Chapter 9
Nine
Vicky
Thursday afternoon I’m back from a face-to-face session with HM he was working.
We had sex around the end of January, but it wasn’t his best effort. I’m not sure that counts.
He was home at Christmas, and spent most of it on his laptop, carving the roast beef we had while looking at his phone. My piece was so thick it was like a chewy New York strip.
I can’t remember before then.
So it’s been a while.
It all begs one question: why did it take me so long to leave?
“What’s amusing you?” he asks, breaking me out of my reverie.
What’s amusing is that I appeared amused. I laugh; it still works to keep the tears at bay, and now it has the added merit of seeing confusion in his expression.
He takes a step toward me, eyebrows lowering slightly, confusion becoming… what is that emotion on his face?
“Are you all right?” he asks.
Am I all right?
I blink. Twice.
Alex just asked me if I was all right. He’s never asked me that before.
“Are you all right?” I respond, now genuinely curious.
He stops. His eyes flick to the side then back to me. His back straightens. “Yes, of course I am. It was you I was concerned for.”
Concerned for…?
This is the most goddamn surreal conversation I’ve ever had with my ex-fiancé.
“Alex… when have you ever shown concern?”
He takes a step back, concern becoming bewilderment. I’ve never seen him so expressive. Usually, he’s as readable as a book written in Sanskrit.
“I care,” he says, half in protest.
I can’t help my scoff. “No, you don’t.”
“Of course I do.” He’s getting irritated now. The closest he ever gets to anger. That stillness he gets when I’ve annoyed him, the way the light seems to fade in his eyes as irritation inevitably gives way to indifference. That’s the Alex I know.
“My apologies for not being clear,” I say, dripping sarcasm. “I know you care about your work. I meant you don’t care about me.”
“And that’s not true either,” he tells me, voice imperious, like I’m being foolish. The words are there; the sentiment, as always, entirely absent.
How did it take me so long to see it?
“If you care, you’ll leave.” I throw it in his face, testing him.
“You don’t mean that.” It’s the ultimate bind, but he doesn’t even blink. Just dismisses it. Dismisses me.
“This may come as a shock to you, but I mean exactly what I say. I’m done playing wife for you.
You know when I gave you back the ring? That’s what that means.
” I know my voice is cold. That I could have wasted so much time with a man like this, and not seen him for what he is?
It’s like I’m channeling his dispassion.
Beneath it, I’m furious. Not even at him, but at myself.
No, at him too. How the hell does he expect me to get over him if he keeps invading my space with his stupidly attractive face, annoying knack for dressing well, and the sheer arrogance to think I'll idly accept him back into my life after months of neglect?
He’s not going to let me go quietly. I realize that now. And I’m damn sure not going back into that meaningless relationship, not after I’ve finally found the courage to walk away. I need to be strong, be prepared that he’s going to try again and again until he finally gives up.
Won’t that be fun.
His expression clears. “Just checking… can you dance?”
“Pardon?” It’s so unexpected it takes me a moment. “What?”
“Dance. Ballroom, specifically.”
“Of course I can,” I say flatly. “I’ve been having secret foxtrot lessons on the side for some time now.”
“Hmm.” His mouth twists. In disapproval, not amusement. “We should practice. The social is a dance.”
I genuinely don’t know how this moment could get any more surreal.
And then he turns, walking toward the side of the room. It takes me a moment to realize his destination: Carol’s Bluetooth speaker resting on the sideboard.
He’s powered it on before I can find my words and his phone’s in his hand, ready to sync.
“What the actual fuck are you doing?”
“Choosing some music.”
I was wrong. There were levels of surreal we hadn’t even begun to explore.
A lyrical piano waltz fills the apartment, and Alex turns to me expectantly.
“What the hell is this?”
“Shostakovich.” He steps forward, offering me a hand.
“No—” I shake my head in frustration. “Alex, I’m not going to this damn social, and I’m sure as hell not dancing with you.”
“You are coming to this social, because you’re my fiancée.”
“Was, Alex. Not anymore.”
His hand doesn’t fall. “If you come to the social with me, I’ll waive that twenty grand of seed money. You can keep it.”
I gape at him. “What do you think I am, a high-class escort that goes on a date because you goddamn pay me?” But if it wasn’t for HM I’m trying to keep my balance. My heart is beating faster than it should.
“And you’re being ridiculous,” I retort, still trying to push him away. If it was anyone else, I’d have slapped him and screamed. I’m still considering the merits.
He pulls me closer against him, our bodies touching, and mine responds.
He’s never held me like this. It’s not a hug, it’s more controlling.
My breath catches, my stomach has dropped somewhere around my knees, and I’m so very aware of everywhere our bodies touch.
I have to tilt my face up to keep my eyes on him, and it’s getting harder to maintain my glare.
He’s looking down at me, something soft in his eyes. That’s a first, too.
“Alex,” I begin, not sure if I’m angry, offended, or turned on. It comes out croaky, and I clear my throat and try again, going for firm. “I need you to let go of me.”
“It’ll be embarrassing on Friday if you’re this ungainly across the dance floor.”
And damn him, he’s not wrong. Which is to say, he’s all grace and poise.
I’m the one tripping over myself, like an ugly duckling.
But that’s half because I’m fighting him.
On a whim, I relax, listening to the music and letting him lead me.
The next six steps flow easily, his hand on my back guiding me where he wants me to be. It’s obvious he knows what he’s doing.
I shouldn’t be feeling what I’m feeling. I shouldn’t let him even have his hands on me. But this? Pressed together like this? Moving like this? It’s the closest we’ve come to romance since… well, since he proposed.
My heart is fluttering. My palm’s damp where he grips it. My nipples are so hard they ache… can he feel them, pressed to his chest?
Say something.
“I didn’t know you could dance.” Why the hell did I say that?
“My parents insisted I learned. A waste of time.”
And that’s the Alex I know, right back where he’s always been. My moment; his waste of time.
I step away, and finally he doesn’t try to stop me. Much-needed space appears between us. He’s completely unruffled, suit perfect, shirt unwrinkled, gaze steady. I’m trying to catch my breath, and it wasn’t the exertion. We’ve barely managed a dozen bars.
I turn walk to the kitchen counter, flicking on the kettle even though what I really want is a vodka. And I don’t drink vodka.
“If you’re done with this farce, you can leave.” I keep my back to him.
“It’s not what I’d call practice, but you do show promise.” Behind me, he walks across the room. Hopefully to get his coat. “I’ll see you in a week, then.”
“Which part of ‘I’m not coming’ isn’t clear?”
“The part where your heart races when you’re in my arms.”
Arrogant. Condescending. Dick.
“Get out, Alex.”
He gives a soft chuckle, walks through the apartment, and a moment later the door closes behind him.
Only then do I turn around. Take a breath. Unclench my fists and see the half-moon marks on my palms.
I could ask myself, yet again, why it took me so long to leave him.
But the truth is, he’s right. My heart was racing. It still is.
Why did it take me so long to leave?
Because I still love him.