Chapter 24 Mila
Chapter 24
Mila
Sarai was right. The food on a private jet is amazing. At least, it looks amazing. Sadly, every bite I slide into my mouth tastes like cardboard.
My decisions taste like cardboard, too, and my sadness like a paper cut to the tongue. At least it stops me from speaking. So here I sit, cocooned in the jet’s plush leather seat, probably the most comfortable place ever. Save for being cradled by the hands of God. Or the arms of Fin.
Oh, I am miserable .
Last night ... I will remember last night for the entirety of my life. How Fin held me. How he treasured me. How he wiped away my tears, never pausing in his quest to fuck his feelings into me.
I’m not sure there has been a word invented to describe how the experience made me feel. Bittersweet touches and brain-melting inducements. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. And nothing I’ll ever experience again.
This week has been like living in an alternate reality, from Oliver’s offer of payment—which felt like a dream come true—to claiming back a little of myself, of my autonomy and my self-worth. And then Fin. He helped me discover the parts of me I never knew existed.
Watch me, Mila. Watch how I make you mine.
But they’re just words. I’ll get over them. Besides, the only person you can truly rely on is yourself. Though Fin was an excellent crutch while it lasted.
My gaze slides to the tiny window, the sky beyond pitch, as I recall waking Sunday morning to find myself in bed with Fin. I hoped it was worth it, that the sex had been amazing, and that it would come back to me as the silver lining of what seemed like the ruination of my escape from poverty.
I was possibly being a little dramatic, but I don’t think I’m being so now when I say I’ve changed my mind. I hope I forget the last five days. I hope the memories fade as quickly as my tan. Because, as I said the morning I woke to find I was Fin DeWitt’s wife, “ Sweet Jesus fucking hell, what have I done? ”
I told myself we’d have great sex with little connection, but it’s been so far from that in reality, and I’m a little scared. I let my walls down with Fin, but I just need to remember who I am—who I really am. Or who I was before life kicked me down. I’m as capable as I am determined. As professional as I am thorough. So shields up and armed. I’ll just ignore how my soul hurts in the meantime.
I won’t regret my time here, though I know I’ll pay for it, because despite the things I told myself—despite the things I said to him—of course I want to see him again. As he sits across from me tap-tapping on his laptop, I want to touch him so much that my fingers ache.
But I can’t lose my heart to Fin, and pretending I could settle for being just another notch in his belt would be foolish. I’d be lying to myself, and to him, because I’m just not built that way. And even if, in some strange, alternate reality, there’s a chance Fin might be the one, I have too much going on in my life to be distracted by love.
Not that I love him. I esteem him. Like him. I fancy the rotten pants off him! I’ve gotten off on our interactions. Sometimes quite literally. But I don’t love him. I can’t love him. And that’s the end of that.
I ride the Tube to get around. He has a private jet. We wouldn’t last in the real world.
“May I take your plate?”
I glance up into the purser’s smiling face.
“Yes.” I give myself an internal shake. “Please. All finished!” I paint on a polite smile and stop short of asking her if she’d like a hand with the dishes. Anything to distract myself from these thoughts. Thoughts that drift into memories. Memories that pierce like claws.
“May I refresh your drink?”
Because on a private jet there’s nothing so gauche as a refill .
“Thank you, but no.”
I watch as she folds away the tiny white tablecloth that was placed across my half of the table. Fin declined food, though he is nursing a whisky.
“Thank you, Agata,” Fin murmurs, glancing up. “How did your granddaughter’s rehearsal go? Sophie, right?”
Agata, an attractive sixtysomething, beams. “She got the part!”
“That’s great!” Fin says, his genuine pleasure evident.
“We’re so grateful for—”
He makes an almost indiscernible motion of his head—barely a tilt. “I only picked up the phone. Sophie did the hard part. Please pass on my congratulations.”
“Of course.” Agata inclines her head before disappearing to the back of the jet.
I stifle a sigh. Like I needed reminding how not awful Fin DeWitt is right now.
As though sensing the weight of my gaze, he glances up from his laptop and gives me a sad-looking smile. We’ve been sitting like this for what feels like hours, him supposedly catching up on work and me with my nose buried in my phone as I read. Which is more a case of staring at the same page as my mind tortures me with impossibilities.
Maybe turning cold toward him this morning was a step too far. He probably doesn’t realize that I said my goodbyes while he was still sleeping. How I lay in his arms, marveling how, in the space of a few days, he’d become my cave of safety. Every morning we’d woken the same way, his body curved around mine, his arms holding me tight. I can imagine how, after a bad day, a girl could retreat into the cave of Fin so easily.
