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If you had asked her a year ago where she’d be right now - she’d never have said here.
The deck below her bare feet is hot, burning her soles if she moves them from the spot they rest. Her legs are free, and her shoulders are bare for the first time in what feels like years. She wrinkles her nose at the thought of being back in the city, robed in black, a heavy blazer draped across her tired shoulders.
But she isn’t in the city today, so she smiles. The sun soaks into her skin, and she has to squint, even behind her sunglasses.
It’s bright out here, despite the early evening hour, but she can make him out just fine. He’s hard to miss these days.
Like her, his feet are bare and his skin acts as a sponge to the sunshine. She stretches her legs, crossing one over the other, and she watches as he holds his phone to his ear with one hand, and flips the lid to the grill with the other. She could get up and offer to help, but he’s resourceful, and her view from here is far too good.
As if he can read her thoughts, his eyes snap over to hers, and he grins. He’s still talking on the phone - Maureen she thinks, calling to let him know that the stomach bug is still running rampant through their house. Olivia can hear him now, when he finally manages to get a word in, reassuring his oldest that it’s fine. He’s good at this, she remembers - being a dad. When he hangs up, he flashes her a cocky smile.
“Looks like your stuck with me,” he teases.
She thinks of those same words, over a year ago now, and the smile she couldn’t contain then. She reaches up, pulling her sunglasses down until just the her eyes are peeking over the lenses.
“Pity,” she says, and like last May, her lips curl and her cheeks lift.
She hears him laugh, a low sound from deep in his chest, and she settles back into the patio chair, her toes curling against the warm boards. She breathes deep and lets the salty air fill her lungs. She feels content, and safe, and happy, and today she lets herself admit that all three are because of him.
He’d asked her here two days ago. His voice hesitant and his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Since, uh, since Noah is spending the Fourth in Woodstock,” he’d started, “You could come spend it at the beach house with me. If you wanted.”
He’d gone on then, explaining how Maureen had wanted to bring the boys, but Seamus had come down with a stomach bug. How all of his other kids had plans, and how he was stuck with hamburgers, and chips, and beer, and sparklers.
It had made her smile and she’d reached out for him, before the nerves in her stomach could stop her, and she’d wrapped her hand around his forearm, and squeezed.
“I’d like that, El,” she’d said.
Now she sits, legs and shoulders tanned and freckled, while Elliot runs a wire brush over the blackened grates of the grill she’s sure hasn’t been used since last summer. His shorts sit just right on his hips and the hideous, short-sleeved button down he’d thrown on when they’d arrived hangs off of his broad shoulders - not one button slotted through it’s matching hole. She can’t think of a time in twenty-five years when she’s seen this much of his skin. He’s dark, the red from the afternoon sun already tanned, and the scars that scatter across his body are stark white in comparison. She takes him in because she can.
Like the waves on the shore behind him, they are inevitable, and she’s looked away for long enough.
“Want something to drink?” He asks, breaking her out of her thoughts.
“Sure,” she says, “Whatever you’ve got.”
When he turns to dig through the cooler, she lets her mind drift again.
They aren’t anything more than they’ve ever been - yet. That’s a lie, she thinks. Since May, they’ve hardly gone more than five days without seeing each other. Lunch or coffee, or dinner at her place with her son. She lets him press his knee close to hers under the table as they trade sandwich halves and chips, and he smiles when she wraps her pinky around his, just before they go their separate ways on the sidewalk. On Thursday nights, and sometimes Friday, they stand too close at her kitchen sink, whispering back and forth about their kids or their jobs, or the summer heat in their concrete city, as they wash and dry the dishes.
It’s comfortable and it’s good, and every time he slides his shoes on at her front door she wonders if he’ll try again. To pull her close and press his lips to hers. She wants to tell him that she’d let him this time. That she’d meet him halfway and curl her hands in his ridiculously fitted henley or half unbuttoned dress shirt, and give it right back to him.
But it’s comfortable and it’s good, and her son is usually in the shower or in his room right down the hall, and ‘not the right moment,’ springs in her mind every time his eyes drift to her mouth.
Her son is not here today though, and Elliot is walking towards her with a beer in his hand and a faded Jets hat she remembers from twenty years ago turned backwards on his head, and she knows she will kiss him before the day ends.
He comes in closer than she expects, and she sucks in a breath when he bends down and places his free hand on the arm of her chair, the panels of his shirt hanging open and brushing against the outside of her thighs. She can feel her heart thumping in her chest, and behind her glasses she lets her eyes sweep down to his lips. He’s smiling, grinning really. A mixture of mischievousness and cockiness that makes her wonder if he can read her mind. Before she can put much effort into that thought, he presses the icy cold bottle in his left hand right onto her thigh and she gasps, uncrossing her legs and pulling away from the chill.
He stands up then, a laugh rumbling in his chest as her foot connects with his shin.
“Jackass,” she says as she wraps her fingers around the bottle.
