating the position.”

  “My shoulder is bothering me too. You look really tired, anyway. Do you want to go to bed?”

  I do want to go to bed. I’m so tired I can barely think now, and it’s close to my regular bedtime. But I don’t want to send Dave away, not after everything that’s happened. “I guess so.”

  He gives one of those uncertain eye shifts from my face to the floor and then back. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

  My lips part slightly as I try to process this question.

  He adds, “Just to sleep. I’d like to stay with you—I’d like to be close to you—if it’s okay with you. I wouldn’t be hinting after anything else tonight.”

  Sometimes I wonder if he thinks about having sex with me, but he’s never mentioned it, and I’ve never brought it up. But never would I have dreamed he’d make some sort of move like that tonight. My hesitance is based on something entirely different. “So you just want to … to sleep with me?”

  “Would that be okay? I don’t want to leave you.”

  I’m not really comfortable with it. I haven’t shared my bed with anyone for almost twenty years, and I never expected to do so again. But I want to be close to Dave, and I want him to know it, so I nod, dropping my eyes. “Okay.”

  I glance up as practical matters distract me. “Will you be comfortable sleeping in … in what you’ve got on?”

  He glances down at himself. “I’ll go to my room and change and then come back.”

  It makes sense, and I agree as I walk with him to the door and watch him start down the hall. There’s no one around. I’m relieved. Because now it all feels planned, intentional, not a spontaneous decision based on mutual neediness.

  Right now, we’re going through logistics to actually bring it about, and the idea of sleeping with Dave —sex or not—makes my heart flutter with anxiety.

  There’s no sense in brooding about it, though, since it’s obviously going to happen. So I use the time wisely and change into a robe and nightgown and wash up for bed.

  I’m straightening my bedding when there’s a knock on the door. I go to get it quickly, since I don’t want anyone to see him waiting at my door.

  He’s wearing black lounge pants and a T-shirt, and he lo
oks at me closely as I open the door.

  “What are you staring at?”

  “Just seeing if you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind.” I pause as I close and lock the door. “Did anyone see you coming here?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t really. But did anyone see you?”

  He shakes his head. “No one was around.”

  Again, I’m relieved. Not because I’m ashamed of his spending the night, but because I don’t want anyone to think of me as needy or horny or weak. I know it’s not a rational feeling, but I still feel it.

  I don’t want anyone to know our business. This is just between Dave and me.

  It feels a little awkward as we turn out the lights and get into bed. I’m brutally aware of Dave beside me, the feel of his shifting on the mattress, the sound of his breath, the smell of his soap and toothpaste.

  I wonder what he’s thinking about me.

  “Are you okay?” His voice is low and slightly gravelly in the darkened room. “I know you’ve had a hard day, and I don’t want to make it harder for you by pressuring you into something you’re not comfortable with.”

  “I am—” I break off the words, since I don’t want to lie to him. “I’m a little uncomfortable, but it’s not because I don’t want to be with you. It’s just been a long time since I’ve … I’ve spent the night with anyone.”

  “I’m not going to do anything,” he says, reaching out until he finds my hand and then holding it under the covers. “Except hold you, if you’ll let me.”

  “I’d like that,” I admit.

  He leans forward, and I move toward him, and then we’re kissing—nothing serious, just light and soft. He wraps his arms around me afterward, and I nestle against him.

  It feels really good to just lie with him this way. I’ve forgotten how nice it is to lie with a man under the covers, just touching, just being together.

  But I can’t stay on this side. My hip simply won’t allow it. So eventually I have to pull away when the discomfort becomes too strong.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not pushing you away. But I have to turn over on my other side.”

  I feel him smiling in the dark. “That’s fine. I can hold you that way too.”

  I realize what he means when I turn over and he spoons me. This is much more comfortable, and I spend a few minutes just enjoying it, processing how I want to be close to his man—physically and in every other way, how much his presence has helped me start to recover from yesterday.

  “Can you sleep?” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss my neck.

  “I think so. What about you?”

  “I can too.”

  “Good. Thank you—for everything, I mean.”

  I can hear the smile in his voice again. “You’re welcome. Good night, Eleanor.”

  It’s not long until I’m asleep.

  I wake up several times during the night. I always do, since I have to pee every few hours. Whenever I wake up, Dave has rolled over, away from me, probably an automatic impulse in his sleep. But when I get back to the bed, he murmurs sleepily, “You okay?”

  “Yes,” I tell him each time. “I’m fine.”

  He reaches out for me then, and I let him, since his touch feels natural in the dark.

  When I wake up at four, I’m alert enough to get up for real, but I don’t feel like it quite yet. Instead, I wash my face and brush my teeth and go back to bed.

  Dave’s eyes are open, which I can see since I left the light on in the bathroom. “Are you getting up?”

  “Not yet.” I crawl under the covers and sigh with pleasure as he rolls over and spoons me from behind.

  His hand gently rubs my stomach. “You feel good.”

  “So do you.”

  He likes that I said that. I can feel the pleasure. It makes me feel a little fluttery, that a few words from me can have that kind of effect on him.

  I’m not used to this. I’m not used to any of this. And I’m not used to not knowing what to do.

  I close my eyes and relax in his arms, and I must doze off for a while, since things feel a little different when I’m aware of my surroundings again.

