Silence stretches, and then she whispers, almost shy, “I feel foolish. Like I’m twenty again, sneaking glances, trying to decide if I should sit or stand or?—”
“Come sit with me,” I interrupt gently. “No need to decide alone.”
We move to the old sofa in the front room, side by side but with space between us, hands folded, shoulders stiff.
After a beat, she laughs softly, breaking the tension. “Look at us—two spirits who’ve lingered decades, and yet we’re sitting here as though we’re on our very first courtship call.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” I murmur. “Maybe we start there. Just…being with each other again.”
Her eyes meet mine, steady, shining with the same light I remember from a summer that never left me. And for the first time all night, I feel her lean ever so slightly closer, like the years between us have finally started to collapse.
Clara’s shoulder brushes mine—light, accidental, but it sends a shiver through me all the same. She glances up, lips parting like she might apologize, but leans into me instead.
We sit in that moment, held still by something bigger than either of us. My hand shifts, almost without permission, until the back of my fingers graze hers where they rest on her lap. She doesn’t pull away. She curls her hand, tentative at first, then laces her fingers with mine.
“Clara…” My voice is rough, like gravel. “Can I?—?”
But she doesn’t let me finish. She leans in, closing the space between us, and her mouth finds mine.
The first kiss is light, testing. My breath stutters, the world falling silent except for the rush of her against me. She tastes like courage, like memory, like the one thing I thought I’d never have again.
I kiss her back gently—until her hand slides to my chest, fingers curling in the fabric of my shirt. That single tug undoes me. The kiss deepens, turning hot, hungry, and edged with years of longing we never got to spend.
Her lips part underneath mine, her breath warm and quick. I cradle her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing away tears. She lets out a sound—half sob, half gasp—and presses closer, like she’s afraid I might vanish if she loosens her hold.
I pull her into me, greedy now, her body fitting so perfectly against mine like it always should have. The years fall away in the urgency of it, in the way she clings to me, in the way her mouth moves with mine like we’ve been waiting sixty lifetimes, not just sixty years.
When we finally break for air, our foreheads rest together, breaths ragged, hearts thundering in unison.
“I know I don’t deserve to say this, Marcel,” she whispers, her voice shaking, “but I can’t stop wanting you.”
“Then don’t,” I murmur, my thumb sweeping across her cheek. “Don’t stop. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Her lips find mine again, harder this time, heat rising sharp and unrelenting. And I know—deep in the marrow of me—that I’m not letting go of her tonight.
First
Clara 1923
The days slipthrough my fingers like sand, each sunrise a cruel reminder that Friday inches closer. My trunk waits half-packed in the corner of my room, clothes folded neatly as though preparing for some final performance. Every time I pass it, my chest tightens, and I have to look away.
By Wednesday, the house will be full again. My aunt and uncle, returning from Cheyenne with their endless talk of politics and upheaval, their voices filling every room until there’s no space for mine. Which means these last hours of quiet with Irene are a gift—one I cling to with desperate hands.
We sit together in the parlor, the lace curtains filtering the afternoon light into soft, muted patterns. Irene’s needles click in a slow, steady rhythm, the only sound in the room besides the faint tick of the mantel clock. I pretend to read, eyes fixed on the same page, but the words slide past me, meaningless. My thoughts drift to the hills, the barns, the scent of cut hay—everything I will soon leave behind.
“Are you excited about returning home?” Irene’s question lands gently, as though she’s tossing a pebble into a still pond.
The book lowers from my hands before I even realize I’ve moved. “I don’t know,” I lie, my throat tightening. “I suppose I should be.”
“You don’t sound sure.” Irene’s knitting pauses, her eyes peering at me over her spectacles. “What’s pulling at you, dear?”
The kindness in her voice undoes me. I press my palms together, fingers trembling. “It’s Marcel.”
Something in Irene’s face softens, but she doesn’t speak. She just waits.
“I’ve tried so hard to stay guarded,” I whisper, leaning forward, “to remember what’s expected. But every time I’m near him, every time I think of him, it’s like…like I can breathe again. Like the world stops pressing in.” I swallow hard, my voice breaking. “With him, I’m not a guest in this house or a name on someone’s wedding invitation. I’m just Clara. And I don’t want to go back to not feeling like her anymore.”
Tears slip down before I can stop them. Irene rises, crossing the small space between us, and settles beside me on the settee. She slides her arm through mine, handing me a folded handkerchief she must have known I’d need.
