It's the right kind of moment for this. Not because it's her birthday, but because the clear winter night renders everything sharp-edged and pure; it's a night for truth. He kisses her, and the stars watch, and she feels a deep, peaceful certainty. That, she won't try to put into words; maybe she's a little superstitious. Like making a wish when you blow out the candle, some things are truest when they're unsaid.
If he'd said this years ago, maybe she'd have stayed. It wouldn't have been good for either of them; but laid out before her that way-- you, or no one-- could she really have walked away from that? And maybe she would have felt trapped, like that. She doesn't feel trapped now.
Stretching towards him, she kisses his cheek, gentle and quick. It's a mark of what she can't say; the promise she can't make, because the idea of breaking it is too awful to bear. Neither of them know the future, and on the day they left, wanted fugitives, she never could have imagined wanting to be apart from him; she can't know. But she can believe.
"I don't want it to be over," she says, sliding her hand into his. Not ever, she doesn't say, because she can't. But she hopes he hears it anyway.
Years ago, she'd have been right to feel trapped. He would have thought the same thing he thinks now, that it's just the truth, but it would have been some sad, desperate way to snag her on the detritus of his life. The only reason he's sure it isn't that still is because there's no expectation that it'll convince her to stay. If she walks away, it won't destroy him, however much it'll hurt; he'll still have a life in the white farmhouse on Wallis Road.
"Me, neither." He gives her a smile that kicks up a little higher one one side of his mouth than the other. "If you want to know the truth - and that's kind of our brand - I'd be fine with it if it never ended."
She can't come up with the right words for this; so she just beams back at him, her chin lifted and her smile wide. The warmth of this moment would be enough on its own to get her through the night. She leans her head against his shoulder, looking out into the night. Forever might be too much to promise, but she'll give it to him if she can.
Don't you ever just want to stop? Get out of the damn car? She remembers asking him that, once, staring into the abyssal darkness of the desert. Even then she'd been tentatively trying to draw up a future around the idea of them, finding it at odds with her notion of a normal life-- a laughable thing, to think back on. As though normal had ever had much meaning for them.
She lets the silence linger contentedly for a while before she draws a breath, pats his leg.
"Maybe we should start by watching that movie?"
Maybe she'll even stay awake for it. But if not-- they can always try again tomorrow. As many times as it takes. That's not a promise, exactly; but it comes close.
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If he'd said this years ago, maybe she'd have stayed. It wouldn't have been good for either of them; but laid out before her that way-- you, or no one-- could she really have walked away from that? And maybe she would have felt trapped, like that. She doesn't feel trapped now.
Stretching towards him, she kisses his cheek, gentle and quick. It's a mark of what she can't say; the promise she can't make, because the idea of breaking it is too awful to bear. Neither of them know the future, and on the day they left, wanted fugitives, she never could have imagined wanting to be apart from him; she can't know. But she can believe.
"I don't want it to be over," she says, sliding her hand into his. Not ever, she doesn't say, because she can't. But she hopes he hears it anyway.
no subject
"Me, neither." He gives her a smile that kicks up a little higher one one side of his mouth than the other. "If you want to know the truth - and that's kind of our brand - I'd be fine with it if it never ended."
no subject
Don't you ever just want to stop? Get out of the damn car? She remembers asking him that, once, staring into the abyssal darkness of the desert. Even then she'd been tentatively trying to draw up a future around the idea of them, finding it at odds with her notion of a normal life-- a laughable thing, to think back on. As though normal had ever had much meaning for them.
She lets the silence linger contentedly for a while before she draws a breath, pats his leg.
"Maybe we should start by watching that movie?"
Maybe she'll even stay awake for it. But if not-- they can always try again tomorrow. As many times as it takes. That's not a promise, exactly; but it comes close.