Day 55

Jon awoke on Saturday morning with a challenge set for himself. What Caitlyn had said—about bringing a partner to orgasm using only the appendage intended by nature—had stuck with him; he wanted to see if he could do it. And today was Saturday; aside from Marissa Helmsley's wedding to Rob Caruthers, which would require their presence (or, technically, Caitlyn and the harp's presence; but the thing was too big for her to move alone) at 2 PM, they had nothing to do at all. This was the perfect time for some good sex.

Assuming I can make it good.

Caitlyn, of course, slept like a stone; she didn't waken as he extricated his arm and then rolled her onto her back. She was limp and trusting in his arms, her mouth slightly open to admit small, ladylike snores. He clasped her cheek with his hand and kissed her forehead. There were some whose instincts would be to take advantage of her vulnerability; his were to protect her, to shelter her with his efforts and love and his body if need be, to keep her safe from the storms outside. He loved her. He could do nothing else.

In spare moments over the week he had researched this dilemma. The theory was obvious: to bring her as close as he could to orgasm before penetrating her, and then to let his cock do the rest. He knew to slide up her body a little further than normal, to put more direct pressure on her clit; and he knew from Monday's watershed discussion that she was incredibly turned on by his presence bearing down on her. Beyond that was timing, luck and speculation. How close could he get her; and how much of that orgasmic tension would fade away while he maneuvered himself up to penetrate her? How quickly could he do that? He felt equal to the challenges... But he knew himself well enough to know that it was unearned confidence, that he was flying more or less blind here. Several sites had suggested throwing her legs over his shoulders for the deepest possible penetration and G-spot stimulation; he was sure they were right, but thought it might still be smarter to go with what he knew. After all, despite her flexibility, he didn't think he could rest all that much weight on her if her legs were up like that—not without hurting her or yanking something out of shape.

Still, this was the kind of challenge he thrived on.

He planted gentle kisses around her brow, her nose, her cheeks, her chin; when she didn't waken, he began to move around to her ear, applying lips and tongue to the delicate ridges and folds, to the pale lobe of flesh below. He did it gently; he had suddenly realized that it might be better if she woke up mid-way through, already turned on before she was even conscious. Though she still slept, he could see that his efforts were having an effect; her breathing was growing steadily deeper, and every now and then she breathed out a sigh and moved a little.

She didn't wake up until he had already paid some homage to her breasts and was halfway down her stomach. Her breathing gave a sudden hitch and she moved convulsively, as though being startled out of sleep; a moment later, her hand landed on the back of his head. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," he said in between kisses.

"I was having the most remarkable dream," she said, a smile evident in her voice.

"Good," he said in between kisses. "Just lie back... and let me... make them... come true."

"Mmmmm," she said, a verbal smile. Her hand tightened in his hair.

When he reached her hips, he bypassed her privates entirely, knowing she would have expected him to go there; there was something to be said for anticipation. Instead, he began to kiss her inner thighs, down one leg and up the other until making his procession down to her feet. Besides, she was on the tail end of her period, and, no matter how brave he acted or how he steeled himself, he just wasn't a fan of that salty taste.

As he began to kiss around her ankle (her hand was long gone by now, of course), she said, "You certainly seem to like it down there."

"Well... I guess I do. Anything wrong with that?"

"Umm... They're kind of dirty."

"Why? You wash them when you shower. They smell just fine. Your socks don't smell when you take them off, nor do your shoes."

"Yeah, but, Jon—"

He wasn't going to let her hesitation stop her in this case. He took her big toe in his mouth.

She liked it. He could tell, she liked it—her words cut off mid-sentence with a moan, and he saw color flood into her cheeks. Her toe tasted like her fingers did—warm skin with its faint reddish taste—but was a little large for his mouth, so he began to transfer down the row. (This little piggy...) Her second toe curled in his mouth like a big comma, the bulb fleshy and light, with plenty of crevices and folds to explore. Her big toe brushed against his cheek, and from his vantage point here as he knelt at the foot of the bed he could see her pussy beginning to open like a flower, the outer lips parting and the inner petals beginning to show themselves—a sure sign of her arousal.

When he had reached the last of her toes, he was tempted to try using his teeth, but some instinct made him resist; perhaps he decided he'd pushed enough for one day. Instead he began to kiss back up her body, switching from leg to leg, once again bypassing her pussy in favor of her breasts. He spent longer here this time, kissing over every inch of them, only leaving them when her nipples were fully erect and he could sense that he was no longer thrilling her in any meaningful way. He was here to build her up, not waste time.

As he approached her pussy for yet a third time, her legs parted to welcome him, but once again he took his time. The heat and scent of her arousal were palpable, but he kissed around her legs and the skin of her crotch, concentric circles that slowly narrowed towards that single velvet spot. He thought about going for her anus, or at least her perineum, but decided she'd been stretched enough for one day. He kissed up and down her outer lips, and then up and down the inner ones, caressing them with his tongue; and then he was there, and, abandoning pretense entirely, he latched his lips in a circle around her clit and sucked.

Caitlyn gave a yelp; her whole body jerked, her knees coming up around his head. Simultaneously her hands landed on his head and shoulders, locking him in place. He was starting to learn some of the signs of her impending orgasm, and many were there—he couldn't actually find her clitoris, it had retreated so far under the hood, and her breathing had gone raw; the flesh of her pussy had darkened in color, and her legs were tense against his body. And her whole body, not just her face, had begun to flush, a sure sign that she was getting close. He added a rubbing element with his tongue, licking up and down in the little patch of flesh he had staked out, and she began to moan.

"Tell me when," he said, taking a moment away from her body. "Tell me when."

"Keep going. Keep going. Oh, oh, oh... Jon, keep—"

This was the critical moment. As her pitch spiraled higher and her body continued to tense, he knew that if he wanted to penetrate her, the time was now. But could he compensate for the sudden disruption in her pleasure?—she wouldn't stay aroused for very long, maybe only seconds. If he was going, he needed to go quickly and he needed to go now.

In retrospect, he wasn't sure how he did it; maybe Caitlyn helped him, somehow, despite her pre-orgasmic delirium. All he knew was that one moment he was hunched between her thighs; the next he was up over her, guiding himself in. He sunk to the hilt in one go, and then moved himself up until his shoulder covered her face, changing the angle to put more stimulation on her clit. Caitlyn grabbed him by the butt and pulled, as though trying to consume him bodily. "Jon— Jon— Do it, do it, oh—"

Three quick strokes, and she was there.

He felt the tremor under him, watched her body seemed to stretch and tense like a spring; then her face went slack with the relief, and he felt the firm clenching of her pussy around his shaft as she shuddered under him, her arms and legs losing their strength, the tension in her face melting into an expression of exhausted joy. The squeezing must have felt remarkably good to him, but he didn't notice; he was too busy watching her come.

Her eyes closed and she relaxed back onto the bed; he kept himself occupied kissing her neck, her ear, her face, even her eyelids until she opened them again and smiled up at him.

"Wow," she breathed.

"I love you too, baby," he said.

"Oh, I love you so much..." She reached up to kiss him. "That was... I see what you mean about... About wanting me to cum."

He smiled. "It was fun for me too. Most of the time I'm down there when it happens, or coming too; I don't get to watch."

"Yeah, no kidding. Remember what Alice Larson said during the session we spent talking about sex?"

"Umm..." said Jon, casting back through his memory. "Some of it." The other college-group kids had been surprisingly mature about it, even Harold—Jon had half been expecting titters and suppressed sniggering. But then, we're none of us eleven anymore. Or even fifteen. "Everybody was looking at us funny."

