“When we first split up, I went through a period of mourning—well, after the denial. Can’t disrespect Kübler-Ross.”
“Definitely not.”
“I threw out things that reminded me of her, deleted old photos and message threads. It took me a while to get used to the idea of no longer being married, but I don’t miss Kathryn anymore, which my therapist would say is progress.” He shakes his head, dialing it all back. Somehow it feels wrong, talking about this when they’re literally surrounded by proof of Ramona’s life happening on such a grander scale than his. His problems must seem microscopic in comparison. “You can’t really want to hear about all of this.”
Ramona’s brows push together. “Yes. I just told you I do. You know you don’t have to force yourself to be happy all the time. Obviously you put on a different persona in class, but I can see you slipping into that performance sometimes. I can feel you holding back, like you’re trying to assure everyone that you’re okay. But you can feel your emotions.”
I am happy,Nick wants to say.Right here. With you.
“It’s possible,” he says after a long moment, “that I haven’t wanted to be a burden to anyone.”
“You aren’t a burden to me. I always want to know what you have to say, really and truly. And not just the good things.”
He has to swallow hard, unable to meet her gaze for a moment—the pure earnestness of it. He believes her wholeheartedly, and yet it’s still so damn hard, letting her see him. But if Ramona can be vulnerable, maybe so can he.
“I had this vision of my life as this very specific thing. The wife, the house, the job. Kids, probably. Someday. And when it all fell apart…I had to completely reevaluate what that would look like. I know plenty of people get divorced, but it feels like I failed, too. Like…like I was unlovable, or something.” He regrets the word as soon as it leaves his mouth.Unlovable.It’s the truth, but not one he was ready to say out loud. So he brushes it off, tries for a joke. “Or maybe I was the world’s worst husband. I’m not sure they make a novelty mug for that.”
Ramona moves closer. Runs her hand through his hair, shifting a wayward strand back into place. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
In the silence that follows, she clears her throat. “Being in here too long makes me itchy,” she declares.
They end the tour downstairs in her second living room,where she pauses at a glass cabinet full of salt and pepper shakers in more sizes and colors and shapes than he’s ever seen.
“Figured it would be more uplifting to end with this,” she says with a flourish of her arm. “My pride and joy.”
“Wow. I don’t know anyone under the age of seventy who has a collection like this.” Nick peers closer to inspect a pair shaped like tiny hippos with their giant mouths wide open. A saltshaker hot dog and a pepper bottle of mustard. Cowboy boots. Penguins. Mushrooms.
They look out of place in her pristine home, but somehow that makes him even more fascinated by them. “You said something about this on the first day of class, didn’t you?”
She nods. “When I was touring, I did all this traveling, but I never really had a chance to explore. I wanted to take back something from everywhere I went, but nothing too touristy. I wanted something unique.”
“So…salt and pepper shakers.”
She laughs, and the sound smacks a shovel right into his chest. “Yep. I’d go to a thrift shop, and eventually it became an obsession. I love the creativity. I could be having a terrible time, but kitschy salt and pepper shakers would always make me happy.” She points to a pair of tiny wooden clogs. “Those are from Amsterdam. The bald chef and the giant hat are from Italy—those are probably in my top five.”
Her eyes are bright, and she’s not even bothering trying to hide her giddiness. Almost like her expression when he busted out the Slice-o-Matic 3000—too cute for his dwindling self-control.
Ramona clearly likes nice things. But she loves little things, too—this collection, her penchant for reading product reviews.Despite the way she closed herself off from the world, she’s someone who’s capable of finding joy just about anywhere.
And it makes him want to seek out the joy, too.
She closes the glass door, turns back to face him. “So, have I lost all mystique for you, now that you’ve seen the grandma collection? Or was it the wasting away on my sickbed that did it?”
Nick just blinks at her. It’s obvious, isn’t it, how badly he wants to gather her in his arms and bury his face between her thighs? She has to know the effect she has on him.
Unless she truly doesn’t. Unless he’s put such a wall between them, convinced this couldn’t possibly be anything but that frenzied hookup in his office, and then those few stolen minutes in the empty apartment. And beyond that, some sort of fractured friendship that was always going to be against the faculty code of conduct.
“Wilder.” He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, like that slight pain can keep the desire at bay. “You don’t have to play these games with me. The joking around, the innuendo.”
Her face flushes with embarrassment. “Shit. Sorry. I—I get it. You don’t think of me that way anymore.”
She turns to leave the room, hair tossed over her shoulder, but he reaches for her arm to hold her in place. She pauses. Gazes back up at him, cheeks still red.
The idea of her thinking he doesn’t have feelings for her, even after all he’s confessed, all the time they’ve spent dancing around it…he can’t handle it. Especially after opening up to her. Taking care of her.
Because he loves being needed—but he craves being wanted.
“I can’tstopthinking about you that way. I’ve tried, and it justnever seems to take.” He runs a finger down the crook of her elbow. The refrain ofwe can’t, we can’t, we can’thas never been fainter. “You think I don’t want you? I’ve been at your house since yesterday morning.”
