The Morning After (Final Part)

She’d expected… well, she wasn’t sure what. Maybe she’d hoped for a wry chuckle and a kiss and a “thank you”. And maybe she’d dreaded an explosive rant about trust and lies and betrayal. But she hadn’t expected this. This long, heavy, contemplative quiet.

“Did I…” she looked up tentatively when he spoke. His back was straight and tall pressed up against the wall, his knees drawn up almost to his chest. His arms were extended over the tops of his legs and with one hand he traced the lines of his other hand. He was examining the hands as if they were the most fascinating items in the world, and yet, Viola thought, he wasn’t really seeing them at all. He was trying to recall, trying to see the events of last night with more clarity. “Did I hurt you?” He very much sounded as if he was bracing himself for her answer.

“No, no.” she rushed, and then hastened to correct herself: “Well, it hurt, a little, but you were really considerate.” The word sounded overly cordial for how attuned he had been, how sensually aware of her needs and her discomfort in the pain of the first time, but considerate was the most appropriate word she could land on for how he’d behaved.

He looked grim. She would think he’d be happy that he’d been a considerate lover but the idea only seemed to concern him more. Surely he didn’t hope he’d been a depraved animal?

“That’s not to say that it was boring—“ she began, trying to sooth his ego. His eyebrows rose high and his eyes widened and she knew she’d misspoke. “I just mean—“ what in the hell did she mean? “I mean it was really really good… for me… and I think” his eyes were closed again and he looked pale. “I think it was really good for you as well.” And she was all of a sudden insecure, fragile, vulnerable. She had felt so sure and strong and sexy and now she felt only anxiety and inadequacy. What if she hadn’t been good? She’d heard virgins weren’t usually good at it, but she’d tried so hard, been so bold and felt so sexy.

She ventured a look at him and found him staring at her. She quickly cast her eyes down again, unable to meet his. She heard what sounded like him running his hand over his face and through his hair several times, and then a muttered curse. She listened but didn’t watch as he stood and walked toward her on the bed. Slowly, deliberately, he sat down beside her and her weight shifted as the mattress dipped toward him. She allowed herself to look at his knee, his hand on his knee, but nothing further. She fixated on his wedding band.

She couldn’t possibly know the maelstrom that was raging in his mind at that moment. She couldn’t have guessed at the ferocity of the war within him. All she knew was that he sat there, quiet and still, while she anguished about the quality of her performance. It wasn’t until years later that she understood what must have been happening to him as those minutes ticked away.

Jonah Delaney was a decent man, save for this remarkable lapse. He was a kind, sensitive, empathetic soul and he was, until the night before that terrible morning, a model father. So as his daughter sat waiting for reassurances that she had been a satisfactory lover Jonah Delaney struggled to find words that could accomplish a miracle: let her know that what they’d done together was unquestionably wrong, what she’d done to get him into bed was unconscionable, how he’d behaved was beyond the pale, and at the same time not crush her fragile self-esteem or forever fuck-up her sexuality or perception thereof. What set of words linked into phrases could possibly accomplish all of that simultaneously? Naturally he must have been afraid to lean too far one way or the other for fear of hurting her or scarring her for life. How does one tell their daughter they were good in bed without sounding like the devil himself, and without confusing the poor girl even further than she evidently already was?

She was hurting and feeling alone and lost. At long last his instinct for compassion and empathy overpowered his moral outrage and revulsion and he gathered her in his arms. “Come here.” He spoke tender and low. She let him fold her into his body and she sobbed into his chest. She hadn’t even felt like crying at all and suddenly she was openly bawling. It felt exactly as if someone had pressed a button and opened a floodgate somewhere within her that she hadn’t even been aware existed. She was surprised by the intensity of her emotion and seemed unable to control whether or not it would recede.

He rubbed and patted her back, just like he would a small child, and she wanted to resent the gesture but couldn’t deny how safe and comforting it felt. He was murmuring little comforts and saying ‘shhh’ and ‘it’s alright’, but none of it seemed to be in an effort to actually get her to stop crying. His shushing was more an encouragement than a command. He kissed the top of her head where it rocked rhythmically against his chest, and she felt his warm breath on her scalp.

She wished she knew why she was weeping, she felt like an idiot. After a few moments she became aware that his body was reacting to her sobs exactly as if he were being whipped or beaten. He continued to stroke her soothingly and murmur a stream of comforting words and sounds, but he was in pain. With every new sob his gut tensed and the muscles across his shoulders constricted and he took the sob into his chest as he might the impact of a fist.

Fascinated, her sobs began to lessen and the tears dwindled. Now quieter she could hear his heartbeat beneath his breast and feel the tremors that were wreaking havoc on his composure. When he spoke now she could hear the tremble in his voice, though he fought valiantly to sound steady and even.

“You deserved to have this experience with someone who was worthy of you.” Was what he finally told her.

But she had chosen him, she wanted it to be him, she arranged it so that it would be him. She didn’t notice in that moment but saw as she reflected upon it later, that he was careful not to highlight the moral trespass they had made, careful not to make her feel less than worthy of love and physical intimacy. Careful not to villain-ize her or the act itself, and he didn’t say anything qualitative about love. When she thought back on that moment, time and time again, she felt grateful and loved and blessed.

But in the moment she was confused, needy, insecure. “You are worthy!” she protested. She couldn’t imagine a more worthy man. She pulled away from the safety of his chest to look at him. He gave her a sad, tired smile and she thought he looked much older than he should have. “I love you.”

He let out an uneven breath. Searching her face he appeared to be unsure of how to proceed. His eyes filled, but he blinked back any tears that threatened to overflow. She knew he loved her too.

She leaned in, then, and put her lips on his. She kissed him tenderly but fully. She melted into him.

But something was wrong. He did not return the kiss. He did not jerk away, did not push her off, but he sat still and unyielding. She needed him to kiss her. When she let her tongue sneak out and slide over his lips, enticing him, goading him to action, he was unable to remain stoic. A sort-of grunt escaped from him and he turned his head just enough and just firmly enough to discourage her continued advances. He was breathing hard and blinking rapidly. When he spoke his voice was hoarse.

“Viola, we can’t.”

She took his ragged voice as a sign of arousal and felt a thrill dance down her body and bury itself below her belly button. Wanting to feel the proof of her effect on him she began to slide a hand down his chest, down over his stomach and to his wait-line. He stopped her before she made it any further, taking her hand in his firmly. She pulled, trying to wrest it free of his grasp but he was unyielding.

She became acutely aware that he was dressed and she was not. That he was very strong and she was not. That he had all the power and she had none. She shrank away from him but he didn’t let her go.

“Do you understand why this can’t happen?” He sounded faintly alarmed and very earnest.

Viola pouted. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it going.

“Because you’re married.” She finally answered, downcast.

He finally let her go and stood to pace the room. “I am married to your mother.” He said, emphasizing ‘mother’ but not in a cruel way.

Viola shrugged. She loved her mother, she supposed, but years of envy had jaded her perception of the mother-daughter bond.

“And I love her very much.” He added, stopping to look at his daughter. Viola tisked. She knew he loved his wife. She’d listened to them whisper romantic nothings to one another a million times, seen them steal kisses and small intimacies when they thought no one was watching. She’d listened to the sounds from their bedroom countless times in the night, alone in her bed, longing.

“And you don’t love me?” she challenged him.

He opened his mouth and then snapped it closed again.

“I do love you.” Every syllable seemed an effort. She knew what he wanted to say next, and she didn’t want to hear it.

“Don’t worry—“ Viola cut him off as he drew breath to speak. He paused, head cocked to the side a little, curious despite himself. “Nobody has to know.”