But not a girl named Mila. Not anymore.
“ We’re gonna pretend you’re by yourself, enjoying your ... special alone time. That’s right, sweet girl. I’m gonna watch, and you’re gonna play. Not over there. Come here. Bring that sweet pussy over my face. ”
I come to with a start, the light brighter and a soft pillow under my head. It takes me a few moments to orient myself, the thrum of the plane echoing inside my aching hollowness. I struggle upright, reaching out to stop a cashmere-soft blanket falling to the floor, when Fin beats me to it. As he would, given he’s sitting next to rather than across from me.
“Did you say something?” The words come out accusingly as I glance up at him, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. Classy, I know.
His mouth tips, and he reaches out, tugging gently on a lock of my hair. From the corner of my eye, it seems to have turned springy from being squashed to my head.
“What’s wrong? Did I invade your dreams, beautiful?”
“No,” I answer far too quickly. I blink, pushing the wayward strands away. “You’ve moved.”
“I know.”
“Why?” Another accusation.
“You looked cold,” he says, with a look of benevolent patience. “I covered you up, and you reached for me. Maybe you were uncomfortable.”
“I’m not sure how. These seats are so comfy. I wondered earlier if this is what it must feel like being cradled in the hands of God.” I pat my hand against the backrest and plump the square pillow, as though to support my point.
“Maybe you find my arms preferable to the hands of the Almighty.”
The story checks out, thanks to the patch of drool on his chest. He must’ve changed while I was sleeping, as he’s no longer wearing the shorts and T-shirt he boarded in, but a pair of crisp, dark jeans and a pale-gray fine-knit sweater that looks so soft and makes his eyes look like rain clouds.
I don’t point that out, of course, as I stretch the sleep from my body and try not to enjoy how his eyes sweep over me.
“We’ll be descending soon,” he says, with a casual glance in the direction of the window.
“Really?” My hands drop to my sides, disappointment filling my chest. Stupid chest. “How long was I asleep?”
“Almost eight hours. Comfortable, see?” he says, kicking out his long legs in front of him.
He might be right, but I’m also worn out. I haven’t had a lot of sleep this week, every night and every afternoon siesta interrupted by touches, by kisses. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes during our slumber. It’s as though even our unconscious selves were reluctant to waste a moment. As though my body has been making up for lost time as well as stocking up for the future.
My future will be one of focus. Of dedication to my grandmother’s comfort and to my success.
God, I can’t wait to move out of Baba’s tired flat. It’ll be hideous being back there.
“I’d say that’s reason enough to keep in contact.”
“Sorry?” My brain connects the dots a beat too late.
“I’m a good place to land, Mila.”
“Fin,” I murmur sadly, my gaze sliding away. “Please don’t.” I can’t move on and keep him in my life. Cold turkey is the only way to go. The seat belt clunks as I loosen it, though he catches my wrist as I try to pass.
“I’ll say it again, Mila. This doesn’t have to be complicated. It could be just as good as it is right now.”
But I don’t trust myself, and I shouldn’t trust him. I know he wants me, but for how long? How quickly will his interest wane when he finds out I live like a trash rat? When he learns I eat my feelings and then skip meals, that I bite my fingernails down to the quick when I’m stressed, and that I have one-way conversations with the teenage girl who seems to reside in my head.
“No, Fin. It’s already too messy. We can’t. Not anymore.”
He nods, as though he finally understands. Or is finally giving up on the idea of us. Giving in to logic, I suppose. And that doesn’t make me feel glad. Which is absurd. Please let go of my wrist.
“Then I’m sorry, Mila.”
“Me too. But—”
“No, I’m sorry that you might not have any choice in the matter.”
My brow furrows as I begin to shake my head, but I abandon the action when I can’t make sense of what he means. His tone isn’t threatening, but there’s a finality to it. A hardness. Why would he say such a thing? I pull again. This time his fingers loosen.
“What is it? What do you mean?”
“That it might not be entirely in your control.” His words, not his tone, are what sound vaguely threatening. “Sit down.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Sit down, Mila.” The phrase brooks no argument flashes in my head. That tenor. It’s not one I’ve heard from him before. And I don’t know how I feel about it.
“Okay.” I shoot him a cool look and make to move to the seats opposite. He reaches for my wrist, making me still.
“Sit here.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Would you just fucking listen? Sit your ass down next to me.”
“What has gotten into you?” I mutter, lowering myself to my original seat.
“I just think you should be close when you see this.”
He hands me his phone, and my heart sinks as I read the heading.