"Well, we are married," she said. "The only ones who are supposed to have that knowledge, besides Mr. and Mrs. Larson themselves."

"Fair enough."

"What she said was that watching someone orgasm is one of the most intimate experiences a person can have, because you're not completely in control of yourself when you come. Your face and body do things that aren't really voluntary."

"Like having an orgasm."

She giggled. "Yeah."

"No wonder everyone looked at us funny," Jon said, "they were all wondering what we knew."

Caitlyn giggled. At other times she might take offense at this thought; right now, today, she seemed remarkably mellow. Certainly they were having a philosophical conversation while he was still buried to the root inside her.

"I like that idea," Jon said. "I remember thinking it was a good point. It's like a reward for going through all that effort: you get to meet them at the one moment in time when they're completely vulnerable."

"Yeah, and it's something you only ever share with your lovers, so it really is intimate. Especially if you're one of the people who waits until marriage."

Jon had once cursed his luck at never meeting a girl who was willing to put out. Now, here, with this viewpoint, with this woman, he was actually rather glad. "You're the only person who will ever get to watch me come. You're the only person who will ever know me that way. And I'm the only person who will ever know you that way either."

She kissed him. "And that's why I like it when you come inside me without me cumming too. Because I get to just... Experience it. To know you. To really know you, at your most private and intimate moments."

He kissed her back, feeling the warmth of his feeling for her rise inside him. "I love you, Caitlyn."

She wrapped her arms around him, drawing him down to kiss him. "I love you too, honey. Now, about this getting-to-know-you thing..." She wiggled her bum around his hardness. "Isn't there something you're supposed to do when we're like this?"

He pulled his head back to look at her. She was wearing a wicked grin and she kissed the tip of his nose. "Come on, baby. Make me your woman."

It was different now that she had come—a little looser, a little wetter, not quite as warm—and he had a hunch that this might not be entirely pleasurable for her, and maybe not very comfortable either. Nonetheless she cooed her acceptance, drawing him down, pressing up to meet his thrusts, whispering in his ear how good he felt, how much she loved to have him inside her. He held himself up on his arms so that she could see his face; they kissed each other's lips and ears until he came, groaning, holding himself deep inside her, unable to move, held immobile by the force of his pleasure as it surged up through his cock, rushing out into her, like love made tactile and physical; she moaned as it rushed through her, and he imagined his spend inside her, clinging to the folds and crevices around her cervix, pooling inside her body. And as he settled against her again she sighed in deep satisfaction, completely content.

When he woke up again he was soft but still inside her, lying on top of her, wrapped in her arms and legs. She too was asleep, and seemed to bear no discomfort from his weight. Still, it wasn't entirely a comfortable position for him; his neck had a crick from bearing too far forward, and his arms were numb. Despite her protests, he extricated himself from her, rolling onto his back and drawing her with him; unusually, she followed, sprawling out over his chest.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Not time to get up yet."

"We have to leave at one."

He turned his head to glance at the clock on his side. "It's not even ten-thirty."

She sighed. "Soon."

Silence for a time.

"We'll have to shower."

"Probably."

"I guess I should take extra pains with my feet from now on."

"Might be wise."

"Well... If you really want me to."

"Didn't you like it?" He raised his head to look at her.

"Well... It was... It felt nice, yes. But it was... Weird, too. I mean... They're my feet. I've had them, my whole life; they've just been there. I'm not really used to the idea that they're supposed to be made to feel good."

"Fair enough."

"And besides... I wasn't... I was a little nervous."

"Oh?"

"Jon, I need my feet. What if you had somehow... Umm. Damaged them?"

On the one hand, he felt a little offended that she thought he could be so careless. On the other hand, if someone was fooling around with his feet... They were certainly delicate; he certainly needed them. The possibility of injury might indeed put a damper on his enjoyment.

At the same time, though.... "So, let me get this straight: you want me to dominate you, and take control of the sex, and do whatever I want... As long as it's also what you want?"

She sighed. "Yeah, it does sound kind of stupid that way, doesn't it."

He rolled to his side so that he could see her. "On the contrary, that's the only way it sounds sane. I would be worried if you felt any different."

Her eyes lit up. "So you'll do it?"

"Well, let's not go that far. That fast. Caitlyn, it still doesn't sit very well with me."

"Why not? You know I want it. And you know you want it too."

"Want what? The potential for abuse is just too... I mean, we haven't even tried it and we've already gotten to places where you feel uncomfortable."

Her face grew resolute. "What if I gave you blanket permission. What if I said, 'Tonight you can do anything to me, and I promise to like it.' ...Or at least let you." A new thought: "Ooh, what if I faked it!"

He winced. "That would be an even worse idea. Caitlyn, weren't we just talking about how orgasm is intimate precisely because it can't be faked?"

"Tell that to about a million women from here to Eve," Caitlyn said.

Jon winced again. "I didn't know you even knew about that."

"You find out interesting things on the Internet," said Caitlyn. "And until school started I didn't have much to do. But in any case, that's not what I meant."

"No, it's completely what you meant," Jon said. "You were willing to lie to me to make me happy. And, while it's the thought that counts, I really wish you wouldn't do it." He touched her face gently. "No one's worth that. Definitely not me."

She held her hand against him. "It's because you say those things that you're worth it. But you're right. I won't."

He leaned across the bed to kiss her, and for a moment there was silence; and when they stopped, there were more arms and legs wrapped around each other than before.

"But what if... Jon, what if we established rules?" She took her hand away for a moment to comb a strand of hair from her face. "What if we said, 'Okay, here's what's allowed and here's what isn't.' What if we limited those activities to... I mean, that's kind of what happens anyway, right? Sometimes, like today, we experiment; sometimes, we just do it the normal way. ...Like today too, after we were done experimenting. We can say, 'No experimenting when Jon's dominating me.' "

"That would work," he said, "except that Jon dominating-you-kind of is experimenting in itself."

"Okay, so, only one kind of experiment at a time," Caitlyn said. "And also, what Zach and Christa were saying about No not meaning anything... And, if things go the way they could, then maybe 'No' would be flying around a lot without it being meant to mean anything..." She was turning very red by this point, but she plowed on. Jon wondered just how deep this non-consent fantasy went with her. "Maybe we should establish something where it really does mean No. A, a word, or maybe a sentence. And if I say it, you know that I'm actually uncomfortable and not just faking it."

Jon nodded. "A safe word."

"Yeah. Something I'd never say normally, like... I dunno. 'There are petunias in my meatballs.'"

Jon laughed. "That might be a bit over the top. But it's a good idea to have one. Having rules is the only way to keep things like this safe."

She grinned. "So you'll do it?"

"How can you be so eager about this and so nervous about foot play?" He kissed her before she could answer. "I can't make any promises, sweetheart. But... As long as it seems safe, and like nobody's going to get hurt, I'm willing to look into it."

She squealed and dove into his arms, kissing him madly.

"Umm, Caitlyn, err. Not right now," he said. "I'm not gonna do it now."

"No one said you had to," she said, in between kisses. "I'm just going to show you how much I love you." And she began to trail kisses down his body, aiming for the member between his legs that was even now beginning to stiffen with heat.

She took her time, kissing around his ear and his neck, and then made an unexpected detour: she stopped to play with his nipples. She had never done this before; it had never occurred to them to try it. But it became instantly clear to Jon that this was something she should try again; and, he wagered, moments later it became clear to her as well.

