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He wakes to the sound of rain. It is not the rain of a violent storm, or a heavy downpour, but the quiet drizzle of summer. He hears the slow and steady drip, drip, drip as droplets land on the open window. Hears the sound of tires tracking through puddles and the splash that comes from water hitting pavement. The air is humid and coats his lungs. It sits heavy in his chest, deep and warm and grounding.
Rolling onto his back, he glances to the right at his clock – just past 4am – and reaches to the left, but she is not there. There is a dent in the pillow where her head lay cradled all night, and a dip in the mattress that’s new. But aside from the rain, the room is quiet, wrapped in the dull gray of not-quite-morning.
As his consciousness stirs, the previous night comes into focus, tugging at the corners of his mouth. Work has been so busy – for both of them – and he’d just wanted to spend some time with her. So he’d asked her to come over, if he could make her dinner. Lately, she’s said yes more times than not, so she’d accepted the invitation with a shy smile and meet you at 8? He’d made pizza, she’d brought wine, and they’d sat on the couch for hours, talking about nothing, really. Some case work, their kids, an art exhibit she was excited about, a new poet she’d discovered. It was all surface level, but her voice is his favorite sound, and he would listen to her read the phonebook if that’s what she wanted. He was just glad she kept talking.
When she apologized for the mostly one-sided conversation, insisted it was his turn, he told her about projects he had in mind for the apartment, recipes he wanted to try his hand at. She asked him about Italy, and it didn’t feel strange to tell her about the gelato shop he loved, or the weekends spent wandering museums. She nodded along, interjected with questions and stories of her own year spent abroad.
They’d watched an episode of Criminal Minds, each one trying to outdo the other as they shouted mistakes at the screen. It was a game they used to play back when they were partners, one she almost always won. The laughter came easily then, as it did last night, and he wanted to drown in it. Throw himself into the ocean of her laugh, a rare sound these days. He wants to give her more reasons to smile, to laugh, to simply let go, so they’d started another episode, only to lose themselves to a third glass of wine and drooping eyelids.
Suddenly it had been too late for her to drive home. But Noah wasn’t waiting on her, there were no calls to return, no need to be up early, so she had accepted his offer of clean boxers and t-shirt and the left side of the bed.
But she is not there now.
In the distance, an ambulance wails. A light breeze rustles the curtains. A sliver of light from a nearby streetlamp darts across the room and he spots it, then, her clothes neatly folded on top of his dresser. She is not in his bed, but she’s still here, somewhere.
Pushing himself to his feet, he slides the bedroom door open with the intent of getting water from the kitchen, but he stops when the sound of rain gets louder. The patio door is open, water hitting the concrete tiles and echoing into the apartment. A few drops have reached the hardwood. The only light comes from above the stove, the one he leaves on out of habit, but he can see that she is standing in the middle of his garden with her face upturned toward the sky.
She is everything, he thinks, pausing to admire her. She can’t see him – her back is turned – but he can see all of her. The long, chocolate strands that cling to her cheeks and her neck. Muscular legs holding up a frame he knows is both soft and resilient. From where he stands, he can’t see the freckles stippling her arms and her nose, but they are there all the same. The shirt he lent her is soaked, clinging to her breasts and her hips, and he wants to hold her there and everywhere.
He takes a step toward her and she glances over her shoulder to catch his eye. Besides that, she doesn’t move, just waits for him to come to her.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, bare feet joining her in the shallow puddle where she stands.
“I like the rain,” she says.
It runs over his scalp in rivulets, dripping off the tip of his nose. They are shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching, and he craves the contact, so he reaches out and hooks his pinky around hers. He exhales only when she doesn’t let go.
“Thought maybe you ran out on me.” His tone is light, joking, but they both know she probably considered it.
She hums but says nothing. Instead, she tilts her head back further and lets the rain catch on her lashes and pool in the hollows of her face. Her eyes are closed, and he is slow and deliberate with his movements so as not to startle her. Shifting so they stand opposite one another, he lifts his free hand to cup the side of her face, his thumb dipping into the puddle forming below her eye. He brushes it away, fingers trailing after the water as it tracks down her cheek.
He tries to relearn the contours of her face, a vision he memorized decades ago that has since shifted. They have both changed, in more ways than one, and he wants to capture this new likeness, the sharp cheekbones and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. He brushes his knuckles along her jaw, set and rigid as she lets him explore. Beneath him, she holds herself perfectly still. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she stopped breathing, but there is a gentle rise and fall to her chest, though the rhythm is off.
God, he wants to kiss her.
Instead, he continues his careful study. He releases his hold on her pinky and brings the other hand up to brush wet strands away from her face. He runs his fingers through the soaking tendrils, settling his palm at the nape of her neck. It’s a familiar place, the only one he’s ever really allowed himself to touch. In the back of a sedan, in a hospital, undercover. He can count the number of times he’s touched her here and he can envision a thousand more.
He smooths a hand over her hairline, following the curve of her skull. There is a faint scar on her forehead he’s never asked about, but he gives himself permission to trace it now, over and over, committing it to memory like every other part of her. She is perfect in all her imperfections.
