His eyes ask a question he doesn’t vocalize.
Why?
I take a tiny step, wishing my knees weren’t trembling. Wishing I were stronger, that this was easier, as I listen to the crowd inside singing off-key, their voices slurring the familiar lyrics.
Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…
“Wyatt,” I whisper. “I wanted to tell you… I had to tell you…”
A muscle jumps in his jaw, the only sign he’s at all affected by my words. I see the tension brewing inside him, tightly reined, and I realize he’swaiting. Not pushing. Never pressuring. Giving me time to find my voice. Because he knows me. He knows it’s not easy for me to lay myself bare.
Allowing yourself to be weak is the hardest thing in the world. But maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe, when it’s damn near impossible, it means you have something to lose. Something that matters.
My eyes hold his.
He’s still waiting. He’d wait a lifetime. He told me as much, a long time ago, back before I ever really knew him.
“I’m waiting for the right girl.”
“What if she never comes along?”
“She will.”
“You seem awfully certain of that.”
“I am.”
“You could be waiting a long time.”
“It doesn’t matter how long I have to wait. Because I’m waiting for my wife. And, however long it takes her to find me, I know she’ll be worth every second.”
The fear disappears. The self-doubt and nagging insecurities go up in smoke.
He will never push me.
He will never force me.
He will just love me, unfailingly, with limitless patience and quiet strength.
I can freely place my heart in those big, capable hands and know without a shred of uncertainty that he will never, ever drop it.
I steady my shoulders. I take that final step, until we’re a hairsbreadth apart, the last remaining sliver of space between us so full of tension it’s practically humming. And I say the words that finally bring an end to his wait.
“I might be bad at it. I might screw it up. I might make a mess of us. But here’s the thing.” My hands shake like mad as I reach up and slide them onto his shoulders. My palms barely skim the fabric of his tuxedo jacket, but I feel his whole frame shudder like I’ve electrocuted him. “I want anus. I want to try. I want to be with you.” My voice breaks. “I know, last time, you thought I fell into your arms to get over someone else. I know you thought it meant nothing to me. But you were wrong.”
My fingers brush the exposed skin of his neck as I press my body fully against his, my every curve plastered against the strong planes of his chest. He groans faintly, the only betrayal of his emotions, as though the merest graze of my fingertips might just be his undoing.
I press closer.
Closer, closer, closer.
And yet, not close enough.
“You were never a consolation prize, Wyatt. You were an unexpected gift, one I’d never allowed myself to hope for, except maybe in the darkest reaches of my heart, because I didn’t think it was possible someone like you could ever love someone like me.”
I stare into his eyes, two oceans on fire with heat. Somehow he’s keeping it leashed so I can finish. And I find, when the time comes, I don’t stutter. I don’t flail. I don’t babble. There’s no hesitation — just a deep inner strength I wasn’t even sure I had, until this moment, back in the arms of the man I was never meant to fall for, but somehow always meant to end up with.
“I love you, Wyatt.I love you. I love you. I love—”