"Hmm," she said. "He seems to like it."

"Yeah..." he breathed. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before—the warm sensation of her mouth and tongue; the deep pulling feeling that seemed to stretch through his body straight down to his cock; the feeling of her head against his chest, her hair in a shower over their skin. He cradled her closer, urging her on, and she did not disappoint; she began to lick his nipple rhythmically and rapidly, each one eliciting a moan.

"Hmm," she said. "I wonder if, maybe, I can make you come one day just by doing that."

"Darned if I know," he said. "Maybe." It seemed fairly unlikely—he didn't think he was that sensitive—but stranger things had happened. Besides, why discourage her from exploring.

He heard her grin: "Should I try sucking on your toes now?"

Honestly, the thought did not turn him on as much—but mostly because his feet weren't nearly as sanitary as hers. "They're kinda grody."

"Oh."

"Maybe you should wait until after my next shower." He wouldn't mind experiencing it, but he did mind the thought of inflicting his feet on her. That went beyond cruel-and-unusual.

She smiled and gave his nipple another kiss. "Always good to know my man's looking out for my best interests."

When he came she suspended her mouth over his cock as he'd suggested, using the roof of her mouth to control the splashing; he felt her warm breath ghosting over the head of his cock, her hand firm around his shaft, and gave a great sigh of contentment. There was something to be said for intense sensation, but something also for a warm, relaxing orgasm at the hands of his beloved. He wished he could do that to her; he wished they could ever reach a point where it wasn't a big production for her to come. He wished they could reach a day where he could simply crawl back up to her, as she was doing now, and be thanked with nothing more than a kiss.

After a rapid shower each, they ate lunch and then began to debate the finer points of dress and decor. Caitlyn wasn't any meaningful part of the festivities, and the bride had forgotten to pass on the color scheme, so she eventually settled on a nice winter dress—something dark enough to be formal and not take attention away from the bridal party, but not so dark as to be somber. Meanwhile, Jon got the harp shrouded and onto its wheels, took it down the elevator (a fair detour, but wiser in his opinion than trying any stairs), and then opened up the back gate and the back window on the the cap. The truck was a dark maroon, the fiberglass cap tan, both of them sensible colors; after some deliberation and driving it around a little, Caitlyn had named it Leroy—or rather, LeRoi, with the French accent, meaning "The King." Jon had taken to calling it by the American pronunciation, when he wasn't calling it Mr. Jenkins and ignoring the weird looks Caitlyn gave him. He wasn't going to go around giving his truck a fancified foreign name.

The harp weighed eighty pounds. Jon knew he could lift that much, but it was still a hell of a strain to get it up onto the lip of the bed. Besides, this wasn't some piece of durable hardware he could just sling in and let fall down; the harp's descent needed to be controlled. By the time he got the thing safely ensconced in the back of the truck, his muscles were burning and he was sweating all over, despite the snow still on the ground. God, I gotta take another shower, don't I.

"Where are you going," Caitlyn asked when he started stripping off his clothes. And then: "Jon, you did it yourself?? You should've waited for me, I would've helped you!"

"In your clean fancy clothes like that?" Jon said.

Caitlyn was pinning some clip-on earrings to herself—she didn't have any piercings, which was something he liked about her—but she nodded vigorously nonetheless. "Yes, even in these. Oh, cripes, did you get it in okay? Did you damage it?"

"Of course not," Jon said, "I'm not that incompetent."

"Honey, that thing's heavy." She hugged him roughly, heedless of his nakedness. "Next time, wait for me, okay?"

Jon relented and let his arms fall around her. "Okay."

When he released her, she rubbed the side of her face, which was now wet with his sweat. "Great. I gotta wash my face again. And redo my makeup..."

"See, that was the other reason," Jon said, stepping into the shower and closing the door. At least he could just do a quick soap-and-rinse and be out in five minutes.

"Well... Next time we'll have to get the harp in before we start getting dressed. Heck, maybe before we take a shower."

"Hon, we took a shower because we were both reeking of sex and I had cum all over my stomach. We couldn't've very well gone outside like that."

"Darn. You're right. Man. When did life get so complicated?"

"Umm... December 10th, I think." The day they'd gotten married, in other words.

"Ha-ha," said Caitlyn from outside the shower. "Say more stuff like that and you'll be sleeping on the couch tonight."

For Jon, this was a new experience of a wedding. He hadn't been to all that many in his life: one with his cousin getting married, and then the Cranes' last summer and the Chamberses the year before that; and then of course his own, not even two months ago. At those he had been a part of the congregation: one of the happy people assembled to bear witness to the joining of two people in love and commitment; once he had been one of those people. Today he was a nobody, one of the few administrative elements helping to keep things running smoothly. He didn't know any of these people, didn't understand why everyone was laughing, didn't know what to look for when people began to walk down the aisles. He was an outsider here, completely unconnected from the sacrament going on in front of him; he didn't even have the benefit of Caitlyn's company, as she was up front with the harp while a place was found for him in the back. In fact, the only thing he recognized was the processional music: the timeless Cantique de Jean Racine by Gabriel Faure. No wonder they were looking for a harpist; most of the time they have to make do with a pianist or something.

To his admittedly-critical ear, the assembled choristers weren't the best, but they held their own; in fact, they sounded rather better than Jon would've expected from such a small group. The bride was Caitlyn's classmate from Shellview State's Music department; perhaps she had hand-picked this group herself. If so, what mattered was to hear them singing, whether or not they did it well or just competently.

They saved a different song for the bride's procession: Caitlyn dueting with a flute. He couldn't remember the name of the song off the top of his head, but everybody knew it (from Caitlyn's sheet music he would later discover that it was the Meditation from Jules Massenet's Thaïs). It was just as well that no one was singing: he remembered seeing his own bride, his beloved and beautiful Caitlyn, descending to the altar to meet him, and thought that nobody could sing, at least not well, during this particular moment. There was a particular apex of beauty which a woman achieves only once—on her wedding day; no one, not even a complete outsider like Jon, could help but respond to it. And yet the sight of this radiant stranger walking down the aisle served only to heighten his own sense of isolation; where was his bride, his beauty, the light of his life? What was he doing here, alone, deprived even of that one person who was everything to him?

Caitlyn wasn't needed for the rest of the ceremony, so when she was finished playing she excused herself silently and came back to sit with him; and, as though sensing his mood, she tucked herself under his arm and laid her head on his shoulder. That was good. But somehow it wasn't enough.

Once the service was over and the bride officially kissed, the congregation began to break up, heading off to the reception at a nearby hotel while the wedding party lined up in various combinations for photos and so forth. This was, Caitlyn indicated, the proper time for them to sneak the harp out and bus it over to the reception, where Caitlyn would play until the newlyweds showed up, at which point Caitlyn was done and could go home or stay for a free dinner at her discretion. Working together, the Stanfords got the harp into the reception hall without too much trouble; Caitlyn was right, it was much easier with her help. Nonetheless, Jon remembered her father doing it all singlehandedly, and resolved that he would like to be able to do the same. There was a certain pride, and a certain masculinity, that he felt obligated to uphold.

Caitlyn chattered on about the things she was seeing at this wedding and its reception, and the ideas she was getting for their own shindig. "Do you realize we only have five weeks left before it happens? Things are mostly in shape—the photographer is coming, the food's set up, the hall is rented, they got the flowers figured out, and I talked to some friends about the musical side of it—did you ask Octapella if they wanted to sing? Heck, did you ask them if they wanted to come? 'cause they're totally invited. Anyway, I think things are in good shape, but I just love the things they did with the flowers here. I mean, it's a sit-down dinner..."