“You looked hot, Benson,” he teases. “Figured you needed some help cooling off.”
He’s been so careful with her, nervous almost, but he’s left that back in the city it seems.
She doesn’t mind.
—
He grills hamburgers as the sun slowly starts it descent towards the water. He’s humming something she can’t quite make out, and she smiles as she comes to the small outdoor table behind him, setting down the ketchup and the mustard, and the tomato she’d sliced in the kitchen.
“You want cheese on yours, Liv?” He asks.
“Mmhmm,” she hums, dropping a fork in the jar of pickles.
“Do you want a bun for yours, El?” She asks. “Or do you do those terrible lettuce buns now to keep yourself looking like that?”
She hears him laugh behind her and the shuffle of his feet, and then he’s beside her, setting down the plate of burgers on the table, his shoulder pressing into hers.
“I haven’t gone that far yet, Liv,” he jokes, reaching over her and swiftly taking the buns out of her hands.
“But thanks for noticing,” he quips leaning closer, until his chest is flush with the outside of her arm.
He’s gone before she can turn her head, a snarky comment on the tip of her tongue. When she looks over her shoulder, he’s back at the grill tossing the buns on to toast.
His neck is red and she knows it’s not from the sun.
—
They eat out here at the little table overlooking the ocean. Their stretch of beach is quiet, the sun having settled well into the water by now. Further down they can see and hear the hum of people still crowded. There will be fireworks tonight, but it will be quiet here. They’ll take it in from afar and they’re both, she knows, just fine with that. They spend every day in the middle of the noise and it will be nice, for once, to be on the outside.
They are used to this again. Conversation flows between them and when it lulls, it’s comfortable. They are content to just be. To listen to the waves and the faint beat of the music that the breeze carries down to them.
They clean up together, throwing their paper plates into the trash bag she’d brought out. He helps her carry the mustard, and the ketchup, and the pickles back inside, and when everything is tucked away, they stand together in the dark kitchen.
There isn’t a single light on in the house, and the sun has just settled below the waves for the night. Twilight, she thinks. When the harsh light from the day lingers around just enough, giving those outside a chance to adjust their eyes. A reminder that it will be gone soon, if only for a little while.
She can see him; the outline of him here in this space. And she thinks of all those years ago when he’d slipped away in the dark. She’d had no chance to let her heart adjust to the absence of him. No opportunity to memorize the way his soul shadowed hers. It was sudden and she had been scared. Her world dark, even with her eyes wide open. There’d been no twilight for them then.
But like the sun, he’d come back again, and it had taken her a long time to adjust. Even with the gray clouds that had clung to him for the first few years.
Today though, the clouds that cling to him don’t soak her with their rain. They are blue like his eyes and the ocean in front of them, and she is warm and dry. And here, in the dark, there’s enough light left in both of them that she can see the yearning behind his eyes. She hopes he can see it in hers too.
He must, because she watches his chest rise with a full breath, and she sees his hand reach out for her. She can feel the warmth from his palm through the thin fabric of her shirt. It isn’t lost on her that they are once again, finding their courage in the low light of a kitchen.
She breathes deeply and lets her eyes slip closed, her feet inching forward, allowing him to pull her closer. She feels the pads of his fingers ghost over her cheek, and when she opens her eyes, she is met with his. He is right there and if she were to tip her head forward, her nose would brush his. He holds her gaze and she sees so much behind his eyes. Longing and desire, nervousness and fear. He was brave the last time, and he’s been brave today. But she knows it has to be her that does it now.
“Elliot,” she breathes.
Her own hands curl at his sides. The panels of his ridiculous shirt clutched between her fingers, and she is bold when she uncurls them, and slides her palms inside, right over the warm skin at his waist.
She hears his breath hitch in his chest, and she smiles when she feels the goosebumps rise on his skin.
“Elliot,” she whispers again.
“Olivia,” he answers, leaning forward, until his forehead rests against hers.
“I don’t wanna push you,” he murmurs.
She angles her head back until she can see him again, and then presses in close to tell him,
“You aren’t, El. You aren’t.”
For all his boldness, his flirting and his teasing this afternoon, he is timid here. Reality closing in on them along with the darkness. She thinks it should be easier to do this when the sun isn’t shining, but there’s something about the absence of the light that makes both of their hearts race.
She needs him to know that hers isn’t because she’s scared anymore. Under the golden rays of the sunshine or in the inky black during the dead of night, she is ready for this and the anticipation makes the beating in her chest stutter right here in the twilight.
She uses the hands at his waist to pull him flush against her and they both gasp.
“I promise,” she whispers. “I promise I want this.”
She feels him nod against her and she continues.
“But let’s not kiss for the first time in a kitchen,” she says around a smile.
She knows she catches him off guard because his laugh is delayed. It’s low and from deep in his chest and she can feel him deflate with it. The heaviness and the nerves rushing out and his body relaxing into hers.
She smiles and she can’t help it when she turns into him and presses her lips to his neck. He jumps under her hands, and its her turn to laugh when he groans her name under his breath.
