14. Elena #2
He gives me a slightly wary look and reaches for his beer.
“Yeah, this is definitely the kind of neighborhood I grew up in. My dad was president of the motorcycle club, and my mom stayed home. We had good money, since he ran jobs for the Italian mafia, but the key to not getting pinched for that kind of work is to not throw that money around. We lived comfortably enough, but nothing fancy. And I don’t think either of my parents liked or wanted fancy, anyway.
A lot of that money got tucked away, although I was never going to college, so it just sort of sat there. Gave me a nice nest egg, eventually.”
“So you were always part of the motorcycle club, then?”
Declan nods. “I mean, I didn’t get a seat at the table or anything until I was older, but I was riding as soon as I was old enough to reach the handlebars.
Definitely sooner than it was legal.” He chuckles again.
“But I wouldn’t trade that life for this one for a second.
In the world I used to live in, no one pretends to be something they aren’t. ”
I can hear the underlying words: Unlike the one I’m living in now. With you.
"Do you miss it?" I ask.
"Every day." He lets out a breath. "But I can't go back. That life isn’t mine anymore."
"Why not?"
"Because I made a choice." He reaches for a fry. “And I’m going to stick with it.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t think I have the right to try to get him to.
We aren’t close enough for me to try to find out what’s under the hint of pain I hear in his voice.
Coming here cost him something, and he’s doing it for a reason, but he clearly doesn’t want to share what that is. And for now, I don’t pry.
“So what did you do as a kid?” I ask instead, lightening my voice. He smiles. I can’t help but think, seeing it, that he’s smiled more since we walked in here than I’ve ever seen before.
“Played pool in the clubhouse, got into fights with the neighborhood kids. Learned to fix motorcycles." Another smile. "Normal kid stuff."
"I wouldn't know what that's like."
He eyes me. "What was your childhood like?"
I draw in a slow breath. “School. Lots of lessons on dancing and household management and how to throw the perfect party. It was all very structured. I was learning how to count calories and ‘ladylike’ exercise routines as soon as I could understand any of it.” I take another bite of burger to avoid elaborating further.
"Not much room for playing pool or fixing motorcycles. "
"That sounds lonely."
It was. God, it was so lonely, and even more so after my mother died. But I don't say that. I can’t bring myself to admit how isolated I felt, even surrounded by family and staff and all the trappings of wealth.
"It was what it was," I say instead.
Declan doesn't push. He just nods and finishes his burger.
Rosie comes by with another round of beers. "How's the food?"
"Perfect," I tell her with a smile. Declan looks surprised, but I really do mean it.
"Good." She pats my shoulder. "You take care of this one, you hear? He's a good boy."
I glance at Declan, who's looking slightly embarrassed. "I will."
After Rosie leaves, I notice the music has changed. The jukebox is playing something with a faster tempo, and a few people have pushed tables aside near the back, creating a small dance floor. Couples are moving together, laughing and spinning.
I watch them, fascinated. This isn't the formal dancing I'm used to, the carefully choreographed waltzes and foxtrots. This is loose and free and joyful. I’ve never danced like that in my entire life.
I realize, vaguely, that I have a little bit of a buzz. It feels pleasant, but also a little alarming, like I have less self-control than I’m used to.
"You want to dance?" Declan's voice pulls my attention back to him.
I blink. "What?"
"Dance." He nods toward the makeshift dance floor. "You want to?"
I should say no, and remember my composure and dignity. I'm Elena Capetti—Murphy now—and I don't dance in diners with vinyl booths and greasy burgers. But the buzz from the beer feels like it’s intensifying, and suddenly I wonder what it would be like to just have some fun for once.
"Yes," I hear myself say.
Declan's eyebrows rise slightly, like he didn't expect me to agree. But he stands and offers me his hand. I take it.
He leads me to the dance floor, and suddenly I'm very aware of how out of place I am.
My gown, my jewelry, my carefully styled hair, all feel ridiculous here.
