“No, I’m not buying the magazine—that’s not where I see the money going. Businesses require time and vision. Reviving businesses is not where my passion is.” He looks at me for a moment. “Is owning your own business a dream of yours?”
“No, I want to write. I want to earn a good living so I can write more. More than more.”
He smiles. “You’re so little. I get a kick imagining those little hands typing up your big ideas.”
The fact that he thinks about me at all makes me butter.
He watches me dress. “So you see your future at that magazine even if you had a broader range of options?” he asks.
I’m taken aback. A grain of concern suddenly drops, like a tiny, uncomfortable little pin, in my belly. I think over my answer carefully.
“I guess . . . in a general sense, my ideal future is to feel safe in my career and, I guess, in my life. I want my mom to be and feel safe, and if I could help make the city physically safer for others as well, it’d be a dream. That’s the kind of thing I want to write about. But that kind of journalism takes time, and Edge has given me better opportunities than anywhere else. I feel linked to it, somehow. If it grew and I could grow right with it, that’d be a dream, it really would,” I admit.
He comes to sit on the bed and he edges forward, his expression intense. “Like, what would you like to do for the city? What’s your idea?” He tucks my hair back from my forehead with one large hand, searching my face.
“I don’t know. Change doesn’t happen unless there’s a huge collective effort, unless you’re very powerful.”
His lips quirk and his eyes glimmer with a predatory light that never fails to thrill me. “You’re sleeping with a very powerful man.”
I bite my lip. “Yes, yes I am.” I laugh and feel myself blush. He cups my cheek, and once again, I tuck my face into his palm, seeking his touch. “You’re not how I imagined you’d be, and I have a good solid imagination,” I whisper.
“That’s because you’re all good. Terrible things made me.”
“Oh no.” I laugh, but he doesn’t laugh. He’s quiet. “We’re all made of good and terrible things.”
“Are we?” He studies me again. “What do you see in me?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I’m a difficult man, I’m not easy to handle—some might argue I refuse to be handled. I’ll never commit to anyone—I never have, and I don’t think I ever could. You don’t want my money, you don’t want to party with me—not the way others want. You almost wouldn’t sleep with me. But then you come to me as if you want my protection, and it makes me want to be that man.”
I stare at him, quiet.
He’s always said I confuse him, and he looks so confused right now, I’m confused by his puzzlement too.
“Malcolm,” I begin, but what can I say? So many truths, and in the end, he’ll think all of them a lie. It breaks me to think about it all of a sudden.
“When my mother was diagnosed . . .” He pauses. “I promised I’d be there for her. By her side. She was given two years. She still had a year and a half left . . .” He pauses again but never takes his eyes off me. “She didn’t want me to know the leukemia came back. And when it was only a matter of hours, my father refused to let anyone tell me. He thought I should be punished for leaving the country for Tahoe’s birthday.” I can feel the blood drain from my face. “So you see? I’m no good with promises. But I’ll take your cause as if it were mine.”
“I’m so sorry. I . . . when my father died, I was too young. But I have nightmares sometimes about the way he died, alone.”
We share a stare.
“She died asking for me.” He looks away, then heads for his phones and other items, his jaw completely flexed.
“She knew you loved her,” I whisper.
“Did she?”
“Women know these things. My mother said . . . she knew even before my father did that he loved her. Women know these things. Your gender wasn’t made for subtleties, you need to be hit in the head with it, and sometimes love just creeps in even when all your doors and windows are shut to it.” He stares, and I add, “Everyone is born with a natural love for their parents.”
“You outgrow that love. There’s no point to love. Truth, loyalty—there’s something that lasts.”
Speechless, I’m not sure if I’m more surprised by the words or the casual tone he used, which only brings home that the sentiment is so completely natural to him.
The fact that he has no trust in love, any kind of love, astounds me.
I drop my face a little to hide the tender emotion I’m sure he’ll be able to see reflected in my eyes. My chest feels suddenly swollen with it.
But we have so many things in common—Saint and I. We love to work. We work hard, squeezing in a little fun but not much else. We’re both proud, maybe closed off. I also thought I didn’t believe in love, not romantic love like Wynn does. So why do I suddenly feel like changing my mind?