The four of us were promised two hotel rooms — one for me and one for the three guys. However, there was a mix up at the hotel and considering that the entire weekend was comped by the time share, we didn’t have room to argue especially since the hotel was overbooked. The solution was to accept one room with two double beds. It didn’t matter, we reasoned. Jack had two blow-up mattresses still in his car from a camping trip. The hitch in our plan arose when we discovered a leak in one of the blow-ups midway through the first night.
Jack was nursing a strained back so the guys agreed he got a bed. Since I was a woman, they were gallant and guaranteed me one as well. That left one blow-up and two guys. Cole and I looked at each other and knew what the other was thinking. He gave the blow-up to his teammate, joking that he would “put up with me.” We had always had a familiarity, even around Jack, so he didn’t question it. Jack agreed that it made sense to bunk with me since I was smaller than he. I think he just didn’t want to share his space. Besides, he never imagined anything would be between Cole and I — or he never admitted that idea, even to himself.
In a double bed there wasn’t much room for two, even had we wanted it. The result was our legs touching, our backs against each other, or our faces within kissing distance. All. Night. Long.
It was a sweet torture. We couldn’t fathom doing anything with two other people within spitting distance. At least that’s how we felt on the first night.
In the morning, while everyone slowly organized themselves with showering and dressing, we pretended to play a game with each other on our phones. Yet, while we took turns in the game, we also took turns texting. It was the only way to say what we really thought. The idea of a long shower was mentioned as a way to fix the fact that we were both turned on having spent the entire night practically on top of each other, but unable to act on it. Yet, we couldn’t even act on that out of politeness to the others who wanted hot water.
Memories of that weekend had become my angst as well as my happiness. I had been intimate with him many times before that weekend, but nothing compared to the intimacy of sleeping with him all night without anything more happening. Nothing was as special as the simple and sweet kiss he placed on my forehead to wake me before anyone else invaded the darkened hours of the early morning. It felt like love. It was just a kiss, but the way he did it, made it unforgettable. It was soft and gentle. His lips lingered on my skin as if he tried to take in my scent and commit it to memory. It was as if he wanted to stay in that moment as much as I did.
“Just say it.” My voice was barely a whisper in the early dawn, my eyes meeting his in the dim light. He looked back at me with longing and intention. His mouth opened as if he were about to speak, but then he shook his head only to close it into a tight line while closing his eyes as well, seemingly to fight his own emotions. “Cole, please. I’m here; I want to hear it.”
His response was to indicate Jack and his friend, but I was becoming bold. Their deep breathing made me want to steal these moments for whatever purpose and so I whispered back, “We went to sleep late. They’re completely out.” But he shook his head and put a finger to my lips, finally silencing me with a kiss. It worked to a degree. He didn’t speak about how he felt about me, or more specifically, to confirm that he felt what I did. The kiss was enough to distract me from that mission.
In spite of how much I wanted to talk about us, instinct took over. My need for his physical touch satiated my desire to hear his verbal affirmation of love. If this was all he was willing to give, I would take it when it was offered. It sounded terribly needy and pathetic even to my own mind. Hell, if a girlfriend of mine was to tell this story, I would tell her to move on. Nobody needs a guy who won’t commit. But that’s where bravado ended and falsehoods started. I did need him. And, I would take him in any manner that he was willing to give of himself. Love can be stupid. How does one argue with their own heart? I may have been a teacher, but I certainly hadn’t learned that lesson.
When he touched me in that early dawn, regardless of how tired we were, our bodies sprang to life. His hands moved over me with familiarity, knowing just what I liked. It struck me as surprising at the time that my relationship with my ex-husband had lasted years, and yet he didn’t know me the way Cole did.
All I had to do was lie on my side with my back towards him and he would cup one of my cheeks. His hand would then climb upwards, leaving my intimate space to a comforting position on the small of my back. Gently, he slid his hand over my skin. He didn’t rush to the main event. He offered me these tiny shows of affection. When I wanted more, I simply spooned my body closer to him, placing my bottom firmly against his crotch where I relished in the feel of his masculine hardness against my backside. He would drape his arm over my waist and let his hand find my breast. And that’s just how he would stay in those early hours of morning. He cupped my breast, holding me in this familiar lovers only way, until we both fell back into a peaceful sleep.
When we returned home from that weekend, the memories of it were powerful for both of us. For me, it made me want to solidify our relationship and live the way couples do. To him, it reaffirmed that we would always have to hide our feelings. Those three days may have seemed like the beginning of something more, but it was a falsehood. Our relationship began to fall apart. He insisted it wasn’t love and I needed to move on without him.
Later, in the midst of tragedy, he reaffirmed his love and told me that the words he used to push me away were just a lie he uttered to protect me. Even today, I fear that the truth is somewhere in between.
I’ve tried to put the trauma of the attack out of my mind, rightly so. But I haven’t allowed myself to think of those three days of happiness in the hotel either. With Cole now staying at my house, it’s a reminder of both. Could I let my heart feel something for him again?
Seeing him crook his finger at me and invite me into his bed without so much as one word being spoken set my heart beating erratically. I had thought about sneaking into his bed all night, but didn’t dare for fear of being rejected or simply out of concern for his health. I was supposed to be looking after him, but I don’t think the doctor meant it like this.
Naturally, my mind wandered to that memorable weekend, or more specifically the euphoric high I felt. I was careful to reminded myself of the horrifying low when we broke up. My mind vacillated between both extremes of emotion and memory as I slid into bed next to him now.
Surprisingly, the moment he held me, my heart stopped racing with nerves and instead, a calm washed over me. We fit together with ease as if no time had separated us.
Yet, we didn’t rush like lovers returning to each other after a trip away. The way we made love began with our mouths gently touching, but not quite kissing.
We whisper our desire into each other’s mouths, all intention but no action, until we can’t help but solidify our desire with the most perfect, soft kiss. Romance at its best. Everything I want and more.
This time is so much better than even that perfect weekend. That time is memorable because it was new and hot; it made us feel alive. Now, I feel more grounded. We share the warmth of familiarity, but because it’s new once again and oddly due to our long separation, we haven’t experienced the trap of complacency. He knows what makes me tick both mentally and physically.