*SALT AIR: a joel miller x reader story (part one).
The trip was booked about a year before your relationship fell apart: Five days in a seaside town in Brasil, an unrefundable romantic getaway with all of the honeymoon perks that turns into a nightmare after six-months of not talking to each other: Your relationship ended quietly, and what was once heartbreak has since turned into resement. To you it's torture, spending those hot summer days next to the man who you once loved so dearly. To Joel, it's one last chance at winning you back.
series masterlist / main masterlist.
Your trip starts off on the wrong foot, and Joel makes a new friend.
chapter warnings: the basics (exes to lovers, reader is afab, age gap, etc.), little bit of angst, lots of mention of food/eating, jealous!reader, way too vivid descriptions of joel's cock, weed consumption, brief mention of possible somnophilia (doesn't happen).
word count: 7.1k.
fox says: hello friends, welcome to the first part of salt air! no smut yet, but i promise we'll get to it soon. the word count is going to be a little higher than usual for this because i am aiming for a smaller chapter count than my other series but hopefully it's not too much :) a huge thanks to @whitelics for beta'ing this for me, i love u more than u know. hope everyone enjoys this one and as always, please let me know how we're feeling!
if you want to be tagged whenever i update this pls just send me an ask, dm or comment on this post! <3
also available on archiveofourown.
tag list: @rosharanfiction @trulyourslola @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @joeldarling @fw-g-4-ia @the-sophverse @amourflores @diabaroxa @pascalismos @somedayheaven @inept-the-magnificent @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @missadangel @mrsnanamiller @winterfellonme @neapolitan--girl @eff4freddie @brittmb115 @faiantas-blog @kauyu @namelesslosers @wildthyng @crayolacraycray @hanahleah @cowgirlcosplay @anoverwhelmingdin @taniamiller @vickie5446 @joelmillerspnk @rachels2112
YOU.
You knew your relationship with Joel Miller was over because of a chocolate bar. You have a favorite, a pricey artisanal chocolate bar from a candy shop on the other side of town; it was out of your way home from work, and it certainly was far away from Joel’s office but he never complained about the forty minutes it added to his commute— You didn't even notice him replacing it, the pantry always stocked with the expensive, luxury chocolate that you love so much.
One day, the space where your chocolate bar should be was empty; at first you thought he might've forgotten, he'd been busier than ever with work and the multiple jobs he had to take to cover some extra expenses, and the chocolate was on the pricier side. But then a week went by, and another, and work wasn't as busy anymore and you finally had to admit to the truth: Joel simply didn't see you anymore.
You left his house by the end of the month. Packed all of your belongings one afternoon while Sarah was away at her mother's house and Joel was over at Tommy's for some bullshit football game; you were gone by the time he came home and, while you'd met up with him once to formally end things, he hadn't seemed surprised over it.
The worst part was how easily Joel agreed with the split. He said he understood why you were leaving, that he should've seen it coming, and didn't fight for you. Didn't ask you to reconsider, or stay, or tell him how to change— He simply nodded, grabbed his beer tightly, and watched as you walked out of the busy bar with your heart shredded into pieces.
That was six months ago. Now, you sit by your flight gate with your purse and ticket in hand, hoping he won't show; hoping he forgot about the trip, or that he simply decides not to go— You bought the plane tickets almost a year ago, right when things were starting to fall apart: A five days trip to Búzios, in Brazil, in a romantic Airbnb with all of the honeymoon perks. The plane tickets are nonrefundable, as is the Airbnb— At the time it felt like a good way to save money and to ensure that the both of you would actually take the trip; Joel has always been more of a homebody, never wanting to leave town for longer than a weekend, let alone the country, and you knew that touching his pocket would be the only way to get him to agree to go.
Oh, how you wish you hadn't appealed to his frugal nature now.
Joel shows up just three and a half minutes before boarding starts, because of course he does. His house barely ran without you, with Joel always being too wrapped up with work to pay attention to dates and times; you had to be the one to set up the alarms, to mark special dates on the calendar by the fridge, to send him little texts as reminders of Sarah's soccer game or Tommy's birthday. You're surprised he showed up on the right day, really, when you stop to think about it.
