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She shakes her head, but she moves more carefully.
We eat together. It's a sweet, slow thing. We soak in the silence, the sound of the waves lapping against the marina, the wind blowing through the balcony. There's something nice about being in the apartment. So much has happened here. It's as much a part of us as the house was.
We can make our home here, or somewhere else. We can make our life together.
She drags me to the couch, draping her body over mine. Her lips are on my lips. Her hands are on my hips. And she peels off her layers--a T-shirt and boxers borrowed from my bottom drawer--before getting to work on mine. And just like the first time, our bodies melt together on the couch. It's only the two of us, our breath, our heartbeats, the moans and groans escaping our lips.
Afterwards we lie together, our limbs a tangled mess. I can feel her heart beating through my chest, and in this moment, I know everything will be okay as long as she's here.
Eventually, she presses her lips into mine. I'm so tempted to ask what this means, if she's done with this awful space, but I wait. I need to prove I can be patient. I need to prove I can let her come to me.
We lie together for a minute. Then she pushes herself off the couch and slips back into her clothes. Well, my clothes, really.
I reach for my boxers and she pushes my hand aside. "You should stay naked. It's a good look for you."
"I will if you will."
She shakes her head. "It's too cold." She moves into the kitchen and looks through the cabinets. She picks out a canister of rooibos tea and fills the electric kettle.
She turns back to me, looking me over once again. It's not like before. It's not base. It's sweet.
"Come on." She nods to the balcony. She fills two mugs with tea and makes her way to the sliding door. She has a mug in both hands and no way to pull the door open. "Luke. A little help?"
I play dumb. "Help with what?"
"The door."
"Oh, this door?" I run my fingers over the handle.
"Yes, that door."
I pull it open and she steps outside. "Jerk." She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling.
She sets the glasses on the floor and sits on one of the lounge chairs. She shivers, rubbing her arms with her hands.
I bring out a blanket, and she accepts it with little protest. She looks adorable with the blanket wrapped around every part of her but her head.
There's something bothering her, something she wants to say. But she isn't ready yet. I sit next to her. I have to give her time.
We listen to the wind. There's something so calm and peaceful about it. This could be our life together. It could be this perfect.
After a few minutes she turns to me. Her eyes are glued to mine, her hand is glued to mine, but her lips are glued together.
She's still not talking.
I lean closer. "You want to tell me what's wrong?"
She looks out at the water--a giant mess of black bleeding into a dark sky. "I've been taking a lot of meetings. Mostly they were good. The show is doing well, and it looks like it will be a huge boon to my career."
"That's great."
"Yeah, it is." She trails off. Her eyes move to the sky, to the tiny sliver of moon above us. "It's mostly been the same kind of thing. The hot chick, the ex-girlfriend, the bitch. I have to thank Laurie for writing Marie Jane as such a completely awful woman, because everyone thoroughly buys me as awful."
"It suits you."
She laughs but the joy fades quickly. "This one was different though. This guy is in his thirties. He's a writer-director. Shot this tiny micro-budget film that rocked the festival circuit. And now he's looking for a lead for his next feature."
"That's great."
