A Million Different Ways to Lose You (Horn Duet 2)

It was early evening when I saw him again, right after my shower, as I entered the bedroom finger combing my short wet hair and wearing one of his t-shirts with the Stanford logo on it. In some strange way, it made me feel closer to him.

The French doors that led to the balcony were open. He stood with his back to me, the heels of his hands resting on the wrought iron railing and his gaze fixed on the red slash that marked the horizon. We both watched the remains of the day faded away in a final blaze of glory.

The intensity of my feelings for this man still took me by surprise at times, making my heart race and my stomach drop as if I was dangling fifty stories high with no parachute and no voice to scream for help.

He looked so alone, remote, holding himself apart from anything and anyone that could hurt him––including me. The urgency to wrap my arms around him and ruffle up some feeling was irresistible. I was about to do just that when his words checked me.

“I don’t recognize what I feel for you. And it’s not because I’ve never been in love before,” he confessed. The words seemed to flow out of him on a deep, exhausted exhale, the weight of his thoughts bearing down on him. “Calling it love doesn’t seem enough.”

When he turned around, his face was absent of emotion. That concerned me more than his anger, or disapproval. He looked like the man I had met all those months ago, locked up behind the impenetrable walls of his fortress. His eyes roamed over the t-shirt I wore. “I’ve never asked you…have you?”

This was a conversation I was not prepared to have. We had always tiptoed around the subject. He had never come right out and asked, and I’d never felt the need to pick at that scab.

“Have I what?”

“Been in love before?”

I picked my words carefully. “Once…a long time ago. But it’s not the same thing. No two loves are alike. I was young and impressionable back then. I’m different now––I…I know better.” My eyes left his face for a moment when it dawned on me that my behavior clearly illustrated otherwise. I had never thought of myself as a hypocrite, and yet, apparently I was.

“Who was he?”

“Someone from home.” I caught the knee jerk reaction. It wasn’t home. It hadn’t been home in a long time. “I mean––back in Tirana…we were engaged.”

Not only had Sebastian been married before, but almost a father. And yet, for some odd reason, the look of shock on his face made me feel guilty, as if I had somehow betrayed him.

“Engaged?” he repeated absently. I could see him digesting this new piece of information and trying to make sense of it, trying to rationalize his feelings; his face told me everything I needed to know. It didn’t take long for curiosity to replace surprise. “Why did you break up?”

My focus shifted to the hem of the t-shirt I was busy fiddling with. “He wanted to move away and I didn’t want to go with him.” My eyes lifted to find his still glued on me, assessing me shrewdly. The silence grew heavy. Then, after an eternity passed, he nodded.

“I have a theory that the more you suffer, the more deeply you love,” I mumbled, surprising even myself with that admission. No doubt it had something to do with a driving need to earn his forgiveness.

“That explains what I feel for you.”

“Sebastian, I––” I wanted to tell him how sorry I was but the words rang hollow in my own mind. He was right. I didn’t recognize the feeling. Calling it regret didn’t do it justice.

“You won’t even give me a chance to disappoint you,” he said in a low voice, a frustrated sigh tacked on the end. “You don’t trust me and I don’t know how to change that.” Facing me, he squared his shoulders and crossed his arms.

My pride rushed to defend itself. “That’s not true. I do trust you.”

His demeanor transformed instantly, his eyes narrowed and his chin tilted down. “Don’t lie to me––ever.” The glare he followed that up with was lethal. The discussion I had with Marianne months ago, in which she warned me of Sebastian’s inability to forgive any form of duplicity, came back to me in a sudden rush. All I could do was lay my cards out on the table and hope he accepted the offering.

“Before you, I loved two men my entire life. My father and the man I was engaged to. I was betrayed by both of them…you’re the first person I’ve loved that hasn’t let me down––I do trust you.”

“Then who the fuck is Veronica Savarini?” He was battling to contain his anger. As clear as day, it was in his voice, in the taut lines of his muscles. He pulled something out of his back pocket. My Italian passport. He held up my Italian passport. He must’ve found it when they searched my apartment in Pâquis. On his face was the verdict. In the court of his opinion I had been tried and convicted as a liar.