He stares at me, a line stenciled between his dark brows. “That’s good to know, but I talked to Dr. Musa this morning and—”
“Already? It’s only nine o’clock.”
“It was scheduled…early. So we talked about what happened.”
“You told Dr. Musa we slept together?”
“Yes.”
Maybe I should be self-conscious about it, but I’m just so damn proud. Look how far he’s come. From being basically a clam when it came to communication about real shit, to telling his therapist we slept together, presumably seeking guidance?
Training wheels off.
“And what did your therapist have to say?”
“He asked if I wanted to do it again.” His hot stare melds with mine, and the kitchen suddenly feels very small, the air between us charged and steaming.
“And you said?” I ask breathlessly.
“I said I did. I do.”
Relieved, I relax a little, licking my lips and sending him a searching glance. “So what do we do about it?”
“If we’re going to keep doing this—and I do want to, Yas—then we need to set some ground rules and be clear about our expectations.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“This is not a reconciliation.”
Of course I knew that, but the words spoken so clearly, so easily, like it doesn’t cost him anything, the idea of living the rest of his life like this, still burns.
“I know that,” I answer. “It’s just fucking.”
He shakes his head, a breath of a laugh breezing past his full lips. “It could never be just fucking, not with us. You know that. It will always feel like more, but I want to be very clear that it can’t be.”
“Got it. What else?”
“We need to keep it from the kids, from everyone for that matter, at least for now,” he says. “Not because I’m embarrassed. Who gives a damn what people think? But our kids? They’ve been through enough. All the fighting and uncertainty leading up to the divorce. Then adjusting to us being apart. Then dating other people. It’s a lot and I especially don’t want Kassim getting his hopes up.”
“And Deja?”
“I don’t know how she would respond, but we don’t even know how long we’ll want to do this. For something that could be temporary, is it worth further complicating what’s already been a difficult transition?”
“I agree.”
“And if I’m honest,” he says, taking my hand, “I want us to have this without the pressure of other people’s expectations or judgments. It’s already sticky enough without folks putting their noses in it.”
“Sticky?” I ask, rubbing my thumb across the back of his hand. “Why is it sticky?”
“How could it not be? We were married. We’re still connected in so many ways. Still in each other’s lives. What happens if you meet someone you want a relationship with? Or you decide we need to stop? Whenever this no longer works for one of us, it’s quits.”
“Got it.” I tilt my head, scanning his face. “Are those all your terms?”
“Ourterms. We should be on the same page.”
My only term is that I’ll take him however I can get him. I said if I ever got a second chance, I would take it. I’m grabbing it by the horns.
“Okay. Our terms. Are those all ofourterms?”