It also means that the Miller household keeps on moving, keeps functioning somehow without you, and that only makes things worse.
“You're late.” You tell him. It's the first time you're speaking with Joel since the night you ended things, and it doesn't feel like a good omen that your tone is so biting.
Six months apart have turned the sadness into bitterness, and you hate him just a little bit for how your relationship ended; you blame it all on him, even if you know you've been amiss as well. Too much time on your phone, not enough time talking to him; meals you shared in silence, each of you with your head somewhere else, nights where you pushed him away when he tried to touch you, always too wrung out to pay him any attention. He didn't fight for you at the end, but you'd been the one to let go of the relationship first.
And you know this, you know, but it still feels like it's all his fault.
“Hello to you too.” Joel says, hovering awkwardly, unsure of himself. “Ain’t late. Boardin’ hasn’t even started yet.”
“This is an airport, Joel, not your kid's soccer practice. If you're not here two hours early, you're late.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You been sittin' here waitin' for me for two hours?”
“I was not waiting for you! I'm waiting to board my flight.” You bristle, and the knowing little smirk beneath his mustache only makes it worse. “Thought you wouldn't even show up. Lord knows you never got any fucking dates right unless I was buzzing in your ear about it.”
“Maybe I liked when ya buzzed 'round me.”
The front gate calls for your flight, and you walk away without another word, something warm and unpleasant bubbling inside your chest.
The flight is hell. You're trapped in the corridor seat — Joel graciously took the middle seat, but that meant having his elbow jamming into your side every-so-often — for almost sixteen hours from Austin to Rio de Janeiro, the food is awful and there's a man on the other side of the corridor that keeps turning in your direction every time he needs to cough. If you'd been in a bad mood before boarding the flight, it only gets progressively worse by the time you land, and you feel just about ready to murder the idiot next to Joel that actually claps.
Unsurprisingly, the airport isn't much better— People are polite and welcoming, and thankfully you manage to pick up your luggage without any issues, but then you find yourself trapped inside a rental car with Joel for the four-hours drive to your Airbnb in Armação dos Búzios; it's a lovely car, an expensive-looking convertible that at the time you thought would be fun to drive by the beach with the top down and it makes Joel's face light up when he sees it. You sort of hate your past self for doing something nice for him, and you hate your current self even more for the fluttery in your stomach as he revs the engine with the giddiness of a little boy on Christmas morning.
The Airbnb — Bangalô Verde, the owner called it — is small and rustic, a green stucco home with a gorgeous view of the ocean in the backyard; what had called you to it wasn't even the view or the huge windows in the bedroom but the wooden deck that hangs off the steep hill the house is on top of, surrounded by greenery and with a beautiful pool and a comfortable-looking hammock. There's a special fruit bowl in the kitchen, with a little note from the owners about the champagne in the fridge and a colorful bouquet of native flowers in the bedroom— All things you'd paid out of pocket, away from the joint funds you shared with Joel, as a little surprise. The honeymoon package seems to mock you now, tangible proof of how much of yourself you poured into a relationship that, towards the end, felt like you were the only one paying attention.
“Nice place.” Joel drops both of your luggage and his by the edge of the bed, already sweating from the summer heat, his usually neat gray curls pushed back haphazardly. His knuckles rasp awkwardly against the threshold that leads into the bedroom— There’s no door, just an archway with handpainted flowers. “Good bones.”
You laugh in spite of yourself. “Are you doing a full house inspection, Mr. Contractor?”
“They got a bottle of cachaça in the living room.” He tells you with a small smile, hands on his hips. “Wanna crack it open?”
“No.” You shake your head, toeing off your shoes. “Not drinking on an empty stomach. I'll just take a shower and go out to eat something.”
“By yourself?” He asks, hands raising in defeat when your head snaps towards him. “I meant the meal, not the shower.”
Joel speaks to you as if nothing's wrong, as if you haven't spent the last six months apart. As if you haven't cried yourself to sleep almost every single night since then; it gets your blood boiling— Joel’s always kept his feelings close to his chest, but you’ve learned how to read him well and he’s never been uncaring. Closed off, sure, but this sort of nonchalance only serves to make you wonder if the breakup was only miserable for you. If maybe he’d been glad you were the one to pull the plug. A friend had told you once that men don’t end relationships, they simply stall it out until you’re brave enough to be the one to do it.
