Page 72 of That's Not a Thing

As I process what Aaron seems to be saying, the background noise around us begins to dull. I notice absently that the sky has suddenly gotten much darker, that dusk has turned to night.

“I don’t understand.” I look up at him, my eyes involuntarily traveling to his mouth, then the cleft in his chin, before shifting back to his dark eyes.

“Clearly, you had some unresolved feelings that you needed to explore, and that was shitty.” He says it lightly, like an afterthought. “But even after I pushed you away, you kept showing up; you were there, protecting me when I needed it the most.” It sounds ludicrous that such an enormous person, someone so successful, so strong, could need protecting from anything, but I finally understand what he is trying to say. He knows that he has my heart, and unless I am completely delusional, which is of course possible, I think that he is forgiving me.

“I’ll always protect you,” I tell him. “I will also make more mistakes. I don’t mean kissing other guys, not like that ...” I start to stumble, wondering if Aaron is just setting himself up for more disaster by standing anywhere near me. “But it’s part of who I am, a mistake-maker,” I warn him.

“Would you shut up?”

I can’t read his tone, and I panic that I misinterpreted his actions, that we are not moving in the direction I thought. He may have come to complain about my behavior, to say that what I perceived as dedication felt to him closer to harping—stalking, even. But then he’s reaching toward the back of my neck, cupping my head, and leaning down to kiss me. Before our lips actually meet, I surprise myself by pulling away.

“What are you doing? What is this supposed to be?” I ask, my every sense seemingly muddled in the present moment, as though I can’t understand anything in my world anymore. I want to melt into him, but I am suddenly worried that this isn’t for real.

“This is supposed to be me accepting the apology you offered weeks ago, and now you accepting the apology that I am offering today.”

His hand is still on the back of my neck, and I feel myself relaxing into his hold, into his words and the tenderness I see in his eyes. His head moves toward mine again, cautiously but with determination. He hesitates at the last second, giving me a chance to pull back, but I don’t.

And then we’re kissing. His hands are in my hair and his body is surrounding me, right there on the street. I feel like I can’t get enough of his warmth, his strength, his promise. As he holds me, the preceding days of anguish begin to slip away, melting onto the sidewalk, trickling into the street, evaporating into the air. I feel as though I’ve been wrapped in a remedy and I’m drinking up my revival.

Then, much too soon for my liking, Aaron pulls away and looks down at me. The familiar crick in my neck shows up as I attempt to meet his eyes from such a close vantage point, and I relish the recollection, even as a fresh memory is being made. He moves his hand from my neck to the side of my face.

“What do you say we go put our wedding back together?” he asks.

“Umm ...” I hesitate pointedly, making clear there’s something I’m reluctant to tell him.

“What?” His eyes have gone all squinty again.

“I never actually took our wedding apart. I donated it.” I scrunch up my face, preparing for the force of his reaction.

“You donated it?” He cocks his head. “What does that mean?”

I nearly groan aloud, reluctant to admit what I did, but, seeing no other option, I confess.

“I heard something on the radio a few months ago about a woman who broke her engagement at the last minute, but the reception was nonrefundable, so she invited 150 homeless people to come enjoy the food and dancing, and then she went on her honeymoon with her mom.”

“Don’t tell me you donated our wedding to homeless people.”

“I called Katie Sue about it, and, well, yeah.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my tan shorts as I await his response.

“Wow.” He doesn’t look pissed, more surprised, like he’s just making sense of it all. “So, what, are they busing 150 people out to Long Island? Is it the same date? Can we go?” He sounds excited.

“No, I’m having the food delivered to the soup kitchen. And it was only going to be seventy-five guests, so ...” I look back at him but can’t read his face, so I keep talking, nervously filling the silence. “And the band is going. Yes, it’s the same date, and I guess we could go, if you wanted.” I feel myself holding my breath, bracing for his anger.

“You are a piece of work, you know that?” He steps toward me again and then backs away a couple of steps, like he’s working something out.

My heart sinks and I flinch at his words, distressed to have disappointed him again already, but then he surprises me by hooting into the air, a battle cry. “Yes!” he shouts, answering a question that was only in his own mind, his eyes raised to the sky.

I stare blankly at him, waiting to see if that was as positive an outburst as it sounded or if he will deal me another blow. When he looks back at me, his eyes are bright.

“I fucking love you,” he says.

“What?” I feel like someone has spliced together two different movie scenes, like his words and actions have nothing to do with mine.

“So fucking much.”

“What?” I repeat.

“Only you.”