Day 80

The apartment was silent when Caitlyn let herself in.

This was to be expected; it was lunch time, and Jon preferred not to waste gas coming home during his break. Caitlyn had herself just gotten out of class. She had walked the familiar paths feeling like an intruder; it had been an effort to keep herself from skulking. From shuttered windows she felt accusing eyes burning her skin. Or was it her own guilt she felt?

For the most part, the place was as she'd left it; certainly Jon hadn't changed the locks or anything, or else she wouldn't've been able to get back in. Everything was a little dustier and dirtier, but she supposed that was to be expected. Her harps had not been touched, which didn't surprise her; Jon was about as knowledgeable about harps as Stephen Hawking. There were dishes drying on the dishrack—ugh, why did he always insist on having the glasses in front? Some nonsense about how they went into the cabinet first. The fridge contained nothing but a half-eaten box of pizza. There was a blanket and pillow on that terrible hammock-couch: why had he been sleeping out here? There was a perfectly good bed in the bedroom; she should know, she had slept in it for most of her life. Why had he stayed out here? Without really understanding how she got there, she found herself stretched out on the couch, her head where his head would be, her feet (near) where his feet would be. Yes, it was just as uncomfortable as she remembered.

The pillow smelled like his hair.

Suddenly she had to concentrate hard to keep her composure. She sat up again, forcing herself to be still. Come on, girl. It's just... It's nothing. It's nothing. You'll get over him. He'll be a memory.

In theory, she had a letter she was going to put on the counter, where he would see it; in theory, she would leave that and then get out. Now she didn't want to move. She had bought this blanket for Jon, for no other reason than that he'd mentioned he wanted a fuzzy blanket. It was the color of steel wool and surprisingly soft to the touch. Everything here had some memory, some significance. This was the coffee table they'd seen for sale on a sidewalk—it was a sheet of pure glass balanced on gilded stilts—and that they'd haggled over for a good-natured half-hour, and then had to figure out how to wrestle home with only the space in Jon's Celica at their disposal. Those were her harps; no need to mention what they meant to her. And if she looked, she could still find the faint blotch they had left making love on New Year's Eve, which no amount of scrubbing could remove. It was subtle enough that no one had yet noticed it, but it was there.

How could she leave here? This was her home. But how could she stay? Her memories with Jon were what made it special; but was there room in her life for him anymore? More pertinently, was there room in his life for her—and all the values she brought with her? I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to do.

Sound sent her jumping out of her introspection. It was the familiar grate, click, snap of a key opening the deadbolt. But it was 12:43 PM, and Jon was at work; who the heck else would have a key? Was she about to meet a paramour of his? Had someone stolen his keys? Would—

Jon Stanford walked through the door.

For a moment there was dead silence as they stared at each other.

Jon could feel his heart thundering. He had not slept well since the day she left and to his tired eyes she was the most beautiful thing in the world. He wondered for a moment if he were hallucinating. The curve of her cheek; the dark innocence of her eyes; the flow of her hair—he felt like a man dying of thirst, finally given the water of life.

Why on earth had he decided to come home for lunch today? What bizarre instinct or prescience had prompted this?

"Uh... I..." she said. "I wasn't... I was just coming in to... To get some things."

"...Oh," said Jon. He wanted to ask why she was sitting wrapped in his blanket, but he didn't trust his voice at the moment.

"I didn't think you'd..."

"I, umm. I. I could go back."

This sounded lame even to his own ears; the awkwardness of it cost them another minute of fumbled silence.

"I guess... Next time I should, umm, call, or—"

"No, no, it's, it's, um. It's fine. I mean, you live here too. I wouldn't..."

He saw her expression sadden: after all, she didn't live here anymore. He wished he knew what to say to her. Wrapped in the blanket, pale against the dark grey of the winter clouds, there was a haunting vulnerability on her face, in her posture; she had never looked more beautiful to him. He wanted to go to her and draw her into the circle of his arms. He wanted her to live here again... But would she?