Jon was thinking about dollar signs. "How much would that add in terms of cost?"

"Oh, gosh, I dunno. Maybe... Seven or eight hundred?"

Jon winced. In other words, double or triple what we're making here tonight—and frankly, we're getting overpaid for being here. "Caitlyn, I'm not sure that kind of expenditure is... really that wise. Especially in light of how much money we've been spending recently. I mean, we just bought a truck, for heaven's sake."

"I thought that was an investment," she said, her voice cool. "So that I could do gigs."

"Well, yes, but only kind of," he said, "because cars depreciate. It's more an expense. Besides, you've only played one gig so far. We'll have to go to, like, twenty more before we even break even."

"That's true," she said, though it was clear from her voice she didn't like it. Then she gave a sigh and put her smile back on. "Oh, well. A girl can dream."

He did his best to be polite and even social throughout the event, but either he didn't do as good a job as intended, or Caitlyn knew him better than he'd thought, because as they were driving home, the squares of other cars' headlights shifting across the ceiling and the wheels thrumming under them, she laid her hand on his arm and asked, "What's on your mind?"

Jon shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing worth mentioning. I just... It was weird."

She nodded. "It is weird. I was watching Marissa come up the aisle and it was like... 'The last time I was at one of these things, that was me.' Before, I never even flickered an eyelid at weddings, but I think it may be different now."

"Makes you think, doesn't it."

"Yeah. Marissa's like 28. Her husband is 30. And here I'm..." She gave a helpless shrug. "Makes you wonder. How do people get to where they are. What weird tricks of fate or God or coincidence brings you here, and them there."

"Well, if you want to know the specifics..." Jon said. "Maybe it just took her longer to find the guy of her dreams."

"And maybe she didn't have parental lurking to force her to jump into bed with him early," Caitlyn said.

"As for us..." Jon said, ignoring her comment and the can of worms it implied. "We met each other, and were smart enough to give each other a chance. And plus we weren't... We didn't have that whole mindset of, you know, 'I don't want to be tied down, I want to just go out and live life and do crazy things.' We were ready to settle down."

"That's true," she said. "We didn't hesitate about... Going for what we saw. Can you imagine what might've happened if one of us was like, 'Yeah, it's nice, but I don't want to get serious'?"

"We sure wouldn't be here, let me tell you that."

"Yeah." Her hand tightened on his arm. "I can't imagine what that'd be like. I don't even want to imagine what it'd be like. To not have everything we have... To not be... Here. With you. In this car, doing this thing. Doing everything we do."

"Dinner.

"School."

"Laundry."

"Dish-washing.

"Gigs."

"Work."

"Sex."

"Yes, definitely. I just... The last time I played a wedding was... Actually, it was the day before ours, come to think of it. But I'd been doing them since I was, like, twelve. And... I just remember being there, playing these songs and watching all these beautiful brides coming up the aisle, and thinking... 'How am I ever gonna get that. I wanna be the one in the beautiful dress. I wanna be the center of attention. And for that... I need a husband.' And I would shake my head and think, 'Like that's ever gonna happen.' I was twelve, I was home-schooled, I didn't know anybody, I'd never had a crush on anyone or had anyone have one on me... I thought I'd be stuck where I was. With my family. For the rest of my life."

Jon reached up to grab her hand with his own.

"And, I mean, this was before sex. Like I knew what that was. Mom didn't say a thing about where babies came from, I learned that from... Jeez, who'd I learn that from? One of the other home-school kids. His mom told him. And I asked Nathan and he was completely surprised, like, 'You're kidding, what are you talking about? Mom always talked about the stork.' And then when we asked Mom... Huh. Boy, that was a mess."

"I can imagine."

"We didn't tell her who told us. Nate lied, and I just followed his lead. So Mom never knew."

"How old were you?"

"Like... Eight."

"Wow. That might be kind of young. I didn't know until I was ten. I learned it from school, my parents didn't tell me either. ...Well, I mean, I knew about the pregnancy stuff, but they always glossed over how the sperm got there."

"We got the whole kit and caboodle. And yeah, it was a little young for me, I didn't get it. But Nathan was twelve. I bet it was a little different for him."

"Probably."

"Anyway, I was just... I mean, I'd be fourteen, sixteen years old, watching this bride come up the aisle, and thinking, 'She's going to be with her husband. They're going to know each other Biblically.' And, the thought didn't really have any appeal to me, you know? It was just... It was a fact of life. I knew if I wanted to have kids, I'd have to do it, but I didn't think it was anything special. Especially because I didn't think it was ever gonna happen.

"And then you came along." Her hand squeezed his. "You came along, and suddenly... I had hope. I had hope again, and I could... I could keep going. I could play those weddings and watch these brides walk down the aisle and think, 'That could be me. For the first time in my life, there is an actual chance that, one day... That could be me.' "

They had decided not to get an extra-long cab with a back seat, but had compromised by going for a truck with no center console, so that three could sit on the front bench. Caitlyn slid across it now to wrap herself around his arm; Jon gave her a little of that before tucking it around her, drawing her in.

He saw the whole thing in a new light now. Playing those weddings, every time—Caitlyn had longed to be that woman. And, with every gig, the dream had grown, as she collected each little tidbit and idea and added it to the fantasy in her heart. Of course she had plenty of ideas for what the reception should be like; in her place, so would he. And here he was, being all frugal and telling her to tone it down—when, for that matter, he had almost denied her her dream in the first place: sure, she was married, and (please God) happily so, but all the pomp and circumstance had been rushed or even dismissed in the chaos. What was supposed to be the happiest day of a woman's life, and they had blundered into it with barely a few hours' notice.

It was her dream, and she had given it up to be with him.

"Caitlyn... I'm sorry for being... Stingy. About it. I mean, I know you're the accountant, I know you've been doing this for ages—I'm sure you know what you're doing, and how to do it cheaply. I just... I can't help..."

"Toting up the dollar signs," Caitlyn said. "And you're right, I probably am kind of... Cavalier about spending money on it. It's just... This is my day, Jon. I want it to be..."

"I know, and it should be. It should be perfect. That's what my baby deserves." His arm tightened around her. "So... Next time I complain, you remind me of that."

"Okay." She snuggled against him. "And next time I go crazy, you keep being the voice of reason. It works out well that way."

Silence for a time.

"Don't forget to buckle," Jon said finally.

She rolled her eyes. "You're not going to crash."

"Hopefully not, because I have the most important thing in the world in here with me," Jon said, "as well as the thing that's most important to her." He tossed his head to indicate the harp in the back. "But, on the off-chance that something does happen, I want to make sure both those things survive. I mean, how do you think I'd feel if I let you put yourself in a position to be turned into paste on the backside of the windshield?"

Caitlyn rolled her eyes again: "Oh, baby, that really turns me on." But she did buckle her seatbelt, so Jon called it a victory.

"So..." she said. "Babies."

Jon felt himself jump a little involuntarily. "What about them?"

"Well, we're going to have them one day, aren't we?"

"I... Presume so. Seeing as both of our stated goals are to be good parents. That kind of requires baby-having."

"You're going to be such a good father," Caitlyn said, smiling. "I can just see it now."

"I'd rather not see it now," Jon replied. "We have like no money in our bank account. We'd be just as screwed as Brandon and Meredith."