You never pegged Joel for the cowardly kind of man, but maybe you had read him wrong after all.
“Yes, by myself. Listen, Joel— We don't gotta do this, alright? It's bad enough that you came along, so just… Stay in your corner of the house, and I'll stay in mine.”
Joel looks around, making a point of how little space there was; what was supposed to be a cozy place feels stifling, his broad frame taking up too much space in the small room.
“And which corner's supposed to be mine, sweetheart?”
Your teeth clack audibly. “Whichever corner I'm not in.”
He nods, once. “'lright. I'll just fuck off, then.”
“Thank you.” You quip, back turned to him as you refuse to see the look on his face, going through your luggage. “I'll shower fast, in case you want to shower too.”
You look over your shoulder when there's no response but Joel's already gone, toeing off his shoes in the courtyard. He strips slowly, piece by piece until he's fully nude and you don't even notice the small toiletries bag until he's already underneath the spray of the outdoor shower, pushing his hair away from his face.
While your relationship with Joel ended six months ago, it has been even longer since the last time you saw him naked. The sex ended about four months before the relationship, both of you always too busy or too tired to give each other any attention, and your memory doesn't do justice to the sight in front of you: Joel's a sturdy man, tall and broad, his muscles built from hard labor rather than pulling weights at the gym. His stomach is rounder than it had been when you first started dating, salt and pepper hair and scars scattered all over it, the feathered happy trail that you've always loved so much catching rivulets of water as it pour down his body.
As much as you tell yourself that you shouldn't look down, your eyes travel to his cock nonetheless. It's thick and long, somehow even bigger than you remember, half-hard underneath the shower water; your eyes snap up, and you stagger slightly backwards when your eyes meet Joel's. He's staring straight at you, his eyes dark and heavy, a knowing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. It's clear that he's doing it on purpose, shifting slightly to turn his back to you, running the small bar of soap over his shoulders— Which once had been your favorite part of his body. You watch for a moment longer, his big hand running the travel-sized soap over his shoulder and bicep, bringing it up to the side of his neck, head tilted slightly back, the tendons straining against his tan skin.
You turn your back to him before you can say something you might regret, your skin feeling a little bit too tight for your own body as you mechanically move back into the house in desperate need of a long, cold shower.
Joel's is waiting in the living room by the time you finally exit the shower, sitting on the couch and browsing through his phone, wearing a pair of shorts and a short-sleeved button down that you know he didn't own before; Joel's entire wardrobe consists of Wrangler jeans and old cotton shirts and flannels, and you're sure you can count in one hand the amount of times you've seen him even remotely dressed up. He looks gorgeous, the deep green of the button down contrasting beautifully with the color of his skin, the shorts coming down just above his knee: Clothes that he certainly didn't buy for himself, and there's a small flare of anger in the pit of your stomach when you wonder whether someone else bought those clothes for him, or if he bought them to impress someone else.
It opens a whole can of worms on whether or not Joel had already started seeing other people, if he was dating again or, God forbid, if he's already found someone to settle down with. You've seen it happen far too often, men moving on from years-long relationships with the first person that shows up and, while you don't think Joel is that type of man, thinking of him having rebound sex with a stranger makes you nauseous.
“I found a restaurant just down the street.” He says without looking up from his phone. “Doesn't look like a tourist trap, all the reviews on Google are in Portuguese. Reckon we could go together. I know you're pissed at me but it'll ruin the damn trip if we don't even try to get along.” Joel looks up at you then, his eyes warm and inviting. “Think you can pretend that you don't hate me for the next five days?”
His words sting— You don’t hate him, could never hate him, and it hurts that he would assume you do but it’s probably best that way: If you can keep Joel at arms length then maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to survive the trip without shattering your heart even worse.
“Fine. But you're paying.”
Joel's grin could light up a whole block. “Always, sweetheart.”
