“Yes.” She nods, her head bumping my chin. “Now you know.”
We remain like that for a few minutes, getting our bearings. Remembering how to breathe. I flatten my palms on the wall above her head and watch from above as she arranges my clothes, zipping me back into my pants. Re-tucking my shirt.
I’ve just broken my oath and yeah, there is guilt involved. Conflict batting its wings inside of me. But not near enough to stay away from Jane. I assume we’re going to make plans to see each other again. Immediately.
Tonight.
Sooner, if possible. Maybe we can call in sick for the rest of the day.
I want all of her free time. Every second of it.
I want to take her home, see her in every room of my house. In my bathtub, on my staircase, at my breakfast bar. In my bedroom. God, yes, I need her there.
So all I can do is stand there in shock as she kisses my mouth one last time, slips back into her damp dress and disappears from the coffee shop patio without another word. By the time I realize she isn’t coming back, she’s long gone. Nowhere to be found on the sidewalk, on the street.
Gone.
What in the hell just happened?
Five
Jane
“Could you move the tree a little to the right?” I wait for the maintenance technician to shuffle the potted foliage a few centimeters, leaning back to inspect its symmetry with the rest of the room. “Perfect.”
I reach up to adjust the string of orange and white lights hanging in the “haunted” tree, then turn to survey the rest of the room. The Firestarter Halloween party is just over a week away and we’re already halfway through decorating the warehouse space I found. We currently have the overhead halogens off so I can get the full effect of the purple and orange lighting that will run throughout the room. Tables are being positioned strategically, the bar stocked, the crime scene arranged.
It’s coming together beautifully.
Byron will be pleased with me.
Hope and yearning and obsession join forces inside of my chest, expanding, causing me to lose my train of thought along with my breath. Yes, more than anything in this world, I want that man to be happy with my efforts here. I want him to smile and enjoy himself—two things he hasn’t done in far too long.
Except for yesterday.
I succeeded in giving him enjoyment outside the coffee shop, our bodies plastered together, soaked in rain. So much enjoyment that I can still feel the deliciously large shape of him inside me twenty-four hours later. Can still feel his fingers digging into my buttocks, his staccato breaths on my neck. Is it way too much to hope for that I’m having a positive effect on Byron? That I’m nudging him back toward the living where he belongs? Because that was my plan. I wanted to show him it was okay to live again. In the light.
Not to drag him into the darkness.
And I’m afraid that might be what I’m doing, instead.
Making him call me names, begging him to shame me, like I deserve. I deserve to be shamed for what I’ve done. But he’s too good a man for that, right? I can’t turn him into a twisted root like me. My fear that I’m going to drag him with me into the pitch black is why I haven’t answered his calls for the last day. So many calls. Every time I let my phone ring without picking up, it’s like a knife rotating in my belly. I didn’t even allow myself to watch him swim this morning and it’s had me off kilter all day.
Rubbing at the ache in my throat, I find a place away from the noise so I can make a phone call to the caterers. But before I can dial, a door opens on the other side of the venue—and in walks Byron.
His sudden presence screams through me like screeching tires.
I drop my clipboard. Almost sink straight to the ground.
What is he doing here?
Does he want to check on the progress of the party or is he here to see me?
Yesterday morning I would have cried tears of joy if this man wanted to be around me, spend time with me, but now? As he strides toward me with a purposeful set to his chin, I worry for him. He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. I just wanted to make up for what I’d done by showing him some pleasure, some happiness, but I’m not the woman for the job. I’m going to turn him into something that he’s not, all because I’m broken and wrong.
“Jane,” he says, as he reaches me, the sound of his voice washing over me like a warm waterfall, even though it’s strained. Impatient. “I was hoping I’d find you here.” His gaze travels down to my toes, up my legs, hips, breasts, returning to my face with significantly more heat. “Can we talk somewhere privately?”