"They're doing okay."

"They've gotten really lucky. We might not."

"We could ask your parents for help. We could ask my parents for help."

"Let's not. They would probably impose, like, restrictions and requirements on us. Like, we'd have to take the kids to Sunday school every week or something."

"What's wrong with that?" Caitlyn protested.

Jon grimaced. A fine time this was to leave his tongue unguarded. "Nothing. Forget I said anything."

"No, tell me, Jon," Caitlyn said, louder this time. "What's wrong with that?" Clearly, his reassurances had been less than reassuring.

"Nothing's wrong with Sunday school, Caitlyn," Jon said. "Because, God only knows, we should totally let your parents encourage their grandkids to turn out exactly like them."

"There is nothing wrong with Sunday school, Jon," Caitlyn ground out. "It's true that Christians make mistakes, but I challenge you to find people of any creed who are perfect. And there are still good things to be learned. Like loving your neighbor. And being content with your current circumstances."

It was an implicit criticism of his impatience for sex throughout their courtship, and it made him angry. "And deciding that if you try hard enough, you can force other people to be someone they're not?"

"You just don't get over that, do you," Caitlyn said.

"No, Caitlyn, I don't. It's an extremely dangerous mindset. It's selfish like no one's business, and it describes spiritual maiming as justified as long as it achieves the attacker's goals."

"Jon, my parents wanted me to change certain things about themselves. So do you. So do I. We all agree that I'm not perfect. It's like surgery to remove something unneeded or unnecessary."

"Yes, but they don't agree that you have any right to decide for yourself what should change. You and I perform surgery. They use an axe."

"Our kids aren't going to learn that."

"Are they?"

"Who would teach them?"

"Your parents, for one. And maybe us, if we're not careful."

"Then it gets learned," Caitlyn said.

Jon was appalled. "So. Basically. You're saying that it's okay for us to screw our kids up the same way we were screwed up by our parents."

"Jon, we didn't get 'screwed up.' We turned out okay."

"Yeah, you know who else says that? Abusive parents. The first time they lay hands on their child. And maybe every time thereafter. 'My folks did it to me, and I turned out okay.' No you bloody well didn't. Caitlyn, you're screwed up. So am I. So are your folks, so are my folks, so's just about everyone we know. Some way, somehow, we were all screwed up by our parents. And if we, you and I, are really serious about not screwing up our kids in turn, the first step is admitting that we are screwed-up, and that we need to not just blindly repeat what our parents did."

"Well, fine, we're screwed up," Caitlyn said. "You're absolutely right that we need to be careful, and that we can't just do it carelessly. But that doesn't mean the church is out, Jon. Christianity isn't about screwing up your kids—if anything, it's the best example we have for not screwing them up."

"Every parent I've known who messed their kids up this way," Jon said, "has called themselves Christian."

"So? Every one of them was alive too, weren't they? Isn't it you Psych majors who say that 'correlation does not prove causation'? They may appear together, but that doesn't mean one causes the other; it could be just coincidence."

"Or there could be a third factor that causes both," he said. "And yes, perhaps Christianity is benign. But my point is we have to judge that. We have to see with our own eyes and make our own decisions. And if it turns out to be encouraging us to hurt our children..."

The car had stopped long ago, and now he turned to her. He was surprised to realize that she had tears in her eyes.

"It's funny," she said, "how it always turns out that there's something I have to change. Give up my parents. Give up my religion. Give up my dream wedding. Give up something that's important to me. When do you change, Jon?" Her voice was choked and flinty. "You're so smug in your little viewpoint, so content with your logic and secularism... Well, answer me this, Jon: when do you start having faith? When do you start giving people second chances? When do you start supporting someone even when they want something you don't?—loving them, in other words? When, precisely, Jon Stanford, do you change?" She shut the door behind her and ran up the stairs.

This was how Jon found himself in the winter darkness, out in the falling snow, trying to get the harp out of the car by himself. With all the wetness he wasn't too sure of his footing, but on the third try he got the wheels down and the harp undamaged. And, in truth, he wasn't looking forward to getting back inside all that much. Slowly, taking his time—well, one should be conscious of treacherous footing, especially when pushing a harp which was actually more expensive than the car that bore it—he got up to the elevator and then into the apartment.

The bedroom door was closed. There was a thick blanket and a pillow in front of it. Jon felt a sinking feeling, like someone had cut off his entire bottom half and everything inside him was just dribbling out. But there was nothing to be done—was there?—except get on with it. Crying or assigning blame wouldn't help him now. He maneuvered the harp back into its corner, picked up the blanket and pillow, and made himself comfortable on the couch. It was not much more than a canvas hammock, built for lightness and radical design; he decided that they should replace it with a more conventional piece of furniture forthwith, at least once they had the financial recourse to do so.

Caitlyn slept out here once. She just... Took it upon herself. Voluntary exile. And this thing is not comfy. She's right, whenever things go wrong in this relationship it seems to be her who has to change. Whereas I... If I had to give up something that was important to me, for the sake of my kids... What if I couldn't sing anymore? What if, say, Octapella took off, and we were touring and making lots of money somehow, but Caitlyn was pregnant and needed me to come home? What if I didn't have that part of myself? What if I had to give it up? He didn't have to answer that question. Caitlyn was right.

And yet she knows I'm right. She knows that, if we're united in the goal of not screwing up our kids, whoever they may be and whenever they may happen, we have to be willing to do anything, change anything—be anything—for their sakes. A time has to come when we're willing to say, 'What our kids need is more important than what we want.' Our own parents were never able to say that... And she and I paid the price for their immaturity.

And that's why we're both alone tonight. Because we're both right, and we can't stand that.

The thought had a strange, if fearful, symmetry to it. He found the alarm-clock function on his cellphone, set it to wake him for work the next morning, and fell asleep, deciding not to contemplate the unthinkable. Deciding not to think about what would have to happen if one day she said, No, that's not my goal; no, Jon, we are not united.

It was better to sleep than to think about that.

Day 60

Thursdays were not Caitlyn's favorite day.

She had only one class on Thursdays: Jazz Theory, which was full of interesting sounds and blue notes and fun different chords that she hadn't thought were possible. Jazz Theory also had, by far, the best classmates in it: a lot of excellent musicians with a lot of skill. But before Jazz Theory was her oboe lesson with Mrs. Klein—only half an hour before, which left her scant time to get any food down her gullet unless she wanted to eat at three when she got home. And then she had Orchestra practice from 5:30 to 7:30, which was right when Jon was starting to get home and have some dinner. He'd already gotten into the habit of delaying the meal until she arrived, but the long and the short of it was that, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, after he left in the mornings she didn't see him again or hear from him again until dinner. The exact combination of classes and scheduling seemed designed perfectly to stymie any attempts at communication: she couldn't call him but for a couple minutes because she was too busy eating; and after his lunch break was over, that was that. It couldn't've been worse if they'd tried.

In addition, on this particular Thursday Jon didn't wake her up for any bed play; instead, he simply woke up and left while she was still asleep. Indeed, the first indication she had of his presence was the sound of the front door closing behind him.

For a moment, she lay in bed biting her lip, trying not to cry. There was no one to see her, but it still wouldn't do to be this... Flighty. She was a grown woman. There was no reason to get all tearful just because her husband had left her without saying a word. Shouldn't she be grateful that he had let her sleep?

