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She can’t remember having so much fun on a date.
It’s a little ridiculous, the fluttering in her stomach, the way she can’t stop smiling. It feels so right, in a way so few things ever have. Every time he looks at her, makes another silly pun, shares with her a tiny piece of himself, she feels like she’s earned something precious. Like where they are now is hard-won and deserved, after so much grief and loss.
Walking along the park back toward her house, she doesn't feel haunted by ghosts of past decisions, or anxious for the future. Unlike every other first date, she hasn’t been worried about her hair or her lipstick; isn’t nervous her waxer missed a spot or she’s got fish and chips breath; hasn’t felt the need to hide her teeth when she laughs or police her language or admit when she needs the loo. She feels settled, like she’s come home from a long time away, and he’s there, the way he’s always been, smiling at her so fondly her heart trips.
It was a surprise, but a welcome one, when he’d asked her out. He’d slid her biscuits across the desk, their fingers brushing, a frequent occurrence of late; he’d put his hands in his pockets, inquired after her evening plans, and when she’d admitted to a night in, nothing but a Wallander marathon and a bottle of Chardonnay, he’d suggested they go out—dinner, maybe a movie, maybe a dip in the Thames (she’d glared, but it’d been so half-hearted, with the way her chest had constricted and her throat had closed up and the thought had pressed in, please, please let this be it).
She’d agreed easily, and Ted’s shoulders had dropped, tension slipping from his frame, his smile suddenly wide and true and he hadn’t used the word date, exactly, but he’d shown up at her house exactly at 7:30pm with a mismatched bouquet of flowers, and he’d changed into dark khakis and a burnt orange sweater, his puffer coat layered over it despite the warming weather.
He’d looked beautiful against the backdrop of sunset beyond the park, and she’d let her fingers curl over his as she pressed a kiss to his cheek in thanks.
He’d flushed faintly and she’d ushered him in, found a vase, asked him what he’d had in mind for the evening. It was a surprise, he’d said, but that her sandals were a good choice.
She’d always known a date with Ted wouldn’t involve heels. Wouldn’t involve dressing to impress, or a restaurant with multiple forks, or hours of second guessing. She’d gone home, taken a bath, reapplied her makeup a bit lighter, left her hair down and soft. She’d contemplated, briefly, a sexy black number, but reached instead to the back of her closet for a soft knit dress in pale pink. It still had the tags on, and she’d smiled to herself as she carefully clipped them off, paired it with her angel wing earrings and a delicate bracelet.
There was no need for pretense, for armor, and she’d known it was the right choice when she’d opened the door and Ted had blinked at her, eyes dropping and then lifting so quickly she wouldn’t have caught it if she hadn’t been watching so closely. He’d recovered swiftly, a bright smile, an evenin’, boss! Ready to skedaddle? He hadn’t commented on her clothes or her appearance, but when she’d placed the flowers on the living room table, she’d caught his reflection in the mirror, his eyes everywhere, and she’d buried her smile.
Turned back, let him think she was none the wiser; but before they left, she’d stepped in close to fix his collar, fingers gentle near his neck, and heard his sharp intake of breath.
It was nice. To know she wasn’t the only one affected, the only one yearning. She’s closely guarded her feelings for so long now, steadily running out of hope that he felt the same; but he’d guided her out the door with a hand light on her back, ushered them into an Uber waiting in the street.
He’d taken them, of all places, to a ceramics cafe.
It was closed when they’d arrived, but Ted rapped on the door—shave and a haircut—and an older woman with graying hair and paint splatters on her arm let them in.
“Ted, so lovely to see you.”
She’d given him a hug and introduced herself as Shannon’s grandmother, Mrs Taylor—“But anyone who’s a friend of Ted’s can call me Bea.”—and sat them down at the end of a long table. Their places were set with brushes and towels and water and she’d waved a hand, said, “Pick whatever you like,” before telling Ted to leave the pottery on the table and the brushes in the sink before locking up.
She’d handed him her keys, wished them a good night, and left.
“Trusting,” Rebecca had said, and Ted had shrugged, explained how he met Shannon and her family, and how he’d helped her write an application for football camp, given her a letter of recommendation.
Rebecca had smiled, unsurprised—his kindness is boundless, she knows that, and he’s never been one to brag; he’d quickly changed the subject, asking her whether she wanted to paint a Christmas tree or a garden gnome. They’d perused the shelves for some time, laughing at some objects—the octopus with only six legs, the Eiffel Tower that looked less like a lamppost and more like a misshapen penis—and deliberated others—a dinosaur, a clock, a pineapple.
