Kristan Higgins - All I Ever Wanted

Sex.

Mark took my hand once we were off the airplane, and he didn’t let go of it. We didn’t speak, just got into a cab. Held hands. Got to the hotel. Held hands in the lobby as we checked in. Held hands in the elevator. Our rooms were on different floors, but he only pushed nine, which was where his room was. Led me out of the elevator, down the hall, the two of us bumping as we towed our suitcases, our hands still linked. Went right into that generically pleasing, wonderfully safe room, and the second the door closed, Mark pulled me against him and kissed the stuffing out of me, and let me tell you, we put that king-size bed to good use.

And it was wonderful. I’d never been in love—not like this. The shaking of Mark’s hands as he unbuttoned my shirt, his weight on top of me, his mouth on mine, that crooked smile … this was Love. The kind of Love I always knew I’d find, and it was just breathtaking.

The next morning, Mark suggested we blow off the conference, as we only needed to show up for the ceremony, and now that we’d nearly died, we realized how silly all this really was. We strolled through beautiful Santa Fe, admiring the little bungalows adorned with chili pepper wreaths, bought Native American souvenirs for Josephine and Bronte. When the heat got to us, we ducked into a movie theater and made out like teenagers. Had dinner at a tiny restaurant, discovered that green chili sauce was in fact nectar of the gods and wondered how we’d lived without it for so long.

On Thursday night, our poster won the bronze. Not bad, but it seemed so petty in light of everything else. We had each other. We knew what really mattered. That’s what I thought, anyway.

Clearly, this was the beginning of a very meaningful, heading-for-marriage-and-they-lived-happily-ever-after relationship. After all, I had known Mark most of my life. I worked with Mark … I worked for Mark. He wouldn’t sleep with me if it wasn’t serious. And the whole near-death experience … it had made him (finally) aware of me in a life-altering way. Faced with the vision of our deaths, he realized that I was, as the saying goes, The One. Priorities were made clear. Right?

Well … no. Actually, no.

At the end of the conference, Mark told me he’d meet me in the lobby. So I went back to my own room … that was one sign I’d ignored … though I’d slept in his room, I hadn’t been invited to actually share it, so all my showering and getting ready and stuff was done in my own space. Which made sense, of course, since we’d already paid for two rooms. Packing up my stuff, I hummed away. Josephine would make the cutest flower girl ever. Bronte could be a junior bridesmaid. I’d have to ask both parents to give me away to avoid any show of favoritism. Winter wedding with a Christmas theme, or the more traditional June? Mark and Callie. Callie and Mark. Sounded great together, didn’t it? I sure thought so.

When I met him in the lobby, he was engrossed in his iPhone, barely looking up as I approached. I forgave him. In the cab ride to the airport, he called a client. No problem. As I expressed my nervousness at flying again, he said (just a tad impatiently), “Callie, the odds of us experiencing something like that again are minuscule. Don’t be silly.” I smiled gamely, agreed that he was right, told myself not to be such a Betty Boop. On the flight back, he worked on his laptop. That was okay. We were busy. I pretended to work, too, even though I kept listening for engine failure. I tried to embrace Michelle Obama, the practical and intelligent side of myself. Tried to ignore my clattering heart.

For the next five weeks, I tried to feel happy. I had Mark … sort of. He loved me … or so I thought. For five weeks, I ignored the signs. Pretended that the increasing distance between us didn’t exist, tried harder than ever to be perfect, adorable, fun. Forgave him his ever-shorter answers. Until night #38 of our relationship, when he invited me over.

When I first walked in from the cold autumn air, I was pleasantly surprised. The table was set, he’d cooked dinner, there were candles. A fire snapped and hissed in the fireplace. Huh , I thought. I guess he just needed to adjust to things. Clearly, he wants to be with me, or else why would he go to all this fuss? Maybe he’s got something special planned! Like an engagement ring! For the first time since Santa Fe, I relaxed. Of course Mark loved me. Of course he did.

Mark poured some wine, offered Brie and crackers and then broke up with me.

It was the timing, see. Things were really crackling at the company, and a serious relationship … not the right time. He was sure I understood and indeed, felt the same way.

“Oh,” I said faintly. “Right.” I paused. “So … I guess we should take things slow, huh?”

Mark looked at me with those liquid, dark eyes of his, a searching, soulful look. “Callie, you’re so … um, amazing. But I’m not really at a point in my life where I can invest what you deserve. And you deserve it all. It’s not that the feelings aren’t there … of course you’re special to me. You know that, right?”

“Sure,” I whispered, my eyes stinging. “So … we’ll just play it by ear and reevaluate in, what … six months?”

The fire popped. Mark looked down at his plate and began breaking a cracker into pieces. “To be honest, I can’t even look that far ahead. I really wish I could, but … well, I can’t ask you to wait around until I can make a commitment.”

“No, no! I don’t mind waiting!” Oh, the humanity! Mrs. Obama said. “I mean … Mark, this whole time in Santa Fe, it was …” My voice broke a little. “It was so … special.”

“It really was,” he acknowledged, then added in a terrible Bogart impression, “We’ll always have Santa Fe.”

Oh, God. That sounded horribly final! Desperate, I stammered and blathered, hoping to change his mind. “I—I just feel like we have … something … we have this incredible bond, and I …”

All of a sudden, I understood the phrase hopelessly in love . Michelle’s voice was kind in my head. You’re not supposed to have to convince him, hon . I ignored her. “I just don’t think we should … I don’t think we should throw away what we feel for each other, Mark.”

How I hated saying those words … and yet, I had to. I had to beg, even as I detested myself for being so … weak. So helpless. So willing to throw out dignity, so ready to trade that for whatever scraps Mark could give me. But dignity was thrown out just the same. “Please, Mark.”

“Uh … well,” Mark said slowly, crushing his cracker fragments into crumbs. “Callie, you’re just fantastic, and I really wish I was in a different place in my life right now. But I’m not.” He gave me a James Dean sort of look, lowered head and sheepish grin. “We’ll be okay, right? We’re friends still, I hope. I mean, I hope you’ll stay for dinner. I cooked for you.”

Don’t stay. Have some self-respect and walk out of here .

I swallowed. “No, of course we’re still friends, Mark,” I said. “Of course!”

“Great,” Mark said, setting aside his plate of crackers and cheese. “I knew you’d understand, Callie. Thank God you’re not one of those hysterical women who can’t handle being alone, right?” He grinned. “I’m starving. Wanna eat?”

“You bet,” I said. I found myself standing and following him to the dining room table. For the next hour, Mark chatted about his parents and their cruise to Norway, a couple of clients, the unfairness of the Yankees winning yet another World Series. The entire time, I murmured and nodded and even ate my damn dinner as my mind whirled. How the hell … Did I just … agree? Somehow, I’d just signed on the dotted line to accept this situation … this un-situation, more like it. Mark had cleverly orchestrated this so there was no scene, no real breakup, no crying … nope, we just sat down and ate, back to colleagues and coworkers. He handled it well, I had to admit.