Chapter 48
Julian
Thursday she made me lunch. Today on Saturday, she picked me up in a town car.
She was in a backless emerald gown that should have been illegal. She looked like sin and salvation rolled into one.
“Where are we going?” I asked, sliding in beside her.
“It’s a surprise.”
We went to a private jazz club. She’d rented out the entire balcony. There was a quartet playing, soft and low, and a bottle of my favorite bourbon was already on the table.
“How did you know about this place?” I asked. It was a spot I loved but rarely talked about.
“Your mother may have mentioned you come here.” She poured two glasses and handed me one. “I listen, Julian. I always have.”
We listened to the music. We didn’t talk much. She’d rest her hand on my knee under the table, possessively. She’d brush my hair back from my forehead if it fell forward. Every touch was an unspoken claim, a reversal of the years I spent trying to claim her.
When the set ended, she stood, holding out her hand. “Dance with me.”
“There’s no dance floor.”
“There is now,” she said, leading me to the small, cleared space in front of the band.
The music started again—a jazz rendition of Masego’s "Navajo." It was one of my favorite songs, one she had introduced me to years ago. I wanted to laugh because it was another part of life I wouldn’t have known without her.
I held her, my hand on the bare skin of her back. The warmth of her skin under my palm felt like coming home after a long, cold war.
“I’m not going to break, you know,” I muttered into her hair, fighting the urge to pull her closer. “I’m still mad. I just had nothing else to do tonight.”
“I know,” she whispered back, her lips close to my ear. “Just dance, Julian. We’ll worry about the rest later...”