As he watched, Caitlyn visibly pulled herself together. "Umm. Thank you for the backpack, by the way. It's made life... A lot easier."

Jon shrugged. "It wasn't my idea. When Meredith and the others came..."

"You could've withheld it."

"What would be the point in that?" he said. Petty revenge was an empty pleasure to him.

"Umm, well then. I... mostly came about the harps," she said. "They... Because we were forced to buy them from my parents, and did so with money from a joint account, there is a sticky legal question about the ownership. We need to decide... About them, and also the money in the account."

"You can have them back," he said. "And we'll split the funds." The harps were worth nothing to him; there was nothing he could do with them. And having them gone would be another reminder he didn't have to deal with. "I don't... I'm not in the business of causing problems for you, Caitlyn."

"Okay," she said. He was wearing the black dress shirt she had always liked, with the wide pointed collars; it brought out the coloring in his eyes and hair, the breadth of his shoulders, strength of his jaw. Everyone looked good in black, but she had always thought he wore it better than most. Certainly better than that that fop Aidan. She never wanted to look away; she clung to the sight of him like a drowning woman. "I'm not going to take your salary from you, Jon. Whatever you've earned since we moved in together, you get to keep. If you could assemble—"

"It doesn't matter to me," he said. "I won't... I'll probably give up the apartment. It's too empty with... with one person. And why waste money on this when I could, you know, move home and... It doesn't matter to me. You'll need the money more than I will, you have to move out on your own now." It was that darned nobility of his, the one which could almost make her believe that chivalry had not died. It was one of the things about him she loved best.

"I... I'm not... I'm not moving out, Jon," she said.

She could see his face fall, and she realized he must think she had returned willingly to her parents. Which of course was true, but her parents had changed now. So had she. He thought she was willingly jailing herself again, when nothing could be further from the truth.

But what was the point of saying it? It didn't matter; not anymore.

"Well," he said. "Still. We'll split it half and half."

"No, that's not fair to—"

"It doesn't matter," he snapped. "Caitlyn, the money... doesn't matter."

Suddenly she understood: for him, the money was all about her. He didn't earn it because he needed it, which was completely accurate; she'd rarely known anyone as frugal, as content within himself. He earned it to support her—her, and all she represented. Would he quit his job after this? She hoped not: the thought of him lolling aimlessly around his parents' house filled her with sadness. Let him keep some direction, some momentum in his life. Let him find some meaning. Now that the only meaning that mattered to him had been stripped away.

"Jon, the money doesn't matter to me either," she said. After all, she felt the same way: under her parents, her needs were fulfilled. Money was a tool to buy a future with... And now that she had none, what good was it?

Jon jerked his head. "Well, fine, then, we'll give the whole darn thing to the poor. Fuck. Why's it always have to be such a battle with you?"

Because I don't want you to be alone, she thought. Because I don't want to have taken everything from you. I have to leave you something. I love you. I have to leave you something.

"Do you... Do you really mean it?"

"Mean what?" He felt instantly contrite. What a thoughtless thing to say—why hadn't he been watching his tongue? This was no longer the sort of relationship where he could just blurt out whatever was on his mind. Not anymore it wasn't.

"About... Giving to the poor?"

Jon tossed a hand. "Well, if we can't use it, we might as well give it to someone who can." Wasn't it Thoreau who had said, 'Simplify, simplify'? Surely this counted.

"That's... That's a very Christian thing to do," Caitlyn said. Her large eyes seemed to draw at him.

Jon resisted them. Did she really need to rub it in his face like that? He remembered what they'd broken up over. "It shouldn't be that much of a surprise, Caitlyn. I do try. I just don't necessarily succeed."

"Do you?" she asked.