In the end, he’d chosen a picture frame, and she’d selected a small lion.
“For Keeley,” she’d said, and he’d nodded and they’d set up their paints and donned their aprons and it was so easy to just talk to him. There was a radio on low somewhere, but otherwise they’d sat next to each other, laughing when they bumped elbows, commenting on each other’s color choices—Keeley’s lion was pink and gold, Ted’s frame blue and yellow, his hand a bit shaky when he’d written BELIEVE across the top. Rebecca hadn’t fared much better, making a right mess, smudging the lion’s small black eyes so badly she’d cackled, telling him she’d have to give it to Keeley with a disclaimer and an apology.
Ted had grinned. “Just tell her he had a late night. She’ll understand.”
She’d hoped, secretly, for a late night herself.
And it is—well past midnight now as they stroll back towards her house. They’d taken the long way around, walked along the Thames, snuck in an order for fish and chips just before the shop closed and parked themselves on a bench, picking at each other's plates. Ted still refuses to embrace vinegar, but he’d traded baskets with her when she’d pouted that her chips were too salty, but his, smothered in curry, tasted fine.
She’d half a mind to be embarrassed about the little kick of her heart when he’d shrugged and joked about his cholesterol, swiping her sodium-laden chips through a pile of catsup.
“Heathen,” she’d teased, but delicately wiped a red smudge off the corner of his mouth. Ted had stilled, eyes wide, when she’d sucked her thumb into her mouth, and she’d had to bury a smirk at the way he’d cleared his throat and shifted and immediately pointed at a duck and said observantly,
“Hey, a duck!”
and then proceeded to share no fewer than three duck puns, each worse than the last, until Rebecca had groaned and threw a greasy napkin at his face.
Ted had laughed, his dimples showing, and they’d tossed their soggy newspaper and wiped their hands. Without any discussion, they’d walked slowly along the river, trading stories, thoughts, anecdotes, and she’d felt like they were in their own little bubble. Just for a little while, safe—from the press and stress of work and family tensions and heartache.
He’d told her about his time with Henry, thanked her again for helping him see what really mattered. What was important.
She’d told him a little about how absent her father was, during her teen years, at least. All the birthdays he missed, all the phone calls he could have made but hadn’t, trying instead to buy her love with cars and plane tickets and jewelry.
“Henry’s lucky,” she’d said softly, and Ted had frowned. “No matter how far away you are physically, he’ll never wonder if his father loves him. You show him that every day.”
Ted had frozen, swallowed tightly. “Rebecca—” he’d started, but it had come out choked and she’d shaken her head. She’d known what he meant, what he’d wanted to say, and she hadn’t thought twice before sliding her fingers through his, squeezing his hand.
He’d looked down, surprised, then back up, reading something in her face, though she wasn’t sure what.
But he hadn’t let go.
Even as they started walking again, even as a crowd passed by, forced to separate around them; even when she’d pointed to a patch of grass around a tree and said,
“Hey, two ducks,”
and he’d thrown his head back and laughed.
She couldn’t stop her smile, couldn’t help but feel ten feet off the ground, with the way his eyes sparkled in the streetlight and he’d nudged her shoulder playfully.
It was only when she’d shivered, a breeze off the river cutting through the thin material of her dress, that he’d dropped her hand. Wriggling out of his coat, he’d ignored her protests, draping it over her shoulders. It was warm and soft and smelled like him, and she didn’t care that it clashed horribly as she pulled her arms through the sleeves.
“It’s all about confidence, right?” she’d said, and his smile had turned into something sweet and a bit surprised, and it warms her heart at the same time the cold sweeps in, protectiveness and anger on his behalf that he doesn’t know. That he doesn’t realize his words matter. That he’s gone so long without someone to do the bare minimum, to remember who he is, to remind him from time to time.
“And you’re wearin’ the heck out of it,” he’d said softly, and she’d blushed and slipped her arm through his, held on as they continued, veering away from the water, down Old Palace Lane, past the park.