But no one is staring or judging. One woman actually calls out over the music that she loves my dress, and I manage a nervous smile in return.
And then Declan’s hands are on me, pulling me into him, and my heart rate kicks up alarmingly.
We haven’t danced together since our wedding.
He’s touched me since then, but it’s always been antagonistic, him tempting me while I try to resist, a battle of wills.
That’s not what’s happening now. He pulls me close as we start to dance, my many lessons about tempo helping me figure it out despite the unusual music, and it’s not about fighting each other. It’s just about having fun.
I realize I'm relaxed for the first time in... I don't know how long. Possibly my whole life.
"You're good at this," I say, looking up at him. He looks handsome in the glow of the diner’s lights, the stubble on his jaw a little darker now, all that rugged strength evident as he moves with me.
Declan’s mouth twitches as if he’s surprised at the compliment. "So are you."
"I've had lessons."
"This isn't about lessons." His voice is low as he leans in close to my ear. "This is just... moving. Feeling the music."
I close my eyes and let myself feel the rhythm and the warmth of his body against mine. The alcohol humming through my veins. When was the last time I felt like this? When was the last time I did something just because I wanted to, not because it was expected or required?
I can't remember. I might not ever have, now that I think about it. I’ve never rebelled. I’ve never done things for myself instead of for someone else.
The song ends, and another begins, faster this time. Declan spins me, and I laugh, the sound surprising me. He grins, and for a moment he looks younger and less burdened.
We dance through two more songs. My feet hurt in my heels, and my gown is completely inappropriate for this, but I don't care. I'm breathless and warm, and I feel more alive than I ever have before. Finally, we return to the booth. I slide in, my heart racing and my cheeks flushed.
"That was..." I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
"Fun?" Declan suggests.
"Yes." I take a long drink of a beer Rosie left for us. "Fun."
He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read, but makes my stomach flutter. He looks like he doesn’t understand me, but like he suddenly very much wants to figure me out.
I look away, suddenly uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze and the way my body is responding to him.
The realization that I enjoyed being in his arms.
This isn't supposed to happen. I'm not supposed to enjoy his company or want to be near him.
We stay at the diner for another hour, just chatting as we drink, about places Declan has traveled and places we both want to go, things we enjoy doing in our spare time. It feels like what I imagine a date is supposed to be, and I don’t know how I feel about that.
When we finally leave, Rosie hugs Declan and then, to my surprise, hugs me too. "You come back anytime, sweetheart. You're family now."
The word sounds strange. Family, to me, doesn’t mean hugs and warmth and comfort. It means duty and obligation and doing unpleasant things because they’re expected, even if you don’t want to.
The car is waiting outside when we walk out, me a little wobbly in my heels now.
Declan opens the door for me, and I slide into the back seat.
He follows, and the driver pulls away from the curb.
The partition between the driver and us is up.
We're alone in the dim interior, the city lights sliding past the windows.
I should be putting all of what just happened behind me.
It was a gesture, a means of mollifying my husband because I need to manage this marriage if I’m going to keep from being dragged down with him.
But instead, I’m thinking about how close Declan is.
I can smell his cologne and the warmth of his skin, and his hand is resting on the seat between us, close enough to touch.
“I…” I turn toward him, unsure of what I’m about to say, but I go very still when I see that he’s looking at me already. His gaze is hungry, and I feel answering heat flood through me.
Before I can stop myself, I lean in and kiss him.
His stubble is scratchy against my smooth skin. I feel him go still this time, startled. I’ve never made a move on him before, never initiated us touching. I can feel how startled he is, and then, immediately on the heels of that, the vibration of intense desire rippling in the air between us.
And then, suddenly, he’s kissing me back. His mouth is on mine, hot and demanding, and I'm kissing him harder without thinking, without hesitation. My hands find his shoulders, his hair, pulling him closer. I suddenly can’t get enough of his mouth.
His hand slides up my thigh, pushing the silk of my gown higher. I gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against mine, and heat floods through me.
I don't want to stop.