Sophie's Secret

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

“I get turned on by you. By the way your hands hold the wrench when you tighten the connection under the kitchen sink. By the way you respond with a sigh and collective commiseration for everyone involved when you’re stuck in traffic. Or when someone knocks into you in the grocery store and you tell them they’re all right. I get turned on by your laugh, how it bursts out when something really amuses you. And I like that what makes you laugh most is tongue-incheek humor. I get turned on by your thoughts and theories, and not only by how quickly you think, but also by how your mind wanders off on its own tracks. You don’t automatically buy into what the world is saying, or accept the answers the world accepts. I get turned on by how you look at me…”

Sophie’s words drifted off. She was making it harder for him to walk away. And if he couldn’t stay without convincing, she didn’t want him here.

But then, in spite of admonitions to herself, she added, “All of those things will still be there when you’re eighty.”

“You’re telling me you’re in love with me.”

Was she? She loved him. But was she in love with him? Was she ready for something so consuming? “I’m telling you that I’m not going to turn to some other man when you’re fifty-seven and I’m thirty-nine.”

Still studying her, he nodded. “Okay.”

Okay.

She’d parried. Offered a way out of a conversation that had gotten more personal than either one of them could handle.

And he’d accepted.

Then she remembered the bulimia. She couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep running. If she didn’t face whatever was scaring her back into a physical disease she’d thought gone forever, she could end up dead.

But she wanted to lie back down. To pull Duane down with her. To cuddle up to his chest and know that she’d be safe there forever. Or at least until daylight took the sting of darkness away.

She sucked in as deep a breath as she could manage. “Now, let’s hear worry number two.”

Chapter Seven

WORRY NUMBER TWO. Duane didn’t have them numbered. Or in any kind of order. They simply just popped up at will.

Like that damn brown bag still out on the porch. The one he hadn’t touched. Or told her about.

“Kids is another one,” he said, settling back against the bed, wishing he was dressed.

He’d be better at this with his pants on.

“Do you want to have kids?”

Feeling exposed wasn’t something Duane did often. If at all.

“I’m assuming you want them, judging by how much time you spend with Phyllis’s twins. How much you talk about them.” Having kids was another subject they’d mostly avoided. It hadn’t pertained to them in their safe little universe.

“I’m not ready to have children,” she said slowly. “But you aren’t, either. The next year’s going to be crazy for you, with campaigning and your career. Then, assuming you win, which we both know you will, you’ll have the added senate duties to consider. Certainly not a good time to think about doctor visits and building a nursery and birthing classes and midnight feedings.”

He actually hadn’t considered any of those things. Which probably proved her point.

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” he said slowly. “But neither am I sure I’m going to want to become a father at fifty. Aside from all his friends thinking I’m his grandfather, I’m not sure it would be fair to the kid. I’ve already got bursitis in my elbow. Can you see me throwing a baseball ten years from now? Or running bases?”

“Who says he’ll be a boy?”

“Softballs weigh more.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t want kids?”

He wasn’t telling her anything. She’d asked for worries. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I’ve always wanted to be a dad, always thought I would be one. But the years have passed. I’m kind of like Becca. My goals are different. I don’t want to be at risk for Alzheimer’s when my child is a teenager and thinks he knows everything. Nor do I think it’s fair to leave him hanging out there in his thirties when he needs business advice and I’m long gone.”