He’s been distracting her with stories, questions—her favorite books and her best vacation and whether she thinks the press (and Beard) will ever forgive her for the “guy from Cream” incident—that it doesn’t occur to her to be nervous until they turn the corner and her house comes into view. As soon as it does, her stomach clenches and she’s thrown off-kilter, doesn’t quite know how to do this with him—
It’s never been a problem before. She knows how to read signs, knows what men generally want from her at the end of a date. She’s called it a night, watched their disappointed faces; she’s invited them in for a “nightcap” that’s been less about wine and more about getting each other undressed; she’s done, once, a kiss on the doorstep and gone in alone and knows even that, even before everything that followed, was a mistake.
But she’s never quite cared so much about getting it right.
She doesn’t want to press him—knows, though it hurts to think about, that he isn’t as far gone as she is. Knows he might need time to adjust to the shift in their relationship. She also knows he’s a good man, and will probably be thinking he doesn’t want to pressure her, and she doesn’t quite know how to tell him that she wants him and has wanted him for so fucking long that he couldn’t pressure her if he tried.
And she wants all of him.
Wants him in her bed and in her kitchen on Saturday mornings, banging about while she tries to sleep in. She wants his wired post-match nights and his eager days; wants him grumpy and exhausted and hurt; wants him full of joy and laughter.
It’s too much to say, let alone on a first date, but it pushes against her teeth the closer they get, the urge to make sure he knows that this isn’t a farce. She remembers his nerves when he’d asked, his hands shoved in his pockets, and she wants him at least to know that they’re on the same page. That this is the start of something rather wonderful.
He’s fallen quiet as they reach her steps, and she forces herself to take a breath.
“You know, I have to admit,” she starts, a bit haltingly, soothed by Ted’s soft hum of attention, “tonight was the most fun I’ve ever had on a date. Let alone a first.”
Ted stops at her walkway, and she unlinks their arms as he faces her, a slight frown on his face.
She shrugs, a bit self-deprecating, a bit amused. “Most men in my income bracket think a discerning taste for caviar counts as a personality trait.” She rolls her eyes, looks away a moment before she smiles at him, hoping he can feel her fondness. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t have expected any less.”
Ted stares back at her. She’d expected a silly joke, a crack about her taste in men, a deflection of his own kindness. She’d expected him to be a bit nervous, hands in his pockets like they are, but she hadn’t expected his wide eyes, lips slightly parted, his silence.
She frowns, resists the urge to look over her shoulder, to see if he’s noticed something.
“Ted?”
She goes back over what she’d said, tries to remember something that might distress him, an errant word or thought; starts to reach for his arm when he finds his voice, a bit high, surprised,
“You thought this was a date?”
Rebecca freezes.
The words, his panic, slam into her chest. The air leaves her lungs and she stares at him—there’s no delight, no end of the night nervousness. He looks stunned, confused, and she flashes back through the evening, their silly flirting and gentle touches and his invitation in her office, his relief, and she’d thought—
“I—it’s not?”
Her voice sounds shrill to her own ears, and Ted’s face shifts to an expression she knows well, one meant to comfort and soothe. He opens his mouth—he’s going to placate her—and the fluttering in her chest morphs into a knot, constricting and painful and she can’t breathe as it hits her far too late:
He’d never said date.
He’d said dinner, movie, go out (or was it hang out) and she’d read it wrong. The whole night, every glance, every touch, and it was never about her or desire or romance it was just Ted being Ted, letting her touch him, letting her flirt, feeling nothing—
“Rebecca—” he starts, and she feels like she’s going to throw up.
Her hand in the air between them pulls back sharply, cradled to her chest. Her lungs burn and heat floods her cheeks, so hot she knows they’re red. She takes a full step away from him. Feels his coat soft—why did he give her his coat?—a breeze that pulls at her hair.
She was cold.
She was cold and he’s kind and that’s it. End of.
And now she’s gone and ruined it, ruined the night and their friendship and it shouldn’t surprise her—she ruins everything. Always on the wrong page, in the wrong fucking book, desperately seeking affection where it doesn’t exist and she did it with Rupert and John and Sam and now Ted; Ted, who’s looking at her like he doesn’t know how to fix this and it’s her fault.
Her fault for hoping.
For wanting, always, more than she deserves.
He tries again, his voice soft, but it’s a knife in the wound, his careful,
“Boss—”
Rebecca jerks away. She turns her back to him, the title a sharp reminder of who she is, has always been. It sounds like an endearment but it’s not, and she feels all the more pathetic for the tears that sting her eyes.
“Shit.”
She hears Ted make a sound behind her, but she can’t look at him.