The restaurant is just four blocks down the street, a corner store that looks more like a bodega than a restaurant, with a cluster of red plastic tables on the sidewalk and a dog sleeping on the ground next to the only costumer, a man in his sixties that sits alone in one of the tables demolishing a burger and a Skol beer. It's colder inside, the fan blowing loudly towards the woman by the counter. Joel's hand is a ghost on your lower back, guiding you to a table. The two of you study the menu for a long time, Googling the things you don't know, translating the others.
“I'll order for us.” He says, which you're thankful for: You don't speak a word of Portuguese, and you're not certain how well you'll fare with native speakers. Not that you think Joel will have a better grasp on the language but he’s always been far better at dealing with people than you are— Which is saying something, considering the hermit that he is.
“Great, I'll have the—”
“Burger with extra cheese and a side of the green mayo thing that you're dying to try but you might end up hating it. And also a side of the deep fried tapioca squares because you're embarrassed to be the tourist eating a cheeseburger.” Joel winks. “I know what you like, sweetheart.”
You're tempted to order something else just to spite him, but you simply sigh and cross your arms, ignoring the winning grin on Joel's face as he walks up to the counter. You don't catch the words, exactly, but whatever he’s saying doesn’t sound English, the words are a little clunky as they tumble out of his lips but the woman is ready to help, leaning forward across the counter and examining the menu with him.
Joel’s not flirting, not really, but you can see the way he lays on the charm, his broad frame draping over the counter, a smirk on his lips that never came easy for him. You squint, anger flaring inside your chest— You know you have no right to, though, so you swallow it down as best as you can. Joel isn't yours, not anymore. He can flirt if he wants to, can find some random woman or man to have fun with during your vacation but it still stings. It stings even worse because the woman, somewhere in her forties with a welcoming smile and warm eyes, is probably a better fit for him than you ever were. You were always too something: Too young, too naive, too inexperienced. Joel had never been the one to say it, had always defended his college student girlfriend with the sort of fierceness that made your heart warm and your pussy wet, but you knew other people said it. And no one would ever say it about someone like the woman at the counter— A business woman with her restaurant, someone that seemed nurturing and loving and that nobody would blink twice if they saw her next to Joel.
By the time Joel comes back to the table, he has both of your plates and an easy smile. The woman comes behind him, bringing your drinks, welcoming you with a smile and a greeting that you need to force yourself to reciprocate.
“When the fuck did you learn Portuguese?” You ask him, your voice just a little bitter.
“Sarah got me into Duolingo, and I thought it might be useful for the trip.” Joel shrugs, his face burning bright. “Don't know a lot, just enough to order food, figure out where the bathroom is and about seven different animals. The lady at the counter's just real good at figurin’ shit out with half a sentence.”
You try not to dwell on the fact that he's been learning a whole new language for your trip. The fact that he's probably been thinking about it — about you — for a lot longer than you thought he would.
“She seems nice.” You mumble as Joel digs into his plate and you hate to admit how delicious everything is— Even the cheeseburger is different from what you’re used to, from the bread to the burger itself, the green mayo pairing well with your food despite how fucking weird it looks. It’s not fancy, but it’s not fast food either, something else entirely but just as comforting and familiar enough to put you at ease with a cuisine you’re unfamiliar with but curious to try out.
“Her name's Marília, apparently her family owned the restaurant for generations.” He hums, washing down the deep fried tapioca square with his beer. “She was tellin' me about this night market they have every Sunday, reckon you'd like it. Could buy one'a them mugs you collect.”
You chew slowly, nodding, trying to pretend that you're not surprised that Joel actually remembers the tiny mug collection you’re started halfway through your relationship: He has a knack for that, for noticing and remembering the small details, the things you always kept to yourself or that you thought was too insignificant to share with other people. Joel always sees, always remembers.
“Not sure Marília wants you to bring your ex along for your little date.” You say and, while you try to make it sound like a joke, the words are more poisonous than you want them to be. Joel freezes for just a second before a grin slowly spreads over his lips. You know he's got you pinned, can tell he already figured out you're a little jealous from that sentence alone.
“Her wife's a local artist.” Joel speaks slowly, not bothering to hide his giddiness at your unwitting display of affection. “She sells pottery at the market, and Marília performs with a band there.”
