I don't tell anyone about the way you hold my hand
I don't tell anyone about the things that we have planned

He stands in the cold, on the wraparound porch with fresh paint on its railing, waiting with his coat collar pulled up high. The frigid November air cutting through his clothing, like thousands of pins digging into his skin. The heavy door slowly opens, and his breath rushes from his lungs. It's always like this when he sees her. He flushes, and his entire body freezes. He cannot bear to look at her. He cannot handle seeing the scars he jaded her once-flawless heart with. 

"Hi." The shock in her voice hangs onto the frigid air between them. He'd seen her golden eyes widened slightly, but years of public image training quickly masks those emotions. 

"Hi there." His voice steady and strong, something foreign to him.

 "Look at you, my god. Come in," she says smiling white teeth, almost laughing, pulling the wool sweater tighter around her body.

 He hesitates, feet feeling like dead weight, and she motions the way she always motions with her head poised controlled, and he finally steps inside. It's always like this. She backs away, he takes another step, and she backs away further inside the warm home. The door is closed behind him, slowly.

 "You look so good," he says, her sharp bob waving as she tilts her head to see him. And he sees the tell-tale sign that he's momentarily broken through her wall - a nervous tuck behind her ear. It is almost a given that her hair be long, wavy, and flowing down her back. But the sharp and short haircut redirects the attention to her captivating cat-like golden eyes.

 "Time's treated you well, I see," she replies, and the ‘how are you' and ‘great to see you' are exchanged, and they stand silent, never touching. Just allowing their wandering eyes to take in every detail of the other - the gray that's begun to creep along the sides of his hair and the jewel that now adorns her left hand.

 Nothing has changed, yet everything is different. The house is the same. Even now with no one here, but her. But soon, that will all change. Another man will come make this his home. It'll become their home. He will come and warm the other side of her bed and make every dinner a two-person affair. 

She is older, and happy. And he is alone, and unhappy. But, the house is the same. The same house he used to come to, so many times, to see her. It was almost a given that he, too, had a home in Atlanta, like she did in Orlando. Coming off of a tour, this would be his first stop. Purposely he would schedule layovers in Atlanta, even if just for a couple of hours. This same house was their refuge.

Won't tell anybody how you turn my world around
I won't tell anyone how your voice is my favorite sound

"I wasn't expecting you until at least tomorrow evening or even Sunday," she spoke, as they sat cross-legged, across from each other, on the plush carpet of the living room. Empty dinner plates with smeared spaghetti sauce on them sit on the floor beside them.

"You call and I come a-running," he shrugs, his eyes steady on his jeans and his fingers picking at a loose thread at his knee.

In another time, his words would have melted her heart and dissolved her knees. She would have been at his mercy, begging him to love her. Today, knowing that his words are empty, she is sad.

"You said I'll be there this weekend, so I assumed wrong. But I'm glad you made it out here," she speaks, her voice steady and emotionless. She is glad that he showed up. She's wanted to speak with him for a good while now.

"What you have to tell me could have been said over the phone, but I'm here," and so he clues her in to his pain. Being here is killing him. He never wanted to come here, step foot into a house filled with torturous memories, and see with his own eyes that he'd lost her forever.

"I would never do that to you. I think you know that," she defends her decision to invite him to Georgia. Regardless of their past, he didn't deserve a phone call across rivers, deserts, mountains, and time zones. His eyes rise to meet hers, and he nods all the while swallowing past the growing knot in his throat.

 "I've got a small surprise for you," she says, and he can hear her carefully placing the plates in the sink, the water rinsing them, and then down the hallway to what he can only guess is her office. When she was home, that's where she spent the majority of her time. Her work with her foundation, endorsements, clothing lines, perfumes, restaurants, and music never saw an end.

She is coming down the hall, unhurried, measured, and he hears her say, "You won't believe it. You really won't."

Unmoved from his spot, he watches her enter the room, walk to the stereo with a disc in hand, put it in and then she turns to him, smiling.

And before he can say a word, the opening notes of a song he's not heard in so many years fills the room.

"Van the Man," she says, grinning, coming to him, flushed, sitting down. "Can you believe it? I found this while I was cleaning my room upstairs. . ."

But he doesn't hear her. He knows what this disc had meant then and what it means now. She will do that. It's a little thing with her. She gives no mercy. She knows like he knows, like it was only a thing of yesterday that, he gave her the disc during their last year together. He had made the disc for her, just for her, catered to her.