"Fuck. I even pray now. Not like there's anyone else to talk to out here." That was true, as far as it went; sometimes the silence got oppressive, and there was only so much he could do on the Internet to keep himself occupied. (At times like this he wished he'd bothered to bring his PlayStation.) He wasn't sure he dared contact the Cranes or the Chamberses, since they had all but declared their neutrality by offering to transfer some goods to Caitlyn. And, to be honest, there was some solace in pouring out his thoughts to God. Rarely did The Big Guy ever say anything, but it made Jon feel better to think that there might be Some Eternal Ear listening to his woes. Certainly his only other conversational partner—a fellow named Jon Stanford—seemed unsympathetic to his plight.

Suddenly he remembered what they had broken up over. This was too close to dangerous territory. He shut his mouth and decided not to say anything more, and for a time there was silence.

Caitlyn finally said, "I'd... Better go. My... My mom will be wondering where I am."

"Yeah," Jon said, feeling bitterness take hold. Back she goes. Everything I offered her—all the hope, all the future, everything—and she'd rather just go back to her broken family and their broken love. I gave her everything, and she wouldn't... Why did I bother thinking anyone could change. Nobody ever does, nobody ever learns. They just keep on doing the same dumb things they were taught. ...Which means I'm doomed, because I wanted to change—I wanted to be better than just what I was programmed with.

At least now I don't have to waste my time trying.

He decided to pretend like he actually felt that way. Maybe, if he did it long enough, it would become true.

She had stood up and shed the blanket, and was now walking towards him. He took a step sideways to give her room to pass, trying to ignore how her eyes looked when he did it. He didn't want to. He wanted to plant himself in her way and never let her go.

They had long ago reached the point where their wants didn't matter anymore.

"Will you... Will you be okay?" she said.

Jon looked away. "I'll be fine. I'll live. ...This isn't the first break-up I've lived through."

He felt rather than saw her flinch away. "Well. ...Okay then." She sounded ready to cry. He had to harden his heart against it. "Good-bye."

He said nothing.

The door opened.

Suddenly he felt panic seize him. She was actually going to do it. She was actually going to walk out of his life. His wife, his dream, his woman— "Caitlyn."

She turned.

He felt his throat knot, had to concentrate to clear it out. This was not the time to garble. "Isn't there... Some way to work it out?"

Caitlyn tried not to feel hope blossom in her chest. This was not the time to break down. "I... I don't know, Jon. Why... Why wouldn't there be?"

"Well... Because... You..." His mouth was working soundlessly, as though trying words on for size, discarding three for every one. "You left," he said finally. "You said that... That you couldn't live with... With someone who... Who wasn't Christian."

She wasn't sure she could face that. How right she had been—and how wrong. "And you said that you couldn't live with... With someone who needed you to be one. You said it wasn't for you."

He was silent for a long moment.

"I..."

She watched his face—those dark, intelligent eyes; the brow wrinkled in thought. His eyebrows had always been a work of art: perfectly arched, not a hair out of place. How much she missed him!

"Maybe I..."

He put his hand to his face—the old familiar gesture.

"Maybe I... Was wrong about that," he said.

Caitlyn felt her face go white even as hope took flight in her.

"I... What you said about... About me trying... You were right," he said, his speech slow as though every phrase were a separate thought. "I should try. It's hard, and sometimes it seems crazy to me, and I don't know if I can succeed, but... I learned that. When you were gone. I learned that I should... always... Try."

He caught her gaze with his own.

"It's the right thing for me to do. For me. And for you too. Because, if you want it for me... It's right."

She could say nothing. Her heart had leapt into her throat and there was nothing she could get out around it—nothing like, Praise the Lord, or, I'm so glad for you, or, Yes, I'll take you back, YES!!! The most important moment of her life and she could not get the words out—

"But, then..." He sighed. "You're still choosing away from me. You're always choosing something else. You say Yes to everyone except me. I never know when you're going to leave me and go back to what's really important to you—"

"Jon," she forced out. The words were garbled to her ears. "What's really important to me is you."

He was silent, but in his eyes there was a light of wild hope.