“It’s okay,” he says, and she wishes she could just vanish. Wishes she’d never opened her big fat mouth. Wishes she’d never said yes, wishes she hadn’t had this, the phantom of what it might be like.
“Stupid,” she hisses to herself. “Fucking stupid.”
“Hey now—” Ted starts, a gentle reproach, and it snaps something inside her, triggers her anger because anger is easier than humiliation; easier than heartache. He doesn’t deserve it, but she whirls on him, eyes narrowed to keep the tears at bay.
“Did Keeley put you up to this?”
Ted frowns, and she knows he isn’t following her deranged train of thought.
“Keeley?”
“Some sort of pity?”
Ted looks affronted, and she knows he wouldn’t, they wouldn’t, but the more she thinks about it the more sense it makes—she’d had a hard week. Keeley’s out of town. She doesn’t have other friends, no one else to distract her in a pinch; she’d told Keeley about her date with her Chardonnay, so maybe she’d intervened, maybe she’d asked him, maybe it wasn’t his idea at all, maybe he just felt obligated, because she’s his boss, and that’s so much worse. She barely hears him, his fierce,
“What? No, it wasn’t—”
She barrels over him, masking the hurt with a bitter edge that makes Ted lean away and she hates it, hates herself and the words she can’t stop and how pathetic she is, standing on her doorstep, wearing his coat, and none of it’s real.
“Rebecca’s had a shit week, better make sure she doesn’t drink alone on a Saturday night or we’ll wind up in the press?”
“No, Rebecca— no,” he says firmly, head shaking. “That ain’t it at all.”
“Then what?” she demands, her hands trembling, and she believes him, believes every word when he says, so softly,
“I like spending time with you. And yeah, you had a shit week. I just… wanted to cheer you up.”
“With flowers?”
Ted looks chagrined, takes a hand out of his pocket to run through his hair. “I can see now that mighta been a bit overboard.”
He says it more to himself than her, and she slams her eyes shut.
Overboard.
Too much for a friend. A colleague.
Not a date.
Not someone he—
“You—” she starts, feels it burn in her throat.
You held my hand.
She doesn’t say it.
There’s no point. He’s made his position clear, and it isn’t his fault she read too much into it. Isn’t his fault she let her desperate heart run away from her again. Even if she wants to know—why do that, why do any of it—she doesn’t think she can take another explanation. Can’t hear him say that it was all just…a mistake.
She’s always someone’s mistake.
The thought sobers her, dulls her anger that was never anger to begin with. She lets it go, lets the walls close in, the empty cavern in her heart too much to bear.
“Of course,” she murmurs, looks away and blinks back the tears until she can face him. Her smile is tight, but it’s the best she can do. “Well, it was—very kind of you, Ted.”
He shakes his head, like he wants to talk about it but she can’t.
“I apologize for making you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.”
Her smile twists, and she can’t quite help the bite in her tone. “You’re polite for lying.”
He’s always lying to her.
Not outright, not cruelly, but by omission. He doesn’t tell her when he’s uncomfortable, doesn’t tell her when he’s upset. Doesn’t tell her how he really feels, and she doesn’t know why she thought this was different.
“I’m not lyin’, Rebecca, I—”
She can hear his desperation, his desire to soothe, to fix, to go back but she can’t. Maybe later. Maybe someday they’ll laugh about it.
Remember that time you thought I wanted you?
She pushes past him, rifling in her purse for her keys. Her hands are shaking but she finds them, offers him a curt,
“I should go.”
He’s quiet, too quiet, and against her better judgment, she looks back at him.
Hands in his pockets, eyes full of regret.
It isn’t his fault she’s a mess.
Isn’t his fault that she was wrong.
Her shoulders drop, and she tries, she does, to sound sincere.
“It was a—nice evening.”
He nods, his eyes bright in the streetlights.
“I’ll see you Monday.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, no words left, and she turns quickly, shoves her key in the lock, opens the door and hears it click at the same time she thinks she hears him, a frantic,
“No, wait, Rebecca—”
But the door is closed.
She locks it.
Leans against the wood and stares at her dark hallway. Her purse drops along with her keys and she wants to slide to the floor, wants to curl into a ball and never come out. The silence rings, a hash contrast to what she’d dreamt of—his laugh spilling into her living room, his gentle voice, the flutter of clothes to the floor and his moans in her ear. Her skin feels tight, itchy where his hands should have been, might have been, if only he—
She bites back a sob.
