To Have and to Hate

“How much longer is the auction open?” Walt asks one of the coordinators stationed in the room.

She glances down at her watch before replying, “Five minutes.”

“Good,” he says, tossing down the pen. “If someone outbids me on the Magritte, call. I won’t let it go without a fight.”

“Of course,” she says with a reverential nod.

His gaze catches mine and I frown, wondering…

Then before I can press him on whether or not that was meant to be a double entendre, we’re off again, walking down the main hall toward the front entrance of the museum and retrieving our things from coat check. The doors loom ahead and I’m sure the limo is sitting at the curb, waiting for us outside. I can already feel the shift between us, the magic wearing off. My Cinderella carriage will turn back into a pumpkin soon enough, and I’ll have nothing to show for it.

I try to slow down, but Walt doesn’t let me. In fact, he picks up our pace.

“Wait. Walt, will everything go back to the way it was as soon as we leave?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you pretend nothing’s happened between us?”

“Nothing has happened,” he argues.

“We kissed, Walt.”

He swallows slowly, thinking something over.

“Yes, and though I won’t call it an outright mistake, I need you to realize it can’t happen again. This arrangement we have…it works because it’s all business. I cannot—will not go down that road with you.”

Then the doors to the museum are pushed open for us and he’s leading us down the stairs. I have no idea why he’s walking so fast. It’s as if we’re fleeing from someone, and I’m about to trip in my heels if he doesn’t slow down.

“Please just stop,” I say before he tugs open the door to the limo.

I cross my arms, taking a last stand out on the sidewalk, but it only lasts a matter of seconds before his gaze forces me inside. He follows after me and slams the door behind him.

The limo feels even more cramped than earlier, like our emotions might be too much for the confined space. The roof is liable to explode from all the pressure.

Thankfully, traffic has died down and the trip back is much quicker than our ride there. We’re out in front of the building, saying our thanks to Alexander before I can even catch my breath or calm my anger. In the lobby and in the elevator, I get the sense that Walt wants me to drop the subject completely. It’s like he can’t get away from me fast enough as the doors open and we step out into the entry gallery of the apartment. The lights are off, but the glow of the city skyline seeps through the windows of the great room at the end of the hall, illuminating us enough that I catch Walt’s hard expression.

“I don’t understand what’s going on, Walt. You’ll have to spell it out for me because I don’t get it.”

“We’re married,” he says, starting to undo his bow tie.

“Yes?”

“Not by choice,” he adds, trying to get me to understand.

“Yes, and so what?”

“So what? This arrangement is born out of necessity, Elizabeth.” His voice booms in the quiet hallway. “You don’t want that ring on your finger. You’re here out of duty, and I won’t force myself on you on top of everything else.”

“Walt—”

“It’s not at all what I’ve been trying to do,” he continues. “I’ve kept my distance. I barely exist in this apartment out of fear that I’ll encroach on your space.”

Suddenly, I can’t take it. I can’t fend off the burgeoning feelings I have for Walt, the feelings that, despite how little I tend to them, don’t seem to want to wither away. Like a weed, resilient and foolhardy, here I stand, looking up at a man I damn near love even though it feels absolutely futile.

I reach up to press a kiss to his lips, to make him see reason and end this tiresome argument about nonsense, and at the last moment he turns and presents me with his cheek. My lips miss his mouth, and it feels like a thousand shards of glass cutting into my heart.

He steps back, turns, and leaves me there in the entryway.

Eighteen

I can’t stop digging at the wound Walt caused last night. To turn away from my kiss, to spurn my advances…it blends sadness and embarrassment into an ugly mixture that wants so badly to morph into anger. Like a schoolyard bully, I want to take my overwhelming emotions and throw them right back at Walt. I want to shout at him, to childishly tell him I didn’t want to kiss him anyway! I want him to hurt like I hurt, and it’s that inane notion that keeps me locked up in my room the next day.