  Dave is still holding me, and I can feel his warm breath against my hair.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, when I blink a few times and look over my shoulder at him.

  “Yeah. I’m good.” I stretch my legs and smile. “Thanks for staying with me last night. I … I needed you.”

  He adjusts enough to kiss me. “I needed you too.”

  He doesn’t pull out of the kiss as quickly as normal, and I have to roll over so I can really get into it, sliding my hands into his hair and softening my body against his.

  I feel warm and more fluttery than ever when he pulls away. He strokes my face with his knuckles. “Did you want to get up?”

  “Not yet.” I pull him down into another kiss, since I really enjoyed the last one.

  His body is tenser than normal, and his mouth and his hands feel unusually urgent. The kiss becomes very deep, his tongue sliding eagerly against mine.

  I’m gasping when he finally pulls away, and my hands are clutching at his shoulders.

  “Eleanor,” he murmurs thickly, leaning down to press brief kisses against my jaw, my cheekbone, my throat. “You’re so beautiful.”

  I laugh softly. I can’t help it. “Don’t exaggerate.”

  “I’m not. I think you’re so beautiful. I always have.”

  His words take root in my heart, and I arch up slightly, say breathily, “Thank you.”

  Then he’s kissing me again, in a way he’s never kissed me before. It’s passionate, so deep.

  My body doesn’t respond the way it used to when I was younger. It’s much slower to react, the physical urges not nearly so intense. But they’re growing slowly, and I know how to recognize the wash of heat, the pulsing pleasure.

  I can’t believe I’m feeling like this. I never thought I would again.

  “Dave,” I gasp, when the kiss, the sensations, the whole situation becomes overwhelming. “Dave.”

  He must hear something in my voice, since he pulls back, holding himself above me. His eyes are hungry, tender. “Is this not what you want, Eleanor?”

  “I want to be close to you,” I say, trying to think clearly.

  “I want to be close to you too. In every way. But we’ll only do what you’re comfortable with.”

  “I … I don’t know.” I shift restlessly, hoping I’m not hurting his feelings. “I haven’t … I haven’t really thought about this. At our age, I mean.”

  “It happens.”

  “I know it does.”

  “We’re not dead yet.”

  “I know we’re not.”

  “We can go as slow as you want.”

  I take a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

  “Do you want me to get up?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet.”

  He smiles and leans down to kiss me, softly this time. And I realize I want to feel like I was feeling before, so I hold his head down and open my lips, deepening the kiss.

  He makes a rough sound in his throat, and his hands start to move over my body. He’s supporting himself on his side, only his head over mine, leaving one of his hands free to trace the line of my breasts, my belly, my hips—over the fabric of my gown.

  It feels really nice. I like to be touched like this, as if every part of me is beautiful, is worthy of being touched.

  When his fingers twirl over my nipple, the thin material of my gown adding a new layer of sensation, I give a little jerk and make a silly, breathless sound.

  He pauses, lifting his head to look at my face. “What was that?”

  “Just a sound. What do you think?”

  “I think I want to hear you make it again.” His smile is teasing, but his fingers return to my breast, tweaking my nipple until I make the sound again.

  He’s chuckling as he kisses me, a
nd he keeps fondling me at the same time. My heart is racing, my skin flushed, something like joy overflowing in my heart.

  I’m touching him all over too, my hands skating over his arms, his back, his thighs. I can’t seem to stop myself.

  “You feel so good,” he murmurs. He’s managed to slip his hand under my nightgown, and now he’s cupping one of my breasts and then sliding his hand down my side. I’m not particularly slim, and my skin isn’t particularly smooth, but he doesn’t seem to care. “I love how you feel.”

  “Dave.” I feel so good in so many ways, but I’m starting to get nervous again. “Dave, I’m not sure I’m ready for … for intercourse.”

  Psychologically ready—maybe. Physically ready—maybe not. There are physical issues that need to be addressed when having sex at our age, and I’ll feel better if I go to see a doctor about it first.

  “Okay,” he says, still pressing kisses against my skin. “That’s okay.”

  I feel his reluctance, but he starts to pull away. I stop him by grabbing his shoulders. “But I don’t want to stop.”

  I slide my hand down his T-shirt until I reach his waistband, then slip my hand beneath it. I explore until I find his shaft. He’s partway erect but not completely. I stroke him between my fingers and thumbs.

  He sucks in a breath in response. “Are you … are you … sure?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  I keep caressing him, and soon he rolls onto his back, evidently too affected to hold himself up on his side. His face is twisting in pleasure, and I love the sight of it. I love that I can please him this much.

  “Eleanor.” His eyes are deep and intense, and they never leave my face. “Eleanor.”

  I love the sound of his saying my name. I used to be pretty good at a hand job, and I think I can still remember the basic skills. I feel his penis harden more, although slowly.

  Then he suddenly pulls me toward him so we’re kissing as I work him over. He’s grunting against my mouth and then suddenly he’s coming.

  He didn’t last long. He never got fully erect. And I don’t really care. He’s gasping with pleasure and falling back against the mattress, his expression relaxed and replete.

  He’s breathing so heavily and seems so overwhelmed that I ask after a minute, “Are you okay?” I pull my hand out of his pants.