She thought they’d been headed somewhere.
Ever since Amsterdam, since Henry’s visit, he’s been more—more involved, more present. He’s spent longer in her office, found ways to pop in for no reason, not exactly subtle with the lack of excuses. There are still conversations they need to have, lingering ones from the past year, but she’d felt like something had shifted. His twelve texts, his eagerness.
The little green soldier he’d pulled out of his pocket one night at the pub, along with linen fluff and an American quarter and a note to himself to get a haircut. He’d put it on the table and she’d smiled, picked it up, thought of her own soldier in her purse. He’d offered it to her to keep, and when she said she still had hers, he’d smiled, said,
“You can never have too many matchbox kids.”
“Matchbox?”
He’d nodded, oblivious. “That’s the company that makes ‘em.”
It was in her hand and it was from him and it made sense, in a way she found both charming and infuriating, that she’d read all the signs incorrectly. Nothing had felt right, nothing clicked into place—upside down and drenched, Sam’s matchbook—until Ted.
Until he’d looked up and grinned at her, hair falling out of place, and she’d felt frozen. Lit up.
Struck by lightning.
But it was all bullshit.
She knows that. She’s known the whole time, and yet let herself believe and it’s her own fucking fault. She got caught up in it all, the romance, the signs, what she deserves, and none of it’s real.
Just a charlatan playing games.
Just a friend, helping out.
No grand love, no soulmate.
Not a mother, her mind whispers, and she nearly breaks—
There’s a knock on the door.
Rebecca squeezes her eyes shut. Curses him and his good, good heart. For wanting to make sure she’s alright. To god forbid apologize. She can’t. Can’t let him in, can’t let him see this—she’s humiliated enough.
You always show your cards too soon, darling.
She shakes her head, tries to dislodge the voice.
“Rebecca.”
The knock comes again, louder.
“Rebecca, please open the door.”
He’ll go away.
He’ll leave, eventually. They won’t talk about it. They’ll move on. Something fractured, but close enough. Good enough for him. That’s all she wanted, really—
To be good enough for him.
He knocks again, and she takes a shuddering breath.
It’s quiet for a long moment, and she thinks maybe he’s left when her phone rings.The Gambler. She set it one night when they were drunk.
“Rebecca?”
There’s no way he can’t hear it on the other side of the door. No way he doesn’t know she’s still standing there.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, so firmly that she blinks. There’s a pause. “I mean, unless you really want me to. But if you’re beatin’ yourself up on the other side of this door, I’m gonna sit right here until you open it, and no offense, but your steps ain’t that comfy. I might tear my butt like O’Brien.”
He just wants to make it right. Draw the lines back in their proper places. She owes him that, she supposes—but she doesn’t know how to face him. How to look him in the eye now that he knows.
But his voice softens, so kind, and he’s never hurt her on purpose. Never tried to make it worse.
“Rebecca, please.”
She’s never been able to deny him anything. Even at the start.
So she moves back, turns the lock. She takes a deep breath and swipes at her cheeks before she opens the door, and he’s standing so close, his eyes so sweet, so worried.
She sighs. “Ted—”
“When I pictured our first date, I took you somewhere nice.”
Rebecca stills. He says it so fast, in one breath, she’s not certain she heard him properly. But she doesn’t get a chance to ask, doesn’t even have time to open her mouth before he’s barreling on, hands free of his pockets,
“Maybe not the kinda places you’re used to, but somewhere cozy. Romantic. Candles on the table, stuffy waiters, that kinda thing.”
She inhales sharply, loud enough she knows he’s heard, but he doesn’t stop. Like if he breathes once he’ll lose his courage.
“And if we’re bein’ honest, I probably woulda second guessed the flowers. Woulda spent too long in Poppy’s shop tryin’ to figure out if you preferred daisies or lilacs or if roses were too obvious and I woulda walked out with nothin’ and—and I’d have been nervous as hell, y’know, cause it’s been about 1,000 years since I asked anyone out, let alone someone I already had feelins for—“
She stills, eyes blowing wide. Ted runs a hand through his hair, oblivious.
“—and I’d have been so worked up about puttin’ my foot in my mouth or tryin’ to impress you with my discerning taste in caviar—which I don’t have, by the way, think it all tastes like grass—“ She almost laughs. “—that I’d probably have just bungled the whole thing anyway and you’d have gone home thinkin’ you dodged a bullet—“ I would never. “—and I’d have gone home kickin’ myself for blowin’ it—” You never could. “—so maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better we just…skipped all that.”