Van Morrison's deep moan lifts, 'Didn't I come to give you a sense of wonder/Oh, didn't I come to lift your fiery vision bright . . .' And he watches her as she gently sways to the music. "So good," she says. "So fucking good." She opens her eyes and smiles at him. "Can you believe it? Van."

He nods, forcing a smile on his face. Together, they'd taught each other so much about music. He'd made this disc as an ode to her obsession with Van, an obsession created after hearing his music for the first time - live.

"Great song," she says. "How long has it been? My God, this is like 2002, maybe, isn't it? So good."

He listens to it and watches her and then he remembers that night. Chicago. 2002. A small club. The smoke in the air. The beer on the table. And the music in their veins. He remembers watching her sway just like tonight as Van sang onstage. One too many drinks, her body had been liberated of all inhibitions, and she'd flowed that night. The happiness on her face and the freedom in her body stole his breath that night. And, it broke his heart. It had been that moment that he knew, just as he knows tonight. 

And, she sees him watching her and she turns from him, leaning back, hands planted on the floor, behind her, her feet stretched magnificently forward almost touching him.

"This is what it's all about. My god, I mean just listen," she breathes, and they both turn to the stereo as Van Morrison's "Got to Go Back" begins, the piano keys beginning their gentle whimper.

"I love this song," she says, her eyes now watering.

 "You always did," he says, his own eyes pooling in the corners.

'Oh, we've got to go back/Got to go back/Got to go back/Got to go back/For the healing go on with the dreaming.'

And the songs, Van's songs, their songs filled with so much memory of youth and despair, love and pain play for quiet minutes. He will catch a glimpse of her catching a glimpse of him and they will turn away from each other, embarrassed at being caught. But they know what the other is thinking, and they can't allow that.

And yet the songs play on, and he's captivated by her now with her eyes shut, her with her lovely neck exposed, longing to touch her. And he knows the next song, and the piano begins and, finally, she opens her eyes and stares at him. His favorite song.

'The streets are always wet with rain/After a summer shower when I saw you standin'/In the garden in the garden wet with rain."

Tears are slowly descending down her cheeks, he beckons to her. She shakes her head, hurriedly, fear in her eyes. His hand remains outstretched, waiting for her.

"I can't," she says, her voice choking. "Don't you know that? I can't now."

"You can," he whispers to her, but she shakes her head, crossing her arms around her knees tucked against her chest, almost rocking herself like a child.

'You wiped the teardrops from your eye in sorrow/As we watched the petals fall down to the ground/And as I sat beside you I felt the/Great sadness that day in the garden.'

"Oh, please don't look at me like that," she cries. "You want me to cry. You always want me to cry. You're not happy until I cry. Always."

He shakes his head. A small smile tugging at the corners of his lips - he always found her stubbornness endearing, and annoying.

"You don't know. Please don't look at me like that," her fists balled up against her chest, she feels the past replaying in their present, "You're making me feel like shit. You're always like this. You'll never know. I can't."

"You can. I did. I do," he says.

And now he is crying. He tries not to, but cannot help it, as he remembers her gaunt, pale face, when he turned his back on her. When, almost seven years ago, he left her in the foyer of their house, crying and breaking. She had turned, looking for him, and then she had found him standing by the door. 

And she rushed, crying and moaning from the upstairs. Straight into his arms, she'd ran. And he held her. And she'd cried in his chest. He held her, kissing her brown hair, as their friends watched from the couches in the living room. As they watched him, destroy and abandon her.

"I can't do it anymore. You don't know me anymore. I'm not who I was," she is saying.

"I know," he says.

"I could never make you happy. You can't make me feel guilty. You just want to make me cry, like you always do. You're not happy until you break me."

"That's not true," he says.

"It was your choice."

He shakes his head. She lies. He never wanted her to go. Never. But he had to.

"I shouldn't have called you here. I don't know why I did. I'm sorry."

"I never wanted you to leave. Don't say I had a choice. Please don't say that."

"You left me! How else can I get you to see this? I was there, and so was everyone else. We all saw you walk out! You knew me better than anyone. For God's sake. You know that. Four years wasn't enough for you. My love for you wasn't enough. You. Broke. Me." Her fists pounded her thighs, her frustration getting the best of her. These emotions she'd stored away for seven years now overflowed, "You didn't want a wife or a family. I did. But not in that instant. I would have waited forever. I would have done that for you. I may have wanted it, but I was so young. I never demanded it. You never asked me. Please don't look at me like that. No," she says sobbing, as he makes his way to her, crawling.