"You were right, you were so right... You didn't... You were right and I was wrong. I wanted things a certain way and I couldn't see that I already had them—you were loving me, but just because you didn't... You didn't seem to be Christian, I didn't believe that... I didn't really believe that anyone loved me. I didn't believe that I could be loved. And... You were right. I shouldn't let people manipulate me, I should be willing to stand up for myself. It's okay to say No."

"You mean..." he whispered.

"Yeah," she said. "If you... If you asked me to come back..."

"Then... Then you would," he said. "Because you could."

"And you could take me back," she said. "Because you don't have any problems with me anymore."

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah."

"Okay," she said.

"So..." he said. "Would you come back to me?"

"...Yeah!" she said.

She let the door swing shut and hurtled into him. His arms settled around her as if by instinct, and the last thing she saw was his surprised face before she squeezed her eyes shut and buried her tears in his chest.

"I was wrong too," she whispered. Oh, for a second chance, a second chance, what would I have given for this... "I was so wrong to assume that... That just because you didn't follow the rules, you weren't... You were always the voice of reason, telling me to be careful."

"And you were always the voice of wisdom, telling me to be brave."

"Maybe that's how we know we're right for each other," she said. "And how could I have been so stupid!"

"I wasn't very smart either," he said.

"Next time that happens, you have to stop me, okay?"

"Only if you promise to stop me."

"Of course." She raised her head to look at him. "Baby, you don't think I'm letting you take this journey alone, do you? I want to be there. I want to see what Christ says to you. I want to see what God calls you to." She reached up to touch his face; the contact burned her fingertips. "And I want to go with you.

"And besides," she added, "I have to stay near you, so you can remind me to let myself be loved."

He raised his eyebrows. "I can't imagine how that went over with your parents. They must've blown a gasket."

"Oh, my God, Jon! You won't believe it!" (Wait, what did I just say?) "They changed! They changed, Jon! I talked to them about it and they listened! They actually listened!"

"They listened?" he said, clearly incredulous. "You talked about it?"

"Well, okay, some of it was, umm, not quite as polite as talking," she said, "but... They did listen." Even now she wasn't entirely sure how she'd done it. "They started to see that sometimes they hurt the people they love, and... They decided they didn't want to do that anymore."

"My God," he said. "People can change."

"I know, they can," she said. "Isn't it amazing? Just when you thought you knew it all. Just when you thought you understood everything."

"God walks in," he said.

"God walks in," she agreed. "And a miracle happens."

"Yes," he whispered. "A miracle happens." She felt his lips brush the top of her head.

Suddenly overwhelmed by a new freshet of tears, she pressed her face to his chest. "Don't ever leave me, Jon. Don't ever." She hung on tight, until she thought she could hear his ribs creak. "I almost made the biggest mistake of my life. Promise me you won't let me. Promise me that when I'm stupid, when something goes wrong, you'll stay with me. We'll work it out. Promise me we'll work it out."

"Yes," he whispered, drawing her in tighter. "Yes. Caitlyn, all that goes for me too. I almost lost you. We almost lost each other."

"Because we were stupid."

"Because we couldn't compromise."

"Because we were blind."

"Because we were proud."

"We were such fools."

"And let's never be fools again. Never. Never, Caitlyn, never..." And now he was crying too, his tears warm as they traced their way through her hair.

Clumsily, blind with tears, she pulled down his lips to kiss him.

Her arms stole around his neck, his around her waist. Her mouth opened to admit the caress of his tongue, and she responded to it with her own. His hands began to roam her back. Her tears were drying to frost on her face as passion consumed them. They were close, body to body, chest to chest, and she suddenly became aware of the hard warmth poking at her belly, of the ache between her legs. It had been too long, far too long. Once she had been embarrassed about these things, but now all she wanted to do was love him.

"Oh God," he breathed.

"Oh baby," she whispered.