Her heart won’t settle.
He’s looking at her the way he always has but his words are foreign and her mind skips through them like a glitchy record—
Our first date—
Impress you—
Candles—
Asked anyone out—
Had feelins for—
She blinks, blurts out,
“You have feelings?”
She winces, but Ted smiles. Almost amused, like it’s so obvious.
“Caught that, huh?” he teases, lips quirked but it can’t be true, she knows it isn’t, but he wouldn’t lie, and she doesn’t understand.
It must show on her face, some suspicion or disbelief because he sobers and takes an unsteady breath, body turned toward hers in the doorway.
“Rebecca, I’ve been feelin’ a certain typa way for a while now, I just…” He swallows, and her mind trips—how long?—and he shrugs. “Other than Beard, y’know, you’re the best friend I got, and the idea of losin’ you…”
She can’t swallow down the lump in her throat as Ted looks away, shaking his head before he looks back up at her, his eyes bright.
“It scares the hell out of me,” he admits softly. “That I might—that I could mess this up.”
It’s her turn to be speechless. Standing in the doorway, the breeze cold against her ankles, she searches and searches but she can’t find the words—wants to say me, too, and you won’t, and please don’t go but her lips feel numb.
“But I was thinkin’...and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong—but, uh, if you were thinkin’ it was a date, and I wanted it to be a date but was bein a big ol’ chicken, maybe we could… maybe we could call it a date, then.”
He looks so hopeful, so desperate, but it’s too quick a turn, too fast for her heart to reconcile, and her voice comes out more suspicious than she’d like when she manages,
“Is that what you want?”
“I wanna do whatever you—” he starts, but she jerks her head.
“No. Not this time,” she says, can’t bear the thought of him agreeing just because. Because he doesn’t want to hurt her or doesn’t like conflict or doesn’t know what he wants. She needs him to mean it, and his eyes widen as he takes her in, like he knows. Like he gets it. “Please.”
Slowly, he nods, and his voice is quiet but strong when he meets her gaze. “Yeah. I want you.”
Her breathing stalls. The words echo and she tries to make sense of it all, the raw honesty and emotions and she knows it’s taking her too long, knows she should be reacting and isn’t, and when seconds tick by and she doesn’t reply, Ted’s shoulders slump, his eyes downcast.
“I get it if that’s not—where you’re comin’ from. Or if that was too much. Or you don’t—” He sucks in a harsh breath. “I just… couldn’t stand the thought of you thinkin’ that I don’t l—”
He cuts himself off, and her heart feels as though it’s been ripped in two.
“That I ain’t interested,” he says finally, and she can almost feel his fear—too much—her own echoes of not enough rattling loose.
He holds her gaze, and she can see all his apprehension, his worry, sees his hands slide back into his pockets. His eyes look sunken in the unflattering porch light, but he’s being brave.
So brave, for her, and it knocks something loose in her chest.
“This… interest,” she starts slowly, sees a spark of hope in his eyes she wants to see burn. “Is that…for a date, or a night, or…”
He blinks, then frowns, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him, and she knows she’s about to start rambling before she does, mouth running away from her,
“Because if you’re just… looking for a good time, that’s fine, obviously, I mean, I’ve had my fair share of—good times—“
“Is that what we’re callin’ it now?” he teases, and her lips quirk at the same time she glares.
“—so I would understand if you’re just… looking to pass the time or—be intimate with someone—”
Stop talking, for fuck’s sake.
“—and I’m not judging, of course, but it’s not—I can’t—”
She fumbles, panic bubbling in her chest that she’s said too much or not enough or put him off—
But Ted just looks at her so earnestly, like it matters. Whatever it is that she’s trying to say.
“Can’t what?” he coaxes, voice low and gentle and her throat feels scratchy when she swallows.
“I can’t do that with you.”
Ted nods. His brow is slightly furrowed, his hands still in his pockets, and he looks… not upset, but contemplative. Like he knows what she means. Like he can hear the echo of what she isn’t saying, can’t bear to voice:
This is it. All or nothing.
She waits, heart hammering, and it feels like years before he looks up, and takes a deep breath.