"Please don't," she says as he touches her face and she stares at him and he leans and kisses her raw lips.

"I can't," she whispers quietly. "Please." But his hands are on her now, and he is holding her, touching her and she grabs his hand, shaking.

She puts her hand over his and he feels her heart racing. She pleads with her eyes. "Please, don't do this to me."

Don't believe the things you tell yourself so late night and
You are your own worst enemy

"Why did you call me here?" he asks, his words a mere breath from her lips. The warmth soothes the rawness of her lips.

 "One day I'm going to walk down the street with him, and I'm going to see you. And I want to see you and be happy to see a friend. I don't want there to be one ounce of doubt in his mind that I love him. That he is the man for me. That he is a million times the man you ever were," she spoke, her words curt but her eyes soft.

 "So you brought me here to cut me down?" a blaze burned in the soft pools of his eyes. A smirk on her lips, she shook her head.

 "I'm not you, Josh. It's not in me to do that. No matter what fucked up excuse I give myself, I couldn't do that. Seven years ago, I begged myself to do it. I begged God to give me a black heart to smear your name in every magazine and in every song. But I couldn't. You know why? Because I love you. Yes, I still love you," she confessed, her lips trembling.

 "And you think that is fair to him? That you love another man," he challenged her rationale. But, she smiled.

 "Yes, because I love you and I love him. He knows you were and will always be a big part of me. You were my teacher, and I your student. You taught me the good and the bad. But I am in love with him. He holds my heart. He holds my future. And I, I hold his," his eyes flicker to the jewel that he's adorned her finger with. A jewel that he too had planned to put there, but never saw the light of day. Instead, it's remained in the back of his drawer, encased in its velvety home. Safe from harm. Safe from a harsh reality he's now facing.

 "Why couldn't you hate me?" his voice falters, and her eyes betray her composure.

 "Why would you want that?" she questions, confusion setting in.

 "It would have made it so much easier. You hating me. I could turn away and let it go. But you never hated me. You never smeared my name. You never broke me down when you could have. You never kicked me when I was on the floor. I left you. I broke you. I hurt you. What else did I need to do? Why?" his composure dissolving at lightening speed.

 "You never gave me an explanation. You never gave me a reason, so how could I hate you? I could never forget all you gave me, even if you turned around and took it back. And I would never have spoken ill of you. What happened between you and I was just that, between you and I. No one needed to know how you held my hand and how you opened my eyes. No one needed to know how you stood before me emotionless and told you could no longer live a lie while your friends watched. With you, I never needed a parachute. If I fell, you were gonna catch me. If I faltered, you were gonna stand strong. If I hurt, you were gonna soothe. It was only right," her hands cradled his face, forcing his eyes to hers.

 "They were your friends too," he argued, losing a battle with his heart to remain silent.

 "And they'll still ask you to this day, as do I, why? Why couldn't you love me?" her heart begged for those mending words that could finally allow her to move on.

 "You deserved all that you have now! And I could never give that to you! I would never be the man you needed to be your husband or the father to your children. I was not man enough to hold your heart!" he cried out, speaking the words he'd never spoken aloud.

 And, he feels it. He feels the freeing in his soul and in his heart.

 "You chose for me," she breathed, not wanting to believe what she'd heard. The strong, composed, and selfless man that she'd fallen in love so many years ago had finally shattered.

 "And in the wake of your choice, you proved yourself wrong. You didn't think you had the strength inside you. But it either takes an exceptionally strong and selfless man to make such a selfish decision or an exceptionally stupid boy to make a woman's decision," and for the first time in seven years, she genuinely smiled at him.

 "Thank you," he spoke, his lips dancing across the sensitive skin of her neck.

 "You deserve to have a heart free of guilt, pain, and hate, Josh. It's only fair for a man like you," she soothed, her arms cradling him.

 The worst was right after he left her, after they had vacationed together, after they'd both recorded albums, after they'd planned a joint tour. But he left nonetheless. Their careful, and risky, plans, hopes, shredded. She hadn't talked to him for more than three years afterwards, after he left her, until they saw each other at an awards show.