You swallow it down, giving him a small nod, as noncommittal as you possibly can— You're actually really excited for it, you've always been a lover of outdoor sales and flea markets, but it is too reminiscent of your first date with Joel: You'd dragged him and little Sarah to a garage sale one Sunday morning with the excuse of a new rug and you'd left the sale with the trunk of Joel's truck full of useless nick-knacks and the certainty that you would never meet another man that made you feel the way he did.
“Sounds like a plan.”
The two of you end up by the beach after lunch. You're not in your bathing suit so you just sit on the white sand, staring at the ocean— It's one of the things you missed the most since moving to Texas. Joel sits quietly by your side, sunglasses perched low on his nose; you can't remember the last time the two of you did anything like this, just sitting together enjoying each other's presence but it's peaceful and familiar in a way that borders on dangerous, Joel's shoulder shuffling closer to yours and you need to fight off the urge to rest your head against him. The ocean is calm, the sun shining down on the crystalline water almost blinding you.
“Sarah would've loved here.” You say after a moment, unsure of where to go with the conversation. You had promised to one day take her to the beach, and it makes your chest ache with guilt that you never managed to keep your word.
“Sarah would've given me a damn heart attack, runnin' off into the water.” Joel snorts, but his voice carries that warm fondness that is exclusive to Sarah. “Prob'ly would'a tried to take that dog home, too.”
“The dog at your little friend's restaurant?” It's sweet, how Sarah is constantly on his mind; you hadn't even thought of her when you walked past the sleeping dog and the thought of him looking at the animal and thinking of his daughter makes you smile.
“My married, lesbian friend? Yeah.” He bumps his shoulder into yours. “You ain't got nothin' to be jealous of, sweetheart.”
“I wasn't jealous.” The lie falls easily out of your mouth, but your entire face burns with shame. “You're a single man, you can flirt with whomever you want. Unless you're not single anymore, then in that case your new partner has to be the most confident person in the world to let you travel with your ex like that. Not that it matters, of course, because nothing—”
“I'm not seeing anyone.” Joel cuts off your embarrassing rambling, and you're relieved not just for the small act of kindness but also because it answers the question you've been dying to ask. The two of you fall silent and you can see that he's giving you space to answer the same question but you don't, you just nod and turn your eyes back to the ocean. “You?”
You bite your bottom lip, pleased that he couldn't stop himself from asking, and then you shrug. “Not really.”
“Good.” Joel's voice is low and heavy, gruff in that way he purposefully saved for the bedroom; it's like a Pavlovian response, your skin growing warmer and your pussy growing wetter from that single word. He must sense a line has been crossed because Joel stands up, brushing off sand from his ass. “Imma grab us some coconut water.”
You watch as he trudges up the soft sand all the way to the stands by the boardwalk, chatting up with the young man with the cart full of bright green coconuts; they talk for a long time, and Joel doesn't seem to flirt this time though you're too far away to tell— Not that you expect him to flirt with anyone anymore, not after the undercurrent of something in his voice at your admission to still being single. Joel is a protective man, yes, but he's never been possessive: You know he wouldn't have been angry if you had already moved on, but the fact that he is pleased that you haven't seems to only cement the notion that he still wants you, maybe just as much as you want him.
But you can't. You can't let yourself fall into bed with him, because if this is just a vacation fling for him it would break your heart past the point in which you could fix it, and if it wasn't just a fling and he truly wants you back… Well, that is a can of worms you don't want to open and run the chance of ruining the one trip you'll have in years. Your attention is back to the ocean by the time Joel plops back down next to you, both coconuts in hand.
“Got somethin' else too.” Joel says, an uncharacteristically boyish smile on his lips. He pulls out two pre-rolled joints from the breast pocket of his shirt. “Coconut guy gave me a two for one deal.”
Your hand snaps between the two of you, pushing Joel's hand closer to his chest.
“Are you insane?” You raise your head, wanting to make sure no one's seen the joints while Joel laughs at you. “We've been here for three hours and you're already buying drugs off the street? What if that guy was an undercover cop?”
“If he was a cop then that would've been entrapment.”
“And maybe entrapment is not illegal here, Joel.” You try to sound stern but you're laughing too, not really believing the situation. Joel shrugs, and then finally pockets the joints away. “If you go to jail I am not bailing you out. I'll chill in that nice house by myself and I'm only calling Tommy when I get back to Austin.”