But... Ever since that fight last Saturday... It's the same as when we had the fight last month. He isn't on the couch anymore, but he's just been more... Distant. He isn't as touchy-feely, he doesn't initiate sex as much... Like, ever. And when he doesn't do that, I'm scared to try it myself, for fear of... What, of being turned down? Of discovering that there's something he needs to tell me that will just bring all of this crashing down? That's not gonna happen. Why should I be so scared of losing my husband?

...Then again, when you put it that way, why shouldn't I be?

I need to talk to him about this. Whatever is bothering him, whatever is on his mind, we need to talk about it and get over it. Instead of letting it come between us like this. We need to... Get rid of it, so that it can't foul the waters between us.

What an excellent realization for a Thursday morning!

Feeling strangely hopeless, she heaved herself out of bed.

Most of the morning was spent on last-minute oboe practice, to make sure everything was in shape for Mrs. Klein. In the actual lesson, Caitlyn thought she did fairly well; she kept her head and didn't make too many mistakes. She should've known better, though, than to try to hide her mood from her teacher; Janet Klein had always been excellent at reading people.

"Caitlyn, we're never going to get anywhere if you're this distracted."

"This... Why, what's going on?" Caitlyn asked.

"Well, you just played that four-measure repeat section about five times," said Mrs. Klein. "You seem to like it a great deal." She was smiling. "Is there something you need to tell me about those measures? Something scandalous, perhaps?"

Caitlyn lowered the oboe. Unless marked otherwise, you were only supposed to observe a repeat marking once; to follow it blindly over and over was something either a moron or a comedian would do. Caitlyn was not Victor Borge, so she knew which option was left.

"Seriously, Caitlyn, what's going on? Your head's been in the clouds since you got here. Funny thing is, your playing's been better than ever. Maybe you should come in distracted every day." She gave Caitlyn a look: half-glowering, half-amused.

"Sorry, Mrs. Klein," said Caitlyn. "It's just... It..." She gave a sigh. "It's Jon."

"Oh, you mean that guy you married two months ago?"

"Yeah," said Caitlyn, humorless. "Him."

"So what's going on?" Mrs. Klein said.

"I... It..." said Caitlyn. And then it all came spilling out: the barbed discussions about the reception, the fight, the presence of her parents. "And on top of it, there's something Jon doesn't want to talk about. I don't even know what it is, I just know it's there. Because he isn't... He isn't being affectionate, he's barely speaking to me... We don't even do it when he gets like this, and he was looking forward to that since the moment we started dating. It's like... It's like he's scared of what will come up if we actually talk."

"So why don't you say something?" Mrs. Klein said.

"Because," said Caitlyn. "I'm scared of what'll come up if we actually talk."

"Well. What do you do normally when you guys have a fight?"

Caitlyn gave a bitter laugh. "We don't. We never really fought while we were dating, it's only been since we got married. ...I'm not saying we haven't had disagreements or anything, it's that we never fought about them—we just talked it all out, he never lost his patience and neither did I. I guess we never talked about anything important... No, that's not true, is it; we found out a lot of things about each other." They'd shared their goals and dreams long before they'd been married; what Pastor Pendleton had once said, about sharing core values, they had known instinctively for more than a year before he said it. "We just... We never met anything we didn't want to talk about."

"So, talk about it. Don't let him deflect it."

"Yeah, but... I'm not gonna see him until way later tonight. Like, after orchestra practice."

"Why not?"

"Because he's at work until I leave, and then I'm at orchestra for two hours."

"What about before then? Can you visit him?"

"I... I don't know, actually. He hasn't even been working there for two weeks, I don't want to..."

"Why don't you find out? I mean, don't be insistent, but, ask if you can talk to him for five minutes. Or leave him a message. I'm sure there's some way to get in contact with him."

"But what would we say in that amount of time? I don't think this is a discussion we can have in five minutes." Especially since we like make-up sex.

"Hmm, that is a good point. But seriously, Caitlyn, I hope you understand what I'm getting at. There's always a way. Tell him you want to sit down and talk with him. Tell him you want to apologize."

"But I haven't done anything wrong," Caitlyn protested.

"Perhaps you haven't, but it's better than telling him, 'We need to talk,' and having him come in on the defensive. Besides—" Mrs. Klein gave a broad smile. "In my experience, it's very rare for any husband or wife to be able to say, 'But I haven't done anything wrong,' and have it be true. Our spouses know exactly what to say to push our buttons—and we know the same about them. It happens unintentionally a lot of the time. But if you said it, you have to be responsible for it."

"So," Caitlyn said, "if I say I want to apologize, he's more likely to be willing to listen. Plus, I probably have something to apologize for."

"Exactly. And, of course, so does he. So why not take the approach that raises the chances of both of you doing so?"

It was practical advice; and good advice too, as Caitlyn was concerned. Ever since I got married, all sorts of people have interesting things to say to me. I wonder if that's a coincidence. —Well, no, it's not; I think the more important question is, why they waited until now to tell me. Maybe because I didn't need it until now? Maybe because I wasn't prepared yet to hear it?

After her lesson was done, she took Mrs. Klein's advice and called Jon. At the very least, she could make contact. And it scared her more than she could say that Jon didn't pick up. He had never done that before. Nonetheless she plowed on with her message. "Hello, Jon, it's—" (your wife) "—Caitlyn, just... Just calling to see if you had a spare second. I know it's a crowded schedule today, but I... I really hope we can find some time to sit down and talk. I don't know what's come between us, but I don't want it there. I just don't. There shouldn't be anything separating me from my husband..." She felt tears threatening her composure and forced herself to bear down. "Let's work this out. Okay?

"If you have any time or you want to answer, please don't call until I'm out of class at 2:30, but other than that... I'm looking forward to hearing from you. I love you. ...Bye."

He didn't call; instead, her phone made a noise she'd never heard before—in the middle of class, too. But barely had she begun to dive for it when the noise stopped. Afterwards she flipped the phone open and saw a new indicator: New text message.

"New text message? How do I read that?"

Her classmate Marissa Helmsley—Marissa Caruthers now, as it was her wedding Caitlyn had played at last Saturday—stopped to help her. "You don't know how to read text messages?"

Caitlyn just shrugged helplessly. "I always just called people. Maybe it's— Oh, no, that must've been the Cancel button. Oh, no. What if it was from Jon? How do I read it? Is it gone forever? What do I do??"

"Calm down, missy," said Marissa, grinning. "You're a married woman now, just like me. ...Jesus. I'm 28 years old and you don't know how to read text messages? Here, gimme that. You don't need to be anywhere, do you?"

"No, this is my last class of the day. I was just..."

"Good, me too. Let's sit down. This shouldn't take long in any case."

Caitlyn let them into the harp room and they sat down. Within moments, Marissa had divined out the inner workings of Caitlyn's cellphone. "Here, you just go into the main menu, and then see here?"

"Oh, yeah, I see it," Caitlyn said. "...Jeez, I probably could have figured that out myself. If I were clear-headed."

"Plus, it's easier when someone else just shows you," Marissa said. She hit the Cancel button again and the screen blanked. "Now, show me how I got to that menu."