“And if I was lookin’ for somethin’ a little more permanent?” he asks, and hope takes flight in her chest, kicking wildly. “Somethin’ more in the vein of I think we might be cosmically aligned soulmates and that kinda scares the shit outta me but I wanna find out if you do—”
She kisses him.
Curls her fingers in the soft fabric of his jumper to haul him close, a hand sliding over his shoulder to keep him there. She’s almost disappointed, at first, to cut off his perfect, beautiful words, but then his lips are warm and her spine tingles and it’s like storm clouds, that first touch.
Ted stumbles a bit, hand on her hip to steady himself and she thinks she should have agreed, should have cried yes, yes I do at the top of her lungs so he knows—
But when she pulls back, mouth open, a desperate, “Ted, I—” she doesn’t get any further.
He pushes forward, pulls her in tight with a hand at her back and kisses her and the sky breaks open. Her whole body sings, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, diving into his hair and it’s soft and his mouth is soft and his touch is soft and everything is so soft despite the way he coaxes her lips apart. Despite the flush of his hips against hers and his tongue in her mouth and his hand slipping around the back of her neck, his touch is so gentle she feels her eyes burn.
Desire pools in her stomach but it’s secondary to the way she feels lit up, body trembling. Her hand finds his jaw, thumb moving over his cheekbone, and Ted finally draws back—slow and careful, his eyes hooded, lips bruised, and she wants to see him like this every day. Wants to be the only one, for the rest of his life, to make him feel like this.
They’re both breathing heavily, and he looks faintly panicked, like maybe he’s gone too far, and Rebecca thinks abruptly of Sassy’s words, her observation—eager to please—but she finds it doesn’t fill her with anticipation or delight.
It’s just something she wants to soothe.
Wants him to know he doesn’t have to be perfect. Not here, not with her.
Meeting his gaze, she lets her hand cradle his cheek, feels a burst of warmth and pride when he leans easily into the touch.
“Rebecca,” he starts, but he doesn’t know where to go and it’s on her, now.
She smiles. Tries to let it all bleed through—her fondness and desire and adoration and all the things she’s kept buried for so long, afraid to look at them too closely in the light of day. She lets him see it this time. Doesn’t look away.
He’s always been able to read her, so well it’s been infuriating and frightening but right now she’s grateful, for the way his shoulders relax, his lips turning up in a smile that mirrors her own.
It’s sweet and kind and when he turns, just enough to kiss the palm of her hand, her eyes well up and she shudders. For the first time, her devotion mirrors back in his own eyes, and she kisses him again, slow and long.
When she pulls back, his eyes follow her mouth, fingers flexing against her hip. He swallows, clears his throat.
“Can I ask you somethin’?”
His voice is so low, graveled and deep and it sends a shudder through her but she nods, watches the way he hesitates, licks his lips before he finds his courage.
“How—how long?”
He winces, like he shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t need to know, but it just makes her love him more, more than she thought possible.
And she has so many answers:
Christmas last year, when she’d felt the first frisson of want, of stinging rejection for something she hadn’t figured out how to offer.
When he forgave her, the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for her.
She thinks of all their little moments—biscuits in her office, lunches with her mother, her father’s funeral, the bus ride home from Amsterdam, weekends in pubs and karaoke and all his speeches and his warmth outside the gala and it would all be true, every moment she fell just a little further.
But she knows that’s not what he’s asking. It’s not how long have you loved me, though she thinks her answer is one and the same.
It’s how long have I been yours, and she steps away, ducks down to retrieve her purse. Ted frowns, watches her go through it until she finds what she’s looking for, and sets it aside.
Taking his hand, she uncurls his fingers, places the small toy soldier in his palm.
Ted’s breathing stalls and he stares down at the figurine for a moment before his eyes jump to hers, a question, disbelief, hope and love all jumbled together.
She nods, closing his fingers gently around the army man as she leans in, presses her lips to his. It’s only a second, a brief moment where he’s still stunned, and then he crushes her to him, mouth open and wild against hers and she moans, feels him shudder at the sound.
She doesn’t know how long they stand there, in her open doorway, her arms around him and their lips fused and the toy soldier crushed between them. It’s ages and no time at all and when they finally part, Ted drops his forehead to hers, lips moving over her name.
She keeps a palm on his cheek, thumb brushing the edges of his mustache.
“Ted,” she murmurs, and he tightens his arm around her. “My Ted.”
He laughs, a watery sound. “Yours,” he promises, and she believes him.