Page 313 of The Lies We Play

I wake at six on Sunday with my face against Creed’s shoulder and the realization that I haven’t slept beside another person in ten years.

He’s awake.

His hand is on my back, flat, careful, the way you touch something fragile without making it feel fragile.

“How long have you been up?” I ask.

“A while.”

“Watching me?”

“Yes.”

“Creep.”

His mouth curves. “Always.”

We slept in our clothes, on top of the covers, in the room he calls the main bedroom, which has the same expensive emptiness as the rest of the apartment, except for the books on the nightstand.

That was the only part that felt like him.

After the tarmac and the car and the living room that looked like nobody had ever risked being happy in it, I changed into one of his shirts. It fell to my knees and smelled faintly like laundry soap and Creed. He kept on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. We lay down facing each other like two people with a decade between them and no idea where to put their hands.

Then I told him about Florence.

The institute. The apartment. Moises. Sofia. The tomatoes. The days when Italian felt easier than English because English had too many names in it, I was not allowed to say. I talked until my voice grew rough, and Creed listened the way he always did.

At some point, I fell asleep with his hand on my back.

At some point, I forgot to be afraid.

Now morning sits outside the windows, pale and cold, and I am here.

With him.

Creed says, “The vows.”

I lift my head. “What about them?”

“You meant them.”

“Of course I meant them.”

“Forever.”

I nod. “Forever.”

He breathes out.

It’s the breath of a man who has been holding a question for ten years and just heard the answer without having to ask again.

“Hi, husband,” I say into his shoulder.

His arm tightens around me.

“Hi, wife.” He kisses my nose. “What are we doing today?”

I almost say staying right here until the world forgets where to find us.