As he moves over her, her breath is shaky, but she doesn’t open her eyes. She remains frozen, like the statue Mama had wanted to get for the garden. In the rain, she is brave. She is giving him permission under the cover of early morning mist and a private terrace tucked away from prying eyes. The lines they’ve been afraid to cross have been washed away by the tributaries of a late August rain, and he feels elation rise up in his chest like blooms in spring.
On the other side of the garden wall, the city is slowly waking up. He can hear a garbage truck a few blocks down, the steady swish, swish of windshield wipers, the muffled sound of reggae from the bodega down the street. But all of that fades as the rain continues to fall around them.
Slowly, his hand drifts to her throat, presses his thumb lightly to the pulse point there. She sucks in a breath, finally letting it out when his hand moves on, to the juncture where her neck meets her shoulder. His fingers rub soothing circles across her damp skin, slipping just beneath the collar of her shirt. The skin there is olive and freckled from too much time in the sun. He tugs a little, exposing the dip of her collar bone, and watches the rain fill it.
Her fingers reach up then, curling around his wrist. He thinks he’s meant to stop, but she surprises him and uses her other hand to stretch the fabric, then guides his fingers beneath it just an inch or two. It takes him a moment to realize what she’s trying to show him, since her eyes remain closed and she isn’t offering any words of instruction. But he lets her show him the way, until his fingers brush against raised skin.
He has never seen her naked, but he has seen enough of her over the years to know this skin should be smooth, but now isn’t. First there’s one, then two, small circular bumps beneath his fingers that he’s trying desperately to place. They’re too small for bullets. They’re not moles or beauty marks that developed over a decade. He rubs his thumb over them slowly and he thinks maybe they’re–
“Cigarettes,” she says into the quiet.
His brow furrows. He is unfamiliar with this part of her and he wants nothing more than to know her, every inch of her. There are questions floating on his tongue, but he doesn’t want to disturb this fragile moment between them, so he says nothing and just watches her, waiting for whatever comes next.
In the distance, he hears the telltale roll of thunder. The rain falls heavier now, but if anything, it seems to settle the woman before him. Her breathing comes easier, and he can practically see the tension melting away, soaking into the earth beneath the soles of their feet. Her face is relaxed, and her grip on him has gone slack. She trails the tips of her fingers over his bare chest, and he feels every inch of his skin burn in their wake.
He lets the collar of her shirt fall back into place. His fingertips skim over the t-shirt, along her curves, before settling at her waist. He sinks his fingers into her flesh, enjoying the way it gives and moves around him. What she’s told him has left him adrift, but just as the rain seems to ground her, she does that for him. For a moment, he is tethered to her in the wake of a storm roiling within.
She hinges at the waist, her forehead bowed into his chest. Her breathing is slow and steady, her movements sure now. She reaches between them and pulls up the hem of her – his – shirt, then takes his right hand and presses it to her belly. He focuses on the textures there, different from the cigarette burns. These scars are skinny and long, crisscrossing her abdomen and wrapping around her side like the latticework of her ribs.
She answers his unspoken question. “Coat hanger.”
His thumb grazes each one, trying to soothe already healed wounds. He can’t see them from this angle, but they must be old. They don’t feel raw or weeping, though he’s not sure if the wetness on his cheeks is from tears or the rain. There are so many marks beneath his palm and the need for answers grows. He has to swallow each syllable down, down, down, bury them for another day. He will take what he is given and nothing more.
Carefully, she pushes his hand lower, beneath the waistband of her shorts. His heart stutters and stops as his fingertips brush against wiry curls, only to freeze when he finds the thing he didn’t realize he was searching for. He doesn’t need her to tell him what object formed the oblong, jagged scar that sits so close to her sex. A key.
“Liv.” He breathes her name into the quiet of a new day. He can see it linger between them before vanishing into the steam rising up from the pavement. Her name is an apology. A promise. A benediction. That whatever monster did this to her, he will never let it happen again.
“I’m okay,” she tells him, pulling back just far enough that she can look him in the eye. She is smiling, just a little, and her shoulders are relaxed. He studies her for long moments, but he thinks she really is – fine. She has shed this secret under the cover of a summer rain, memories cleansed beneath the spray.
He says her name again. “Liv.” Her eyes are deep pools of longing that draw him forward until they’re barely a breath apart. If either of them were to speak, their lips would touch. Blood is pounding in his ears. His fingers curl around the back of her neck, but he doesn’t pull her closer. He breathes into the silence and waits for her.
Rain coats her lips as she kisses him for the first time. He feels each year they were apart slip away as she melts against him. His hands slide up the back of her shirt and press against the warm skin there. He breathes her in through his nose and out into the cavern of her mouth, where their tongues dance and a low moan escapes. He’s not sure which one of them it comes from.
He pulls back, blinking against the deluge of water and emotion. His thumb rubs along her lower lip, and she squints up at him, pupils blown. “We should go inside,” he says, a little breathless.
But she shakes her head and slips her hand in his. “Not yet.” They stand together in the middle of an overgrown garden and turn their faces up to the sky, waiting for the sun to rise.