Once she was satisfied that Caitlyn could now receive (and send!) text messages at her discretion, she left, making some veiled references to a husband she needed to go home and get nasty with. Well, the getting-nasty was pretty blunt; it was the husband who seemed to be a mysterious part of the equation. Caitlyn shook her head and read the text message. It was indeed from Jon, who said that, if she would like to swing by at any time, his supervisors had authorized him to take ten minutes off to talk to her, and that driving instructions had been e-mailed to her. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

Caitlyn walked home, dropped off her backpack, printed out the instructions, and found the keys to LeRoi. Jon was still driving his old Celica, Buffy, to work every day. Did that say something about his preferred level of masculinity? Did it say something about his comfort zone? Or was it simply that the sedan got better gas mileage? Caitlyn was fine driving the truck; she had driven her parents' vehicles plenty of times. She liked the feeling of power LeRoi gave her. She liked the feeling of being tall. She was 5'3 and descended from a family where no one was shorter than 5'9, including Aunt Velma; 'tall' was not something she could often ascribe to herself.

She got to the place: Shellview Medical Federation, an organization Caitlyn's parents had always sneered at for no good reason she could see. She missed the first parking lot and had to take the next one down. She parked her car, walked up to the receptionist's desk, and, after a moment's consideration, asked if her husband Jon Stanford was on site. The woman behind the desk spoke to a phone. Less than a minute later, he was jogging in from the other side of the building.

"I thought you'd park over there," he said, not even breathing hard.

"I..." She shrugged. "I've never been here before."

"Let's sit down," he said.

They took chairs in the corner of the room, a fair distance from the other patients waiting to be attended to.

"So, what's going on?" he said.

"I just..." she said. "I wanted to see you."

"You would've seen me tonight," Jon said.

"I haven't seen you since Marissa's wedding," Caitlyn retorted. "You've just been so..." She took a deep breath. "That wasn't how I was supposed to start. Mrs. Klein told me to say I wanted to apologize."

"For what?" Jon said. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"That's what I said. But Mrs. Klein said that, in most marriages, that's almost never true. Everyone's done something wrong. It's just a matter of identifying it."

"Well, you tell her that—" Jon began, but was interrupted when her cellphone began chirruping again. She looked at it, sighed, and flipped it open. It was her mother.

"Good afternoon, Caitlyn. Your father and I just had something come up for tomorrow night, and we were wondering if you were free for dinner tonight instead."

Caitlyn felt a vague sense of vertigo. "...Tonight? Mom, it's Thursday. I have orchestra practice on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Remember? You used to have to take me there. That hasn't changed."

"Well, we could wait until afterwards. —Or, even better, you could tell Jon that was where you were going, and come with us instead."

"Wait, wait, let me get this straight. You want me to skip orchestra practice, to come to dinner with you guys... And without Jon?"

"It's Rebecca's Parliament, dear, I'm sure he wouldn't want to."

That was true, as far as it went; Rebecca's Parliament was a tea establishment given over to profusions of ribbons, lace and (no point in denying it) girly stuff. Jon would look like a vulture in a flower bouquet... But her father would look like a tyrannosaur. "If he's not invited, I'm not invited either, Mom. And besides, I do have orchestra."

"Well, what about next Thursday then? I'm sure you could ask for the day off, and we're not doing anything special."

Jon spoke before she could open her mouth. "Today's February seventh. Next Thursday is Valentine's Day. The answer is No."

She didn't like the peremptory way he said it, but he was still right. "You may not be doing anything special on Valentine's Day, Mom, but Jon and I are."

"Valentine's Day? Has that come up on us already? My goodness, where has the year gone? Well, if can't be helped, it can't be helped. What are you doing for Valentine's Day?"

Jon motioned to have the phone. "Mrs. Delaney, this is Jon. As a matter of fact, I haven't told her yet, because I've been planning a surprise. So Caitlyn wouldn't know what's happening. But, suffice it to say, there are plans, and we do plan to celebrate."

There was indistinct noise from the phone; Jon was holding it on the same side she had, meaning the phone was on his outside ear. Whatever her mother was saying, Jon looked surprised.

"Well, yes," he said. "Mrs. Delaney, I don't know what your experience has been, but if you ask me, a marriage simply means more opportunities to be romantic and to get to know each other. I don't intend to stop treating her well just because I see her every day.

"...All right. All right." He still looked surprised as he handed the phone back. "She wants to talk to you again."

"Well, I'm glad to see he's taking care of you, at least," said Mrs. Delaney. "You never know with some of these people."

This was such a tangential comment that Caitlyn decided to let it pass. "Yes, Mom, he does. And when he doesn't, I sit him down for a stern talking-to. A girl's got to have some standards, you know."

"Well, I'm glad you've learned that at least, Caitlyn. We'll call you if our schedule changes. Have a good evening."

"Bye, Mom."

She hung up, put the phone away, turned to Jon. She felt the weight settle back in her stomach: they still hadn't broached the issue at hand. "Now. Where were we?"

But, to her surprise, Jon put his arm around her shoulder and drew her to him. "You were defending me in front of your mother."

"I guess I was. The weird thing is, she listened this time."

"My beautiful wife was reminding me why I love her."

"Oh?" she said, feeling a pleased smile on her face. "Why do you love her?"

"Because she loves me."

"But she loves you because you love her. That's circular. How'd it get started?"

"Well, I started loving her because she's beautiful."

"Oooh, now there's a ringing endorsement." She gave him a wry smile. "You know what they say is the first to go."

"Because she's beautiful," Jon said, "and brave. So brave that she would stand up to her own mother to keep me at her side. Which I don't think I actually appreciate as much as I should."

"Well," she said. "It gets easier and easier."

"No, don't do that, sweetie, don't just let me off. Don't let me take you for granted. Look me in the eye and say, 'You don't. And don't you forget it, buster.' Have pride in yourself. God only knows, you deserve to."

She smiled at that. "That's not my way, Jon. Never has been. And I look forward to the day you take me for granted. I look forward to the day when we know each other so well that we don't even have to think about it, the other is just... Just there, and ready to support us." She put her arm around his waist. "I look forward to being even more one person with you."

He thought about that for a second, and then kissed the crown of her head. She leaned against him, feeling his head settle atop hers, and felt closer to him than she had in days.

"Unfortunately..." he said. "I have to get back to work soon. Ten minutes, remember."

"Yeah."

"So... You were saying we both had some apologies to make?"

"Yeah." She sighed. Mrs. Klein was right, of course; but that didn't make it any easier to do. "I'm sorry for... Well, honestly, I'm not sure what I did to make you pull away from me. But I'm sorry for doing that. I would never want you to... Jon, when I say 'I love you,' that really doesn't cover it, it's such a lame expression. I mean, yes, I love you, but it's more like... I need you. You are me. So much of who I am is because you've encouraged me be that person, or made it possible to do it... I don't know what I'd do without you. I couldn't be without you. Without you, I couldn't be."

His arm tightened around her for a moment.

"So, the next time I do something that pushes you away, please, tell me, because it hurts me to hurt you and I never want to do that, I don't... It only hurts us for you to be silent like this."

"Yeah," he said. "And I guess that's where I come in. I'm sorry for pulling away, Caitlyn. I'm sorry for... For being scared."

"For being scared of what?" she asked. "What did I do?"

"I..." Out of the corner of her eye she saw him mop his face with his free hand. "Honestly, I don't know. I'm not entirely sure. I think it's that... I think it's that I'm scared of losing you."

She pulled out of his grip, astonished. "Of losing me? Of losing— Jon, I just told my mother that we aren't going anywhere without each other! That I would be diminished without you! How could you be scared of losing me?"

