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My first instinct is to hug her, kiss her, but she’s asked me not to, and I must respect her wishes. No matter how hard it might be.
I have little time to brood, however, since Nora pounds down the stairs soon after and throws her arms around Marissa like she hasn’t seen her in a year.
“I’m going to read a story tonight, to the baby,” she informs Marissa. “Can we start with Dragons Love Tacos? And later we can read My Pal Barney.”
Marissa nods. “The baby won’t understand the words, but I’m sure he’d love to hear your voice.”
“Nora, let her breathe for a moment,” I say and pull my daughter off my non-girlfriend.
“Oh, sorry.” She turns to Marissa and throws her hands up in the air. “I’m just sooo happy to see you, Marissa.”
A small smile escapes Marissa’s lips, and her eyes shift to me for a second before she kneels to be at eye level with my daughter. “And I’m happy to see you, too.” Marissa puts a loving hand on her belly. “This baby couldn’t have a better older sister.”
They hug, and I have to fight hard to keep my emotions in check. This new kiss ban is going to be hard to endure. So hard.
42
MARISSA
From John:
Nora will sleep at her grandparents’ tonight, but can I still come over and talk to you?
The text sounds ominous. In the past few weeks, we’ve discussed plenty. Talking is all we’ve done—my fault, admittedly. Since Thanksgiving, John and I have coexisted on a platonic, co-parenting level where we still see each other regularly, share coffee runs in the morning, and talk throughout the day, but never kiss, hug, or touch.
Nora’s readings to the baby have become a habit. They stop by my house or I go to theirs three or four times a week. John cooks while Nora reads, and then we eat dinner together, and I even keep the food down. The nausea has improved now that I’m nearing the end of the first trimester.
Sometimes I think it’s easier this way. Other times, I have to babysit my thoughts because I can’t stop myself from imagining what a different path could lead to. If I gave in, if I let my growing feelings for John run wild. The temptation is almost unbearable. Some mornings, the urge to kiss him is so strong I have to grind my teeth to keep from throwing my arms around his neck and pulling him down in a kiss. Certain nights, I have to shut down my hormonal impulses and ignore my aching heart that’s begging to stay over at John’s place, finally admit how I feel, and jump into bed with him.
Ironically, these urges—how much I want him—also help me keep my hands to myself. Because if a platonic relationship makes me crave John so much, what would being together do to me?
Give him the power to destroy me again.
I won’t put my happiness in his hands this time. I’m older, wiser.
Safe. Single. Sad.
Darn Thomas Mercer and his wisdom nuggets.
Safe. I concentrate on the positive. I’m protecting myself and the baby.
Solid reasoning, but not one that makes interactions with the rest of my family easier. Whenever my parents, my sister, or Blake ask me why I’m not with John, I don’t know what to say. That I’m a coward? That I’m paralyzed by fear?
The longer I don’t talk, the more frequently they ask.
I can’t help but notice how everyone stares at me as if inwardly shaking their heads at my stubbornness, silently asking me, why aren’t you and John doing this together, like an actual couple? Why? Why? Why?
The question is like a hammer to my skull, banging on the bone, demanding answers I can’t give, leaving a dull echo of dissatisfaction behind.
Has John tired of it as well? Is tonight the night he’s going to tell me he’s fed up of waiting?
Only one way to find out. I text back.
To John:
Sure, nine works?
John sends me a thumbs up, and I spend the rest of the day doused in unease. The feeling doesn’t improve as I let John into my house that evening and take in his tense jaw, the way he avoids eye contact, and the fact that he doesn’t seem able to stop fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. We sit on the couch, side by side, but there’s more space between us than usual.