"Caitlyn, I love you," he said. "Caitlyn, I love you so much..."

"I love you," she said. "You're my better half. I'm nothing without you."

"You're mine too. I..." He seemed to give up on words and simply kissed her again.

The bed was waiting for them. She understood now why he had slept on the couch: he couldn't bear to be in this bed without her. She would have felt the same. But now they wouldn't have to.

Her pants slid to the floor, her panties following. He fumbled at his zipper; then his cock sprang free, hard and proud and ready. As he positioned himself over her, she lay back on the bed and let sensation fill her.

In one slow thrust, he slid home.

She felt tears in her eyes again, good ones this time—happy tears. She reached up and drew his head to her breast, pressing him against her heart. And she felt a wetness, a coolness on her shirt, that might have been his tears too.

She didn't know which she wanted—to feel him close to her or to feel him inside her; to love him or to fuck him. And for a while they simply stayed there; his cock buried inside her, sharing their love and their tears and their kisses. When he began to move again it was gloriously good; she felt her breasts straining against her shirt, the buttons on his shirt pressing a line down her body. She pulled her legs up from the floor and wrapped them around him, changing the angle of his cock inside her, bringing him deeper, welcoming him home.

Jon was lost to himself, feeling only her body under his, her arms and legs cradling him, the warmth of her depths down his full length. Every sensation was heightened to him: her chest expanding against his with her every breath, her hands on his back, her every ridge and fold caressing him with every stroke. He didn't want to feel anything else. He didn't want to be anywhere else. He was home.

He moved up to kiss her as his orgasm drew closer. She must have sensed it, or known: "Come for me, baby. Come inside me. Make me your woman."

He did.

As he pushed into her, he felt the pressure like an earthquake inside him, mounting to the point of bursting. And then it was there, and he was there, and his pleasure exploded out in a great gush, rushing out into her, giving her the ultimate proof of his love and his pleasure. The walls of her pussy stroked him, wet and warm; her legs rubbed against the sides of his body; her breath caressed his ear as she threw her head back, sighing her pleasure as she felt the flood of his cum; his cock throbbed and clenched, the semen pulsing out of him; her body cushioned him, pressed up against him; and through it all was the delirious love, and the joy of having her back. His wife. His woman. His Caitlyn.

He pressed his face to hers and felt the tears there. "Never leave me," he whispered. "I love you. I need you."

"Always," she whispered.

They cuddled together under the covers, face to face, her head tucked under his, protected by the arch of his neck. He told her about the conversation he'd had with their friends, and about the feeling of confidence when he finally decided to open himself to God. She told him what Meredith and Christa had said to her, and about the argument with her parents. They made love again; this time she went down on him, pleasuring him with her mouth, making love to his penis slowly and tenderly, and this time when he came she let him come in her mouth, wanting his seed, wanting his pleasure. His cum was still unpleasant, but good too, its saltiness like the condensation of his pleasure; this time she didn't care, and swallowed it all. This time she had her orgasm, his hand between her legs and his lips teasing her neck, before she drew him back on top of her, and another when he penetrated her, her body clenching around him, feeling every ridge and vein inside her, the beat of his heart against hers. As he reached his final climax, gushing inside her, she gloried in it, drawing him close, and feeling that she would melt with love. And afterwards, still wrapped in each other, they slept.

Eventually, real life came back. Jon's stomach was rumbling, a reminder of why he had come home in the first place, and his cellphone was ringing with calls from his office and coworkers. He'd gone home for lunch three hours ago, had something happened? Where was he? And Caitlyn, who was no less hungry, called her mother as well.

"Hi, Mom?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Umm... I thought I should tell you that I won't be coming back tonight."

"Why not? Has something happened?"

"I... Well... I came home," she said.

"Caitlyn, you're not making sense here," said her mother.

Jon smiled. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Delaney."

"...Oh. —Oh! Have you reconciled?"

Caitlyn beamed. "Yes, Mom. We're going to give it another chance."