“Come dance with me,” she whispers, running her hand down his arm, tangling their fingers.
His eyes pore into hers like she’ll disappear if he moves an inch.
“I can hear the music from that house with the yellow roof,” she insists, giving his hand a tug.
“Okay,” he smiles, using her grip on his hand to pull her back to him. “Whatever you want, Liv,” he says, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to her forehead.
—
On the deck, the boards are cool beneath their bare feet, and his chest is warm beneath her palm. Her left arm winds around his neck and he keeps her anchored to him with one hand curled over the one on his chest, and the other slung low around her back.
The house with the yellow roof plays their music just loud enough that the notes carry down to them on the wind. It’s July, but they sway as Neil Young sings about a harvest moon. She lets her eyes slip closed and she smiles into his chest when he pulls her closer each time, ‘I’m still in love with you,’ reaches their ears.
When the song ends she tightens her arm around his neck and he keeps her close. She can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady under their hands and she thinks of what its taken to get here - to strong and steady again; to the ‘right moment.’
“Can I kiss you now?” she hears him whisper against her ear. She can feel his smile there too, and she feels her own bloom across her face.
Like earlier, she turns her face into his neck and she kisses him there, right at the base of his throat.
“Olivia,” he rasps and she can feel the vibrations of her name against her mouth.
“Your killing me here,” she groans.
She pulls back until she can look at him and his eyes are dark. There’s need, and want, and desire there, and she feels her stomach flip at the intensity.
“Kiss me then, El,” she says, her eyes on his.
—
She knew it would be like this. Everything all at once. There is no looking back after this she knows.
His hands curl around her face and he steps in even closer, until she has to tilt her head all the way back, cradled in his palms. He lingers for a moment, in the before, and she thinks for the rest of her life she’ll remember the way his eyes lit up right before he pressed his lips to hers.
He starts soft, just a taste, but she wants more immediately. She curls her hands into his shirt and she pushes up on her toes, and she presses her mouth to his. Firm, and leaving no doubt about her want for him.
He responds right away, his hands dropping from her face to her waist to steady her, and when he opens his mouth, she wants to cry because it’s everything she’s ever wanted. His lips are soft and the hands he slides under her white shirt are calloused, and the contrast makes her shiver. Her shirt rides up as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers, and she doesn’t know if its that or the feel of his belly pressed against hers, but she gasps into him.
A boom sounds from behind them and they both jump, chests heaving as they catch their breath. She feels like a live wire. Her hands are shaking and she wants him now. There’s no stopping it she knows. She wants all of his skin against hers, and she wants to run her hands over the lines of his stomach and press her lips to the faded ink on his arms. She wants to feel the muscles in his back move beneath her palms as he moves over her and inside of her.
“Fireworks,” he whispers and she hadn’t thought of it in that way, but it’s exactly what she wants.
“Yeah,” she says as she slides her hand over the back of his neck and pulls him back down to her. “Fireworks,” she repeats as she slants her mouth back over his.
She feels him grin against her and she slips her hands over his shoulders, under his shirt, and it doesn’t take much for her to slide it down his arms. It had barely been on to begin with.
She trails her hands over his exposed skin. Over his shoulders and down his arms, and back up his sides, and she huffs when he pulls away from her.
“El,” she whines into his neck, before sucking a kiss there once again.
She smiles when she hears him moan, and she does it again in retaliation for him putting a stop to the progress she was making.
“I meant there’s actually fireworks, Liv,” he whispers.
“Look.”
He uses his hands on her to turn her, until her back is to his chest and his arms wrap around her. Safe, she thinks. She’d been so overcome by him that she’d blocked out the telltale sounds of the fireworks behind them.
He’s always been the only one who could drown out the noise in her head.
But she hears it now. The echoing booms, and the reverberating pops, and the distant whistles as color flashes across the sky. It reflects across the water, and she thinks this will be a memory she will treasure for the rest of her life.
She rests her hands on top of his on her stomach, sliding her fingers between his and pulling him tighter around her.
—
Tomorrow, they will have a full day here, just the two of them. She might pull out the bathing suit she brought, and she won’t worry about the faint scars that he’ll be able to see.
He will have already seen them by then she knows.
They’ll wade into the water they didn’t make it down to after they’d arrived this afternoon, and she‘ll stare at him and the body he has no business sporting at sixty years old, and she won’t feel guilty about it, because at sixty, he’s finally hers.
They’ll eat sandwiches, and chips, and cold grapes from the cooler that will make her teeth hurt, and then they’ll stumble back to the house, sand sticking to their feet and washing down the drain as he presses her against the wall of the shower.
Or maybe they won’t leave the house at all.
Maybe they’ll wake up to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore or thunder rolling across the sky.
Maybe they’ll stay in bed and explore each other instead.
She doesn’t care either way, because like the fireworks that reflect across the ocean that once separated them, it will be vibrant and ethereal.
Perfect, just like today.