"I don't know!" he exclaimed. "I don't know! I just... I know that it could happen. I know that... Caitlyn, there's so many things that draw us together, but there are things that push us apart too. Things that... I mean, yeah, they look like details, maybe, but sometimes details matter. And, just... I'm scared that, maybe, one of these things will come up. And you'll discover, and you'll realize... Because, Caitlyn, what you said about yourself, about 'I love you' being insufficient—that's true for me too. That's true for me too. So when it looks like something might be threatening us, like there's something that might cause me to lose you..."

"Like...?" she said.

He closed his eyes, heaved up a deep sigh.

"...Like your parents," he said. "I just don't... Caitlyn, you know that they want you back. You know that they're only talking to us now, that they're only putting up with me, because it's the only way to have you in their lives. And, even though they're being polite about it now, there haven't been any signs that they've given up on plotting to take you back. I mean, yes, that's unfair; maybe they are playing it straight. But you know it's my way to assume the worst, and besides... Just, just knowing their track record... Caitlyn, even from an objective viewpoint, I think they might be a threat."

Caitlyn said nothing. There was a great deal she could say to the contrary, after all; but Jon had heard the phone conversation. And, to be perfectly honest, she thought he might be right.

"And... Every time, every time, you've been loyal to me, you've stood up to them and refused to let them lure you away. And... I know that. And it means more to me than I can say. But, just... Every time they show up, every time they call, every time we see them... It's irrational. But there it is."

She kissed his cheek. "Yes, your feelings are irrational. But a wise man once told me that it doesn't matter how logical your feelings are—they're still there, and you just have to deal with them. He was a smart person, that man. That's probably why I married him." She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close.

"I'm just scared," he whispered. "I'm just a coward."

"It's okay," she murmured. "It's okay to be scared sometimes." How often had he done this over the course of their love—being there for her, being strong for her. For once—just once—it was her turn instead. "That's why you have people who love you. To keep you strong when you'd rather turn away."

"God, can you skip orchestra practice? I don't want to wait until 7:30 to see you."

She smiled. "Hon, you waited for twenty-four years. Four more hours won't hurt you."

"No, it's not even that, it's... We haven't touched each other for this long since Saturday. We haven't talked this long since Saturday. And... I miss it."

"Well, whose fault was that," she retorted, grinning.

"I know, I know," he said, not laughing. "I screwed up. But now that we're un-screwed up, I... This is the most important thing in the world to me: you. Us. Let's get back to it."

She kissed him gently. "Have dinner waiting for me, and you're on."

For the first time in days, she saw him smile. "Your wish, my love, is my command."

Only, it didn't work out that way in the end. Because, as she was driving home from Jon's office, her cellphone rang again. It was not, as she expected, her mother. It was Harold Cheng, mentioning that he hadn't heard from them lately, and would they care to, say, have dinner together tonight? It was a not-so-subtle reminder that Harold had no other friends, and that they hadn't spoken to him for nearly two weeks. Caitlyn felt immensely guilty.

So when she got home, Caitlyn sent her first text message to Jon. It took a little while to figure out the typing interface, but she got it in the end: dinnr w Harold 2nite 8 PM dont cook k? It also took her an age to find the question mark; she didn't even try for the apostrophe.

Jon didn't answer. She hoped he'd be okay with it. But, if he was okay with it, why wasn't he answering?

What would he do? Would he just ignore her instructions and have dinner ready for them? No, that wasn't his style; there were levels of rebellion he was capable of, but they didn't reach nearly that far. Would he refuse to go? She hoped not. She felt bad for Harold, but that didn't mean she wanted to brave that lion's den without Jon. But she'd given her word to Harold too. What a mess. When Jesus told us to love our neighbors, did he anticipate crowds like this?

When she got home from orchestra practice, Jon was sitting on the couch watching TV. That in itself was unusual; to her knowledge, he'd never turned the thing on before. At least he'd gotten the message.

"Hey, hon," she said. "Ready to go?"

He flipped the TV off, but didn't move. For a moment, there was silence.

"Did you plan to ask me if I was interested?" he said.

"...Aren't you?" she said.

"Well, first off, it's Harold," said Jon. "He's going to spend half an hour rambling about his latest programming project or the equipment he needs for his Shaman in World of Warcraft, and the next half-hour complaining about why girls won't touch him with a ten-foot pole. As if he hadn't answered that question already."

Caitlyn said nothing. It was rather harsh, but completely true as far as it went. I'm a nice guy, Harold would rant, I make a lot of money, I have a good job, I live on my own. Girls should be falling over me. They just don't know what they're looking for. Harold was closed to the idea that he might need to change. He seemed to expect everything to fall into his lap just as he was. And, the Stanfords agreed, until he got over that attitude, there wasn't much they could say to him.

"Second off, weren't we going to spend some time on us? Weren't we talking about getting back to what's important to us?"

"This is important to me," she said.

"Yes, but what about me?" he said.

"Weren't we asking about you supporting me even if I do things you disagree with?" she said.

Jon was silent.

"...I think that's something I need to apologize for," she said.

"...It is," Jon said. "But it's also true."

Caitlyn was silent.

"Look, Caitlyn... I understand that it's important to you. And I appreciate it. But I don't like you just making decisions about us without consulting me."

"Well, maybe you needed this decision made for you," Caitlyn said. "You just don't... Jon, being a Christian just isn't important to you. I'm your wife. It's my place to be strong where you're weak. And this is one of those places."

"Then how come I don't make decisions about your weak spots?" he said.

"What, you mean the bedroom? Jon, yes you do. We've been over that. And haven't I been encouraging you to do that as well?"

"Maybe you have," he said. "And maybe that makes it fair. But it still doesn't make it right. Caitlyn, maybe I'm strange, but I believe it's never someone's place to make decisions for another person. That's why I'm nervous about power play in the bedroom and that's why I'm nervous about this."

"Why?"

"Because you aren't allowing this to be the wrong choice."

"Jon, how can it be the wrong choice to get into Heaven? How can it be the wrong choice to be a good person? How can it be the wrong choice to be sitting on the docks and have someone call you to come be a fisher of men, and to follow?" She used his own words on the subject, knowing he would remember them.

Jon said nothing.

"Jon, I love you. I want what's best for you. I know this is who you want to be, even if it scares you, even if it's hard sometimes. That's what a wife is for—to encourage you to be your best self."

"That's what a husband is for too," he said. "And being your best self involves not just blindly doing what your mother does."

Caitlyn was silent. Does it all come back to them? Is that what this is about? Does it, always, come back to them?

Jon heaved a sigh and got to his feet. "Well, we'd better get going if we aren't planning to be late. You know he won't be."

"Y-yeah."

"But next time... Consult me, Caitlyn." Jon towered before her, polite but not pleased. "You're right, of course, and we both know that. But that doesn't mean you should be making decisions and then railroading me in hindsight. If you can convince me after the fact you can convince me before. So why not do it in the correct order next time."

"Okay," she said.

"And no plans for tomorrow, either," he said. "We still need some 'us' time."

"Tomorrow?" she said. "Forget about tomorrow, what about tonight after we get home? You don't have to leave until 9. We've got that long to... Get re-acquainted with each other." She pasted herself to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Finally—finally—he quirked a smile. "Don't think you can distract me with sex, young lady."

"Why not? It works so well on me, I figure it must work on you too." She grinned. "Besides, what better way to celebrate the fact that we just got through a fight without anybody having to sleep on the couch?"

He tilted his head, giving that some thought. "You know... I like the way you think."

It was lame, but she said it anyway: "Well, enjoy it while you can, baby, 'cause once we get home, there won't be very much 'thinking' going on anymore." She grinned.

He grinned back, and swept her out into the night.