"A year, Wes. We have been doing this for over a year. I stand three feet from you in the weight room and I don't touch you. I hide in the bathroom when someone knocks on your hotel door. And I do all of it because you asked me to. I have never once said no."
"I know you haven't."
"And now we're here. The one place where none of that is supposed to matter. And you still can't hold my hand when the server comes to the table."
"That's not what this is."
"That is exactly what this is. You hold me when it's safe. When nobody's watching. When the door is closed and no one can see us. The second there's a person, you let go."
"That's not true."
"It's what you just did."
"I picked up a glass of water."
"You picked up a glass of water because she was three feet away and your hand was on mine and you couldn't let her see it. Even here."
The ceviche sits between us, untouched. The ceiling fan turns overhead and I can feel my pulse in my throat.
"I want to be someone you don't put down when the room fills up," I say. "Not just here. At home. At the facility. In a restaurant in Aruba where nobody is looking at us because nobody has ever looked at us. I want you to stop letting go."
His face changes. Not anger. He looks like I've hit him.
"I am not putting you down." The words are slow. "I have never put you down."
"You do it every time you let go of me."
He doesn’t say anything for a minute then stands and puts cash on the table. He doesn't look at me.
"I'm going to walk," he says.
He crosses the patio and steps off the curb and turns toward the water. His shoulders are set, his stride long, and he is past the palms before I can decide whether to follow.
I sit with the ceviche and the empty chair. The server asks if everything is all right. I tell her yes and go back to the villa.
He is not there and I sit on the balcony and watch the water turn dark.
The door opens at nine. I hear him go into the bathroom and the shower runs for a long time.
When I go inside he is on the edge of the bed in a clean shirt and shorts, his hair damp, his hands on his knees. He looks up.
"I didn't know I was doing it," he says.
I stand in the doorway.
"The hand. I didn't know. I believe you. I'm not arguing. I want you to know I didn't feel myself do it."
"I know."
"And that makes it worse."
"Maybe."
He rubs his face with both hands. His head drops forward.
"I don't know how to stop doing something I don't know I'm doing," he says.
"I'm not asking you to stop doing it. I'm asking you to want to stop."
