This Is Me Trying

Part 2

This story was fun to write, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Thanks!

***

I've seen him a million times. At his most polished, in a custom tuxedo with every hair in place. At his most seductive, crawling toward me with eyes full of desire. And everywhere in between. He's a stunning man, always has been.

But that morning, with hair still wet from the shower and bags under his surprised blue eyes, I'd never loved him more. Never ached for him more. I felt my own eyes begin to burn with tears, but I willed them away.

"Hi," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," he responded, a small smile briefly crossing his features. He opened the door wider and stepped back to allow me entry.

Part of me suspected he might not want to see me, might consider my surprise visit a violation of his request for space. But he seemed welcoming, so I breathed a sigh of relief as I walked into the foyer. He closed the door behind me and for a moment, neither of us spoke. It wasn't awkward, exactly. More like pregnant. So many things ahead of us to say that we just took a minute to be back in each other's presence again. I'll never be able to explain how we sense those needs in each other, but we've always been able to.

I took in the house. The skylit foyer, the hallway with its floor-to-ceiling windows and the clay-colored rug beneath them. Two black-and-white framed photos of baby Lea on the wall, and Bradley's sneakers and socks in a pile by the door. I hadn't been back here in months, not since the night we started dating. After that, he usually came to stay with me in Malibu, where we had plenty of room and privacy. Being back inside this house again filled me with years-old memories.

"What is it?" he asked, noticing my wandering eyes.

"I was just thinking about coming here back in the day," I said. "The drive from Malibu, the late nights working in your studio."

"Yeah," he sighed, looking around. "A different time. This house holds a lot of memories."

"Good memories?"

I meant it as a statement, a reassurance, but it came out wrong. My jaw clenched at the mistake. His gaze found mine again, and I knew he was remembering much more than I knew about. He nodded gently.

"Many of them."

I considered for a moment how many problems we could both have avoided by marrying and sticking with our first loves. The way our grandparents did. It's not bulletproof recipe for happiness, of course, but you have to admit it's practical as hell. No ghosts of relationships or engagements past to haunt you, to remind you of your worst faults, to whisper in your ear that no matter how strong your bond is, heartbreak lurks around the corner. That you are your track record. It takes an exhausting amount of optimism to be open to love after two or three decades of disappointment.

I was beginning to lose my nerve, lose track of the apology I had planned. I cleared my throat, ready to get back on course. But I wasn't fast enough.

"I'm so sorry about last night."

What? What could he have to apologize for? I was the one who'd been angry, then cruel, then desperate. I asked him what he meant.

"For leaving. I shouldn't have done that to you. It took me forever to get here and once I did, all I wanted to do was turn around and come back. But it was so late by then. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I croaked, and the sting I'd held back at the door leapt to my eyes again.

"It's not, though. I know you hate," he stopped, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose against the tears I could hear in his voice.