"Well, then!" said Mrs. Delaney. "That's good! Caitlyn, you left a load of laundry in the wash, so please do stop by so the rest of us can use the machine. But I'll tell your father not to expect you for dinner."

"Mo-ooomm," said Caitlyn, half blushing. "My laundry isn't that messy."

"Caitlyn, I don't even begin to comprehend whatever complicated system you have for your mountains of clothes," Mrs. Delaney said, her smile audible. "And we'll see you at church."

"Oh?" said Caitlyn. So far as she was aware, she hadn't been planning anything for Sunday. She certainly wasn't planning anything now—not with a husband to reunite with.

"Well, I presume you have a great deal to give thanks for," said her mother.

Jon smiled. "That we do, Mrs. Delaney. That we do."

They made sandwiches naked, tripping over each other, laughing, drunk with love, and ate on the couch arm-in-arm because they didn't want to let go of each other. But as the realities set in, Caitlyn felt a little more sober about things. "Jon... There's still a ways to go. We may have... We may have decided to give it another try, and work things out, but... We still have to work things out."

Jon looked at her quizzically. "Do you think it won't work?"

"No, I..." She sighed. "I shouldn't admit this, but even if you weren't able to find God, I would love you anyway. I've learned that... The hard way."

"You should admit that," he said, tilting her chin up until he met her eyes—the old familiar gesture. "That's why we're back together, isn't it? Isn't that what we had to break up to learn? That the whole point is to love each other as they are?—not as we think they should be."

"Yeah, but... Jon, it really does bug me that you won't open your heart that way."

He gave her a wry smile. "And it bugs me that you won't stand up for yourself. But I'm not going to break up with you about it."

She returned his twisted smile. "Fair enough."

"Besides, sweetie, what if I did demand it from you? If I said, 'Okay, Caitlyn, I'll love you if you become the way I think you should'? How would you react?"

She gave him a mock glower. "I'd tell you what I told my parents, which is, Screw you."

"Exactly. And if I said, 'Caitlyn, I love you, and always will, and that's why I'm concerned about blablablah'? If I said it that way?"

She saw. "Which is why breaking up isn't the right thing to do over these problems. The right thing to do is stay together."

"Because if I leave you, and if you leave me, we'll never change. But if we stay together..."

"And if you help me, and I help you..."

"Because God only knows it's easier to change if you have someone nearby to remind you to do it."

"No kidding," she said.

He sighed. "I'd be lying if I said I had perfect confidence in this whole thing either. Sweetie, you have to understand that, while I'm trying to be open to God, my faith won't necessarily be the same as yours. Not as... All-encompassing. Not as loud. If you need me to become your type of Christian, I'm not sure I ever can."

"Jon, it's not about type or flavor or whatever," she said. "My faith is different than Nathan's, which is different than Mom's, which is different from Gramma's. It doesn't matter to me what kind you have—as long as you have it."

"Okay," he said. "And... Besides," he added, "it's because I love you that I want to change."

She nodded. "It's like, 'Be deprived of my love, or be deprived of your self.' And seriously, what do you think I'm gonna choose at that point."

He smiled and kissed her forehead. "I can see your transformation took hold just fine."

"But if it's, 'Be loved, or be loved and be a better person...'"

"Yeah," he said. "And who else is worth being a better person for?"

"How did we not see this?" she said. "It's like... Completely obvious."

"At least we figured it out before we did something really stupid," he said.

"Yeah. My God, can you imagine us having to actually divorce and go our separate ways?"

"No," he said, as if it was as simple as that.

She put her sandwich plate on the coffee table so that she could hug him with both arms. "Good. Neither can I."

He held her tightly. "I don't want to be apart from you, Caitlyn. You're my better half."

She smiled into his chest. "How is that possible?—you're my better half."

"Well..." She heard him smile. "Anything's possible with God, I guess."

"Yeah. With God, and with love... Anything's possible."