Page 66 of Love Wells Kept

“You’ve cycled through a lot of nicknames for me and somehow never landed on queen before now…and I’m going to hold a grudge about that for the foreseeable future.”

“Great. Hate to see how mean you’ll be now,” he says under his breath, flirtatiousness laced in every word.

“You called me Kit…it started as Kate—naturally—then Katie, Katie Kat, Kat, KitKat, then Kit.” My thumb taps a finger with each nickname. “I don’t know where you’d go from there, but I’m sure if I gave you a few years it would evolve again somehow.”

“Kitten?” he suggests.

I make a dry heaving noise. “Please, no. Do I look like a kitten?”

“Want my honest opinion?”

My fingers rap against his calf with a playful scolding, then stay there. He’s so warm, the hair on his leg the perfect combination of rough and smooth. I mindlessly loop small hearts on his shin with my thumb.

“Kit,” he whispers. Beckoning me closer or testing the way my nickname feels on his tongue, I can’t quite be sure, but it feels intimate. And it sounds so much like the way he quietly moans my name into the crook of my neck, the weight of his body pressing on me from pelvis to breast, trying and failing to be quiet so the kids don’t hear.

My core clenches around nothing with a familiar ache.

In the quiet dark, Jackson’s hand finds its way to where I know the scar is still raised and bumpy on his scalp, making me wonder if it’s bothering him. “What do you miss most about before?”

“I miss…the little moments. These two a.m. tea dates, but then also the way I’d stroll into the kitchen in the morning, and you’d have a coffee poured for me. I miss sitting together watching our kids do silly things like dance to old country songs in the kitchen or create mashed potato volcanoes on their plates. I miss the quick hand squeezes or kisses or taps on the butt whenever we passed each other as we went about our day—sometimes without even saying anything because we were too busy to chat. I know…or, I guess, I hope we’ll get back there one day. But I do miss it….”

“We’ll get back there.” He sets his tea down and his extra-warm palm rests on top of my hand. His eyes flick to my lips. “There is nothing I want more than to kiss and touch you every time the mood strikes.”

Then do it now, I want to scream. Do it. Just touch me and kiss me and haul me off to bed.

“You can…I mean, if you want to. No pressure though.”

But also…Please, I silently beg. Kiss me.

Yes, we’re married. Yes, when we were dating I kissed him first. But this is different. I have sixteen years of history on my side, and he’s known me for a couple months. I remember our firsts; I want his new memories to happen on his terms.

A veil of hesitation hangs between us in the thick air. That’s all I need to know this is another no. Or maybe, if I choose to remain hopeful, it’s a not right now. Silence is rejection in one form or another.

Pulling my hand from his leg like it’s red hot, I twist and slide from the counter in one smooth motion. When my bare feet hit the planked wood flooring, I lean against the kitchen island and will myself not to cry.

I want normal.

I miss normal.

I miss my husband the most when he’s standing right in front of me, entirely out of reach.

It feels so fucking selfish when I pleaded with higher powers for him to live. I wanted nothing more than to hear his voice and look into his eyes. And now it feels like maybe my prayers fell a little short.

Jackson gets off the counter and moves to stand in front of me. I look up to find his eyes locked on mine, deep and dark and all-consuming, pupils staining the colors in his irises. My breath catches as he steps in to bracket me between his thick arms, gripping the edge of the counter on either side of me. He bends his head, so close to kissing me I can smell the chamomile lingering on his breath and feel the coarseness of his beard on my skin.

He draws his lips in, wetting them, before quietly asking, “Was I a good kisser before?”

My whisper matches his. “The best.”

Jackson

My lips brush hers, and I tighten my hold on the counter to hide the fact that I’m shaking. I giggle—and it really is a giggle, like I’m drunk on the possibility of her kiss. That barely-there touch is all I need to know that once I start kissing her, I’ll never want to stop.

Her hands cradle my face, ever so gentle, with a smile begging to be licked away.

At long last, I kiss her. Delicate and tender. Her hands plunging into my hair. My tongue gliding across her lips, tasting the way they part with a gentle sigh.

For the first time, I’m kissing Kate.