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Laurence kisses the top of my head, wraps his arms around me. Holds me. And I feel overcome with emotion. “Fuck, Laurence. Why did you do that?” The words, muffled as I speak them against his body, sound sad to my ears.
“Because I think you wanted me to,” he says, cradling my head. “Because I think you needed me to.”
I don’t know what to do. Shit. Part of me is terrified to move in case I lose this forever. In case I never experience his fingers in my hair again, the thrum of his pulse by my ear, or the heaviness of his chest pressing against mine. “I’m losing control.”
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Laurence whispers.
“No.” My head shakes against him. “It’s not. I-I’m not.” This isn’t my life. This isn’t what I chose for William Walker and, suddenly, when Laurence starts peppering kisses along my lips, all I can think about is my wife’s tears, my kids’ disappointment, friends of the family laughing and sneering, and my father calling me a perverted bastard.
My hands find Laurence’s chest and I shove him away. “I have to go,” I tell him, blinking away cloudy vision.
He blocks my path. “Stay. Talk.”
“Talk?”
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking!”
“Then stay until you do.”
My fingers rip through my hair as I pace back and forth. “Do you want me to start an affair with you? Is that what you’re asking?” It sounds seedy and shameful, and I feel disgusting for even suggesting it.
I watch his shoulders sag, his head tilt. “I’m asking you to talk. That’s it.”
“Like you asked me to be your friend? Like you asked me to dinner?” I’m being accusatory and cruel, and the maddening part is I don’t even blame Laurence.
“I’m married.” I say more to myself than him. “I’m fucking married.” The words crack on my tongue, and it’s the first time since I spoke my vows that they’ve sounded like a mistake.
“I know.”
“I have children.”
“I know that, too.”
“I’m not…I mean I can’t be…Jesus, fuck.” I won’t say the word. I can’t. The second it leaves my mouth, it might come true.
My head tips back to the ceiling, as if I’ll find directions written on it. All I see is an elaborate chandelier, another reminder of this artificial bubble I’m in. The real William Walker doesn’t live in a world with chandeliers, unless he’s fitting them for someone else. I order my food from cardboard menus. Pour apple juice from cartons, not glass bottles. This isn’t me. This isn’t right.
“William, you’re shaking.”
I am? Looking back down, I see he’s right, and knowing isn’t enough to stop it.
“Tell me what it means,” I blurt out, wringing my hands together in an effort to stop them from trembling.
“The shaking?” Laurence questions, eyes slightly wide.
“No, no. This. Us. All of it. The way I feel. Why when you kissed me it felt so…so…”
“Amazing. Perfect. Right…” He draws in a long breath, lets it out as a sigh. “Like the way you’ve always thought it’s supposed to feel.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded, slightly open-mouthed. He knows.
“Believe it or not, I’ve been where you are,” he continues. “Granted, it was quite some time ago, but I know what you’re feeling.”
It’s like every one of my organs sink in my chest. That’s the problem, isn’t it. The time. “I’m going to hazard a guess that you hadn’t made an entire life for yourself, built a family, while you were feeling these…things.”
A dry, almost sorrowful chuckle leaves him. “True. You’ve certainly taken the long way round.”
I match his chuckle, not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only alternative to breaking down in tears. I set off pacing again, only this time my legs give up when they reach the nearest couch. I fall into it, head back on the cushions, legs open wide. Looks like I’m staying to talk after all.
My eyes close, but I feel the seat beside me sink. I wonder if he’s going to touch me, my hand on the cushion prickling in anticipation, but I think I’m glad that he doesn’t. His touch consumes me. Sets my skin alight and sends my mind into a tailspin. I need to think right now. Process.
“I can still taste you,” I say, tracing the edges of my mouth with my tongue. My lips feel slightly swollen and tingly from the harshness of his stubble.
Though I still can’t see him, I feel him move in his seat. “I, um, I’m not sure that’s the kinda talking I meant. Not unless you want it to happen again.”
I ignore that, ignore the image that appears in my head. “My first kiss was with my wife,” I go on. “It didn’t feel like that. I don’t remember how she tasted.”
“It was a long time ago,” Laurence says. “Twenty years, didn’t you say?”
