“Hello, Shay. How much time do you think it’s been since you sat down?”
His edginess makes me smile. “Maybe ninety seconds.”
“Feels like longer. Another eight minutes of this will make me want to jump off the nearest cliff.”
“Out of curiosity, are you this way all the time?”
“Which way?”
I take a moment to search for the right words. “Aggressively ambivalent.”
He arches his brows. “What is it you think I’m ambivalent about?”
I don’t respond, instead reaching across to pick up his glass. I take a sip, holding his gaze over the rim. He drinks whiskey too. Interesting.
I set the glass back down in front of him without saying anything, but he understands my meaning.
“You think I’m attracted to you?”
“I think you’ll be relieved when I leave.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re boring.”
“Is it?”
His glare could melt steel. He doesn’t like being challenged. I get the impression he so rarely is that it’s an unwelcome novelty for him.
He says flatly, “No.”
“Thank you for not lying.”
“Don’t thank me yet. It’s because you’re irritating.”
That makes me laugh. It startles both of us. We sit with the echoes of the sound dying in the air until another uncomfortable silence falls.
Yet neither of us breaks eye contact.
Emboldened by the alcohol and his unexpected authenticity, I say, “So you do find me attractive.”
His glare is deadly. “Out of curiosity, are you this way all the time?”
Enjoying how he’s throwing my words back at me, I smile again. “Which way?”
“Aggressively aggravating.”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“What did your ex have to say on the matter?”
A pang of heartache tightens my chest. I moisten my lips and look away. “I never aggravated him. I was too busy accommodating all his needs.”
He studies my profile. I know he wants to ask more, but he doesn’t. But his silence is active. He’s paying very close attention to me, to my expression and body language. After being with a self-obsessed narcissist for so long, this kind of engrossment feels decadent.
Chet always made me feel like a thirsty little house plant who’d been left to bake in the desert sun.
Looking out over the elegant room, I say quietly, “It’s funny. I know I’m an intelligent person, but when it came to my ex, I threw my brain out the window. I saw all the red flags. There were so many, he might as well have been a circus.”
“But he was just so charming.”
I return my focus to Cole, who’s nodding.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Narcissists are always charming.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“I was literally just thinking that he was a narcissist.”
“The only kind of man who would leave a woman like you has a personality disorder.”
When I look into his eyes, what I find is a reflection of myself, all ache and want and loneliness.
I’m not sure I like him. But I do trust him. Courtesy of my ex, I know all the ways a liar can hide. This man isn’t hiding anything.
He doesn’t seem capable of it.
Which is maybe why he sits alone in a crowded room, glaring at the rest of humanity, and looks at me as if he’d like to make me his supper but would rather let himself go hungry than eat.
I say, “I changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“About wanting to be here. I’m glad I came over. Thank you for letting me stay.”
“You’re not welcome.”
Another smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I’ve probably smiled more since I sat down with him than I have in the past three months. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re strange?”
He shrugs. “Only everybody.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“You ever watch one of those documentaries on serial killers? Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, those kind of guys?”
“Yes. Why?”
“The first thing the neighbors always say when they find out they’ve been living next to a guy who chops people up and eats them is, ‘He seemed so normal.’”
“So you’re telling me you’re not going to dismember me for your weekend barbeque?”
“I’m telling you that the more normal someone seems, the more skeletons they’ve got buried in their backyard. Which you already know.”
“How so?”
“I’d bet my house your clown of an ex seemed like the most well-adjusted man you’d ever met…at first. Then eventually the mask fell off, and you saw the monster underneath.”
It’s like he read a script of my entire relationship with Chet. The accuracy of all his assumptions is unnerving. But only because it makes me feel so naked. So seen.
A feeling I haven’t enjoyed in a very long time.
“Yes. But he never regarded himself like that. It takes a man with a good heart to recognize when he’s the monster in someone else’s story. The courage it takes to break his own heart to save another’s proves he’s not really a monster. He’s a hero. He just wants to think of himself as the bad guy so he never gets hurt again.”
The silence stretches until it’s taut and thrumming. Now we’re not even trying to pretend the eye contact is anything but sexually charged.
When the waiter arrives at our tableside and asks if we need something, we both say “Yes” at the same time without looking away from each other.
Many months later, after both our hearts are battered and bloodied, after all our tears have been shed and we’re strangers once again, I’ll look back on this moment and realize I was already lost.
Cole
She’s beautiful, this woman with green eyes, a razor wit, and a weakness for men who need therapy. Beautiful, smart, and observant, which makes her the kind of dangerous I should be walking away from right the fuck now.
My feet have other ideas. They refuse to move, though I keep insisting they take us as far away from her as we can get.
They’re not my only body part she’s mesmerized.
My dick, my heart, and every nerve under my skin all ache for her.
Into the awkward silence, the waiter clears his throat. “Another whiskey, sir?”
“Make it two.”
I say it in a tone he understands correctly as a dismissal. He withdraws, leaving Shay and me alone in our tense little bubble.
I say, “Don’t romanticize me.”
“I’m not. It was simply an observation. The bad guys never think they’re the bad guys. They’re too busy pointing fingers and blaming everyone else for making them do what they did. Besides, I don’t have any romance left in me. Chet cured me of that.”
I curl my lip in disgust. “Chet? Even his name sounds clownish.”
“Really? I think it’s a nice name. Masculine.”
“Not masculine. Boyish. I’m picturing a sporty blond with perfect teeth and too much product in his hair.”
She smiles.
I wish I could take a picture of that smile. It could end wars.
“That description is so accurate, it’s disturbing. Tell me more.”
“He works out every day. Gets spray tans. Calls everyone ‘bro.’ Never shuts up about his Rolex. Watches himself in a mirror when he fucks. Has one of those smug, entitled faces you want to punch as soon as you see it.”
Shay blinks rapidly, shaking her head. “This is uncanny. Do you know him?”
“I know the type. Prep school frat boy fuckwit.”
Her laugh is so attractive and disarming, I have to clench my molars together to stop from kissing her.
I can’t remember the last time I had this kind of physical response to someone. Maybe never. There must be magnets under our skin, drawing us closer together.
“You and Chelsea would really get along.”
“Why’s that?”
“She calls him the twatwaffle.”
I pause to think. “Interesting visual. But how the fuck—and I mean this in the most respectful way possible—did a woman like you fall for a cunt like that?”
Her laughter dies. She sits there looking stunned, which makes me feel like an asshole.
“I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
“No, not at all. It just struck me that I’ve never heard a man call another man a cunt before. It’s strangely satisfying.”
“It’s a very versatile word.”
We’re staring at each other again. It’s becoming a habit. I never want to stop.