Her voice. He can still remember her voice that day. It'd been empty, and cold. A minute, then, with her, a blur ended, and she went back to where she came from and he went back to his life, alongside a woman he thought he loved, the woman he chose to forget her.

And it would be like that almost annually, almost every time their paths crossed, almost every holiday when she'd visit Orlando to visit friend. So many excuses. So many lies. All of it for what?

But it is his right-she knows this; this is his due. Alas, she's found love again. She's found someone that cherishes her. Respects her. Honors her. Needs her. And she called him to tie all those loose strings that they've avoided for seven years. She claimed that her husband-to-be deserved this, on the phone.

You'll never win the fight
Just hold onto me
I'll hold onto you

"What is fair..." he whispers, his hands are on her and as they touch, as they kiss, reluctantly, strangely, hungrily, he undresses her quietly on the floor, and they are lying down, falling together, side to side.

And he reaches for her, and she is touched at her delicate center, her pants are pulled down, away, kicked off, and soft cotton of her underwear is pealed from her hips, down her thighs, and she is naked. He is naked.

He is gorgeous in the low light. She continues to kiss him, hold him and caress him. She was there and it was his for the night. 

Now it was his turn for closure. He wanted to see this beautiful woman in all her glory. He then held her close to try to make their bodies feel as one. It was a good feeling, a great feeling, to have all that warm moist skin touching.

Wanting to admire what he had for so long but never really could have. It wasn't proper to cherish another man's wife, but tonight, he would put that aside and adore her. It was what both needed.

As he was kissing her, his hands started to wander all over her body. It was an exquisite body, with lots of character. His hands wandered over her breasts. As he discovered, she began a rhythmic motion with her body and small moans came from her lips. The intensity built. As his fingers worked around the outside and then explored her inner being, his lips continued to caress her breasts, and the hip motion intensified. When it happened, she let loose with sighs and moans and an energy he had never seen before. It was all he could do to keep from taking her right there. She stopped him at this point. He could tell she wanted something else.

The excitement, the passion, and the fire was building. At last when the desire consumed them, they had to quench their appetite. As gently as he could, he climbed on top of her. They just lay there for several moments enjoying the feeling of their bodies together, realizing that they were about to reach that final pinnacle. Then slowly, carefully he slipped into her and again just lay there for a moment. Feeling himself inside her was ecstasy, something more powerful than he had ever known since her. For her, he filled her up inside and brought gratification she had known years ago.

She rolled over onto him and he holds her, and he begs God in Heaven that she will be the same, that nothing has changed, it would be unbearable if anything had changed, he will die if she is different, and he cries as she groans deeply, almost in pain, as they fit into, grip into and grab hold of each other like always, more perfect, and it has never been better.

She is on him, her jaw tightly closed, slowly rolling, joining and he holds her firmly as she stifles groans and noises she cannot help as she lifts and falls, and he reaches for her, wants to kiss her face, wants to draw her to him, but she avoids his hands, and pushes him away.

He reaches again for her, but she pushes him away, and then slaps him hard on the shoulder. Her eyes shut, and he reaches and she slaps him blindly, harder this time, on the face, falling and lifting, curling and joining on top of him.

And now she hits him again and it stings, and she hits him and it stings. She despises him and it stings. She loves him and it stings. He pushes up and she moans down on him and they hold and try to dig through the other's skin.

Harder, he is lifting her, she is falling on him, and tears stream from her onto him.

They are panting. He can hear them pant. Their bones, conjoined, are breaking, plowing into each other now, crashing hard, and she is liquid, burning him inside her until he cries out, until it hurts.

And she hits him and it stings.

And he's on top once more. She can feel it enveloping her, beginning, just beginning the surge that leads her to him more completely than anything. She mustn't let it happen. That would be too cruel. He has to leave. She knows this. Has known it always with him. Is terrified. Get off! He has to leave. Get off!

But she hits him and it stings.

His body, tenses, expands impossibly inside her and she feels him and she erupts into a scream, almost a cry of animal despair, so the whole house can hear.

When the fire was finally put out, they were both spent, physically and emotionally. They lay there together for the rest of the night, he holding her, she holding him. They understood when the morning came, he would go back to his life and she back to hers, but the passion they shared would be with them always. And if one day their paths crossed on a foreign sidewalk, they'd reunite like life-long friends with a smile on their face and grace in their hearts.