“We can smoke it at home.” Joel concedes, bumping his shoulder into yours.
The silence after that is heavy, full of the sort of awkwardness that had never been there before. Joel’s always been the silent type, and you’re not much of a conversationalist either, but it’s always been comfortable. An understanding of sorts. This silence isn’t that. It’s pregnant with things unsaid, the weight of the six months apart and the slow decay of your relationship sitting between the two of you like a wall.
The two of you stay at the beach until well past sundown— It's one of the most beautiful sunsets you've ever seen, the sand and the ocean and the sky all mingling in shades of orange and pink. The entire world feels ethereal, like you're somewhere that doesn't truly exist, sitting there basking in the golden light with Joel by his side; he takes off his shirt at some point, his tan skin bright with the shades of twilight.
You're exhausted when you finally make it to the Airbnb, but you don't really want the day to end. Joel looks happy, more carefree than you've seen him in a long time, and it doesn't seem like he's ready to go to bed either. The two of you wash off the sand with the outdoor shower and it burns you on the inside to think of earlier in the day— The night is cool but not cold, crickets and cicadas chirping somewhere in the wooded area that surrounds your place and the two of you find yourselves sharing the hammock, your feet by his ribs, his feet near your neck.
Joel lights up the joint, the ashtray balancing on his chest, taking a drag before he hands it over to you. You don't remember the last time the two of you smoked together, but it was something you used to do on the weekends, when Sarah was away at a friend's house or at Tommy's. Just the two of you, laying on the bed of his truck to keep the house smell-free, talking for hours and simply enjoying the moment with each other.
“How's work?” Joel asks as you blow the smoke up in the air; it's filler conversation, but can only hope that Joel genuinely cares— He's the one that helped you build your own nail design studio back when you were stuck with a half-finished college degree you hated and no happy future in sight. Joel's been the one to motivate you, to give you gas money back when you didn't have enough clients to afford both gas and food, the one who held you through the rough days and massaged your hands and back after a hard day of work.
All those things feel like a thousand years into the past now.
“It's been good, I'm almost always fully booked.” You say, your throat burning from the smoke before handing him the joint. You fingers touch, his lingering for a beat too long. “What about you and Tommy?”
“That's nice, I'm glad it's working out. You deserve it.” Joel smiles, and it's only then that you realize how he's never once taken credit for it. He could've, considering the only reason you have your studio is because of his help, but he's never done it, had gone as far as being offended when you offered to pay him back. “Work's flowin' well, Tommy is pickin' up more shifts and we managed to hire a couple of guys to help.”
“I'm glad Tommy's pulling his head out of his ass.” You snort, but the joke hides the truth: Joel has been carrying his brother's weight for a long, long time.
“I got a lot more free time now.” Joel smiles, takes a long drag of the joint and when his eyes settle on you they're carrying a heaviness you don't expect. Like he knows that was something that troubled you, like he's always known he had been neglecting you and had simply waited until you left to fix it.
“Sarah must be happy.” You say, hating the way the quiver in your voice gives away your feelings. The smile on Joel's face crumbles just a little, clearly not expecting a bad reaction from you.
“She is,” He agrees. “I haven't missed a soccer match in months.”
The goddamned Saturday morning soccer matches. She had one almost every week during the tournament months, and Joel more often than not either forgot about it at all or was too tired after a grueling week of work to get up at seven in the morning— You went to every single of them, no matter how tired, how cold or how miserable you felt.
“Good to know that all you needed was for me to step away before you became half a decent parent.”
Joel recoils as if you've slapped him, and you figure that might've hurt less than your actual words. You move, trying to get out of the hammock with as much dignity as you can but Joel stops you, gripping your ankle; you freeze at the touch, your heart hammering so fast you can hear it in your ears.
“I'm sorry.” He says, his voice low and heavy with emotion. “I should've said it sooner. I'm sorry I put all that weight on you, wasn't fair. 'M tryin' to do better.”
You should've tried to do better while I was still around. The words are trapped in your throat, bubbling to come out but you swallow them down.
