People in his condition often found it impossible to coexist in a family setting. And always to the detriment of those sharing their lives. Whether he was one of those people, he didn’t know. He’d been living alone since his return from the bowels of Jordan. But he’d heard the stories in counseling sessions. Read the pamphlets. Knew the statistics. Knew, too, that it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.
And with that thought in mind, he knocked on his ex-wife’s front door.
ANNIE STOOD AT THE DOOR in a gown he’d bought her for their third anniversary. He’d dreamed of that gown during his years in hell. The vision had sustained him through some of the toughest moments of his life. But tonight it hurt to look at her.
“Come in,” she said, as if she did this kind of thing every day.He stepped inside.
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Sure.” He did his best to lace the response with nonchalance, then added, “Thank you.”
And while she went to pour it for him, he stood in her entryway, wondering what he should do next. This wasn’t a romantic interlude.
But what about foreplay? Annie would need a little time to warm up to him. She always had.
Those minutes of touching and kissing before lovemaking had been sacred.
Would she want to tonight?
She was already nearly undressed.
Should he proceed to the bedroom? Undress? Hang his slacks and shirt on the back of a chair? Climb under the covers and wait for her?
She hadn’t invited him into her bed.
Perhaps she’d prefer to do this on the couch. He looked toward the mostly bare living room. And remembered that there was no couch.
A spare room, then?
“Sorry, it took me a minute to open a new bottle.” She was back. Handing him a glass of merlot. Her hair was down, silky and slightly damp, reaching almost to her hips. Longer than he remembered.
He lifted a hand to her head and dropped it again. Running his fingers through Annie’s hair was supposed to lead up to impregnating her. But to Blake, it was more the act of a man cherishing a woman. Loving a woman. Making love to a woman.
He sipped his wine. Held the glass in both hands. Wasn’t sure where to look. So he did what he couldn’t seem to help doing: he looked straight at her.
“You’re as beautiful as ever.”
“I’m six years older.”
Seemed like a hundred since he’d last held her.
“I’m starting to get wrinkles around my eyes.”
“Not that I can see,” he told her. “Not that it would matter. You’re going to be beautiful at ninety, Annie. I always told you that.”
She smiled, glanced away. Blake wondered if he’d seen tears in her eyes. Took a step toward her. And stopped.
“I…What do you want?” he asked, simply because he had no idea how to proceed. How to do her this favor without offending her.
He had no idea of her expectations. Knew only that he wanted to meet them. Whatever they were.
“What do you mean?” she asked, laughing shakily.
“I don’t think I know how to do this.”
Looking equally lost, Annie just stood there. Saying nothing. Which left the next step up to him. A man who had difficulty just trying to sleep through the night.
“Do you want to talk for a bit?”