Ethan grimaced, remembering that cringe-worthy text. “That was probably rude.”
Willow just shrugged. “I guess it was just honest. Maybe too honest though—I think there’s typically a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy in situations like this.”
“Sorry.”
She didn’t seem overly concerned, so he let the topic drop.
For a moment, he just enjoyed holding her, enjoyed the feeling of her arms wrapped around him—enjoyed that moment, separate from his own life.
He wondered if her attempt to replace the first experience would work even a little bit.
Where would they go from there? In a way, it seemed like the completion of their time together—like closure. They had begun their journey in that fucked up place and shattered everything, and he felt like they had exhausted their last effort to try to heal those wounds. The line was beginning to blur already—he hadn’t thought of it as an affair before, but lying in her bed with her naked body pressed up against his, he couldn’t think of another word for it. Not anymore. Before, he could pretend he was only trying to help her.
Fucking her was not helping her.
Even admitting that, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not yet.
“What do you want out of life?” he found himself asking her.
A few seconds passed, then she said, “The same thing most people want, I guess. To be happy, loved, fulfilled. I want to travel and see new places, experience new things. Live out my dreams.”
“What are your dreams? What do you want to do after college?”
“Honestly? I’d like to have my own art gallery.”
Quirking an eyebrow, he said, “Really? I never knew you liked art. What do you like about it?”
“Well, we haven’t exactly talked about it,” she pointed out. “I like how it’s open to interpretation—the same piece can mean a million different things to a million different people. I seldom see anything the way other people do; at least in the art world, that’s perfectly acceptable. Do you have any interest?”
“I never studied it much. I think the extent of my exposure was the humanities class in college—Botticelli, Da Vinci, Van Gogh, Michelangelo, those guys.”
“That makes sense. I want to go to Italy one of these days, see the Sistine Chapel. And Paris. I want to go everywhere. Well, not everywhere, but at least a lot of places.”
He smiled absently. “I hope you do.”
“If that doesn’t work out, then maybe open my own restaurant. I want to work for myself, regardless, not for someone else.”
“I can understand that. I always felt that way, too.”
"What about you?" Willow asked, tilting her head back to look up at him. "What did you want to do with your life?"
"I'm doing what I wanted to do. Professionally, anyway. I wanted to be a detective initially, but then I realized I didn't actually want to get into law enforcement.” Ethan shook his head slightly. “I was angry when I was your age. I wasn’t focused on where I was going or what I was doing with my life, I was just concentrating on getting out, getting away as fast and as far as I could. You seem much more put together than I was.”
“Try telling my parents that,” she joked.
“They don’t think you’ve got it together?”
“Not anymore. They don't understand that I'm not the same as I was before, and I don't understand either...but I'm not. I'm just not the same. I used to be more normal than this,” she told him, tilting her head back to look up at him.
He smiled faintly, his fingers still caressing her bare shoulder. “Yeah, me too.”
She nodded in understanding. “Why were you so angry?”
“Crappy childhood. The usual,” he said lightly.
She nodded, not prying since he didn’t seem to want to go into detail. "What about personally? Did you always want to get married and ha
ve kids?"