“Better late than never.” It's what you settle for, and it pains you to shrug his hand off, climbing out of the hammock.
“I know it's late.” Joel says, taking a deep drag of the joint before he puts it out. “But is it too late, sweetheart?”
The answer should've been yes. You told yourself time and time again in the past six months that you were done, that you didn't want Joel anymore and that you'd never take him back even if he begged you for it. And now, one afternoon with him, and your resolve is already wavering. You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself.
“When did you know it was over?” You ask instead of an answer. It had always been on your mind, wondering when he gave up on your relationship exactly.
“About two months before you left.” Joel doesn't look at you, staring at the trees instead. “It was the first time we were havin' sex in forever and you fell asleep halfway through it. Reckoned you were done with me by then.”
“Four.” You say. “We didn't have sex for four months before we broke up.”
“Nuh-huh, it was the weekend Sarah went away for camp. We had planned a bunch of stuff for the weekend, but you fell asleep while I was still inside you on Friday night and then we sorta just did our own thing until she came back.”
“Did you—” You swallow thickly. “Did you finish?”
“No, of course not.” Joel shakes his head, and he sounds offended at the question. “I pulled out and got you dressed before I went to the bathroom to jerk off.”
You're so mortified by the whole thing that your brain doesn't even conjure the very tempting imagery of Joel touching himself. You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to contain the tears that threaten to spill.
“I don't remember that.”
“You were tired.” Joel's soft, understanding tone somehow only makes things worse. “Overworked and stressed, and I was only makin' it worse.”
You want to ask why he didn't try. Want to ask him why he didn't fight for you, why he simply accepted the break up with a solemn nod. Why he gave up. But you don't, because you're afraid of his answer— Whether the problem had been you, if he'd simply fallen out of love and gotten too comfortable with your relationship, or if he'd found someone more interesting, someone new.
“I'm going to bed.” You say, clearing your throat.
Joel nods, lips parted in hesitation. And then he sighs, his eyes falling on the couch behind your back. “Lemme just grab a pillow first.”
“We can share the bed. If you want.” The words come out of your mouth before you can think it through. “Just keep your morning wood to yourself.”
The look Joel gives you almost makes you backtrack, but he's climbing out of the hammock before you can say anything, a relieved smile on his face.
“I'll behave, I promise.”
You try to pretend you're not disappointed in that.
You don't wake up the next day with Joel's body pressed against yours as you had hoped, but you do wake up with him shaking you. You groan, trying to swat him away.
“G'way.” You mumbled, rolling to the other side of the bed. The sheets are cool, signaling just how long he's been gone.
“Honey, there's monkeys. C'mon, get up.”
You drag yourself out of bed at that, partially thinking that maybe Joel has finally lost his mind but, sure enough, there are two tiny monkeys in the backyard deck, perched on the wooden rail and sitting far too closely to the breakfast table that Joel has set up— Coffee and juice, fruit cut up in little bowls and a basket of pão de queijo.
“Is that a marmoset?” You ask, voice low as you try not to scar the animals.
Joel has a huge smile on his lips, nodding as the two of you watch from the large sliding door, still inside the house. The bigger monkey — which can't be bigger than a chihuahua, you think — crawls to the table and grabs a slice of mango and then skitters back into the closest tree; the smaller one isn't as brave, eyeing you carefully from his position before jumping back into the protection of the trees.
“I think we should get the food inside before they steal some more.” You say, not really containing the grin on your face. “Fuck, I should've picked up my camera.”
“They'll be back.” Joel says, finally stepping away to open the door; you can still feel the faint scent of his soap, the warmth of his chest almost pressed to your back. “Now that they know we have food they'll come back everyday.”
The two of you move the breakfast spread into the dining table inside, just in case. You're touched that Joel went through all the trouble of setting up the food in the first place, half expecting him to be asleep by the time you got out of bed, but the coffee is perfectly brewed, the fruit all carefully sliced and the pão de queijo still warm from the oven; it reminds you of the early stages of your relationship, before life got in the way, when Joel would wake up early and cook breakfast for both you and Sarah— Tommy too, sometimes, when he got too drunk to drive home the night before.
