“Zyah. Child.”
Her grandmother’s voice was very soft. Very loving. Zyah didn’t dare turn around, not with tears burning behind her eyes. She wasn’t shedding them, but her grandmother knew her too well, and she would know. This had cut deep, and it was silly when she didn’t even know his real name. He hadn’t told her. He’d given her the truth of him. Player. He played women, and he’d played her for an absolute fool.
“You don’t have to tell me if it hurts too much, but sometimes it feels better to share. I’m always here for you. Always on your side.”
“I don’t know why I liked him so fast. I just gave myself to him, Mama Anat. All in. Everything. I danced for him. Laughed with him. I felt as if I’d known him my entire life. Being with him was magical. I thought he felt the same way. From the moment he walked through the door, he took my breath away. I never got it back. I still can’t breathe when I think about him.” She couldn’t.
She tried not to let her mind go back to that night of pure bliss, of perfection. Everything about Player had been exactly what she’d wanted it to be. Her complete fantasy man. Their connection had been so strong, on such an intimate level, she hadn’t even considered holding back. She’d surrendered everything she was to him.
Zyah’s hand crept to her throat. She could barely admit the truth to herself let alone to her grandmother. She whispered it, stroking the faint marks of possession he’d left on her body. She had them everywhere. She’d thought they’d meant something to him when he put them there. He’d acted like they did, but she knew better now.
“Can you come and sit with me, child?” Anat patted the bed beside her.
Zyah’s heart clenched. “I might cry, and I cried so much after the interviews, I thought my eyes would burn out of my head. At least I had enough discipline to get through both before I broke down. He isn’t worth more tears.” But she knew she would shed more. When she was alone in her bed, craving him. He’d set up some kind of terrible addiction.
“Tell me about him.”
Zyah closed her eyes against the sudden wash of sensation pouring over her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed at her skin as if she could rid herself of his touch. “He felt like fire every time he touched me. He could be so gentle and then turn rough and wild, like he couldn’t get close enough to me or get enough of me. I couldn’t get enough of him.” She made her confession in an even lower tone.
Her grandmother remained silent, something she often did to encourage Zyah to continue telling her something important. Zyah swung around to face her, a little defiantly, this time deliberately looking her straight in the eye. She knew there was no getting around what she was revealing. Anat would understand that she was talking about having been with her partner sexually when she barely knew him. There was no judgment, but then her grandmother wasn’t a judgmental person. Throughout her childhood and teenage years, that had always remained a constant trait in her— one Zyah counted on now.
“He was so beautiful. Everything about him was beautiful to me, Mama Anat. His body was covered in scars. So many they made me want to weep. I didn’t ask him about them, or the tattoos he had, which covered quite a few. The tattoos were intricate and intriguing. I just talked with him because he seemed to need to hear the sound of my voice. We laughed so much. He loves music the way I do. He loves working with wood. His voice . . .” She broke off again, waving her hands in the air in despair.
Looking straight into her grandmother’s eyes, she asked the question that mattered the most, the one that nagged at her continually. “How could I have been so wrong?”
Anat regarded her just as carefully, never breaking eye contact. “You were so certain he was the one for you?”
Zyah nodded without hesitation. There hadn’t been any doubt in her mind or heart. Player had connected with her on such a level she felt complete. Soul to soul. She’d been that certain of him.
“I felt his heartbeat. When I danced. I was barefoot. He was barefoot. Something was wrong with him when he came into the room. His heart was straining. His mind was chaotic. His rhythm was off, but we were in perfect harmony. Movements, and the pitch of my voice—we connected, I know we did.” She faltered. “I was wrong. I connected with him, but he failed to connect with me. He didn’t. Not at all.”