“Why are you doing this?” You ask when Joel fills your glass with orange juice, the words slipping out of your mouth before you can stop yourself; you don't want to ruin the small peace the both of you agreed to, but you need to know. “This… This is the sort of thing you did when you gave a shit, Joel. But I know what happens when you stop caring, so whatever this is… I'm not going to fall for it twice.”
Joel sighs, the sort of noise you know comes from resignation rather than irritation. He drops down on the seat adjacent to yours on the small square table, his knees creaking loudly.
“I told you last night… I want to do better. Wanna fix the mistakes I made with you.” Joel's eyes hold yours, his face open and honest. “Yer the best damn thin' to ever happen to me after Sarah. I know I can't change the past, I ain't tryin' to erase you the pain I caused you and I know it'll take you some time to trust me again but I'm goin' to work hard everyday to prove to you just how much I still love you.”
You squint, trying to ignore the way your heart feels like it might jump out through your throat. “That sounds like a rehearsed speech.”
Joel blushed, his face and ears going red as he finally takes his eyes off you.
“M'therapist helped. But I mean it, she just… helped with the words.” He looks down at the table, shoving a piece of melon into his mouth. “But I'm workin' on it too. Bein' better at… Communicatin'.”
You're floored, breakfast forgotten as you stare at this man next to you that you're now uncertain if he is the same man he used to be. Joel's face flushes even harder, fidgeting under the weight of your gaze.
“That's… That's good.” You swallow thickly. “Yeah. I'm glad you're going to therapy.”
“It's been a rough coupla' months, Sarah's teacher was the one to recommend it, actually. She started goin' first, and then I did.”
You know what he isn't saying: That it's been difficult because you left, to the point that Sarah had to go to therapy because you left without a word. It makes you sick to your stomach.
“I'm sorry.” You say, though you wish you could apologize to the little girl instead. “I should've dealt with everything better. I— I miss her, honestly, I just thought it would be worse if I tried to stay in touch with her.”
“She misses you too. We all do.” Joel hesitates, taking a sip of his coffee with his eyes still glued to you, as if he's weighing his words and your reaction to them. “We could do something together when we get back. Not a trip, 'cause Tommy's gon' wring my neck if I make him cover another shift of mine, but something nice. We never took her to the zoo.”
In the silence that follows, you have the urge to say something mean, to be rude or dismissive or to just tell him off— Anything, anything to keep your heart from racing the way it does. Still, when you open your mouth, no venom comes out. Joel's looking at you with warm brown eyes, the same puppy-like quality that he has passed on to Sarah and, for a moment, you allow yourself to think of what that would be like. What it would feel to come back home to the life you thought you'd never have again.
“It might be good for her.” You relent, toying with a slice of pineapple on your plate. “That she learns we can be exes and still have a healthy relationship.”
You don't raise your head, trying to keep your voice as casual as you can, but you see from the corner of your eye the way Joel's head tilts to the side, his body going stiff at your words.
“‘s that all you want, darlin’? Because I'll respect your decision like I did when we broke up, but I'm going to hear you say it.”
“I don't know what I want.” You say, but that's not exactly the truth. You know what you want: You want him, all of him, next to you and inside of you and everywhere. You need him, need him as much as you need the air you breathe but you're terrified.
Because your story has already ended once, and you're not sure there is anything you can do to fix that.
“That's all I need to know.” Joel gives you a small, crooked smile before he takes your hand in his, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “Let me show you that I still love you. And, if by the end of the week you still don't want me, then I won't bother you ever again.”
There's a million reasons why you should say no. Relationships need more than love, and whatever happens while on vacation isn't a representation of real life and there is no way you believe that things will get better once you go home or that your heart isn't going to end up breaking like it's done once before but, in that moment, with Joel's soft lips against your skin and his molten eyes boring into yours, your brain can't conjure up any of those reasons.
You love him. He loves you. You have an entire house to yourselves for the first time in months and not a single responsibility or to-do list. Just the two of you, the scorching sun and the bountiful nature around.
It doesn't matter if your heart is going to break at the end.
You want him anyway.
“Okay.” You nod, and then laugh when Joel offers you a boyish grin. “Don't make me regret it, Miller.”
“Wouldn't dream of it, honey.”
next part. (coming soon)
