Never Again

by Lilliana Anderson

  “Do you want a room for a full week?”

  He smiled, even though his eyes closed in frustration. “No. I just want whatever is available right now. You can charge me whatever you want.”

  “It’ll be for a minimum of one night’s stay.”

  “That’s fine.” He pointed to the credit card he’d already given her, and they went through the process of booking a room. The moment the key card was placed in his hand, his grip on my arm tightened and he pulled me toward the lifts.

  Unlike the last times we were in a hotel together, there was no sexual tension filling the small space, no excitement, no desire. There was tension, sure, but it was the angry, world-destroying kind. This was what I hadn’t wanted. Bran, at his core, was a caveman. I loved that about him, loved the way that animalistic aggression made me feel. Truthfully, every time opportunities to talk were blocked, I’d been secretly relieved. And that, combined with knowingly deceiving him, was what had me so agitated now. And terrified. I loved this man, and the idea of hurting him tore at my heart.

  I should have told him sooner…

  The moment we entered the room, he released my arm, the absence of his grip a relief and a disappointment simultaneously. It ached where his hand had been, the throbbing syncing with my frightened heartbeat. This can’t be the end.

  Standing with my back against the closed door, I watched him walk into the room, removing his jacket and loosening his tie. He threw it on the end of one of the two queen-sized beds dominating the room, then stalked toward the small window that overlooked another large building, his hands tucked into his pockets, his back facing me.

  “Speak,” he commanded.

  “I’m so sorry you found out that way,” I started moving farther into the room. “I was going to tell you. I just—”

  “When?” he bellowed, turning to face me.

  I jumped at the timbre of his voice, closing my eyes for a moment to try and find my bearings. “Tonight. I’ve been trying to tell you. I even tried to tell you last night, but…we got interrupted… Then it didn’t seem the right time.”

  “Any time over the past few months would have been a perfect time to tell me.”

  “I didn’t tell you in the beginning because I didn’t know how serious we were. This was just supposed to be a fling—a dirty little secret. Those were your words.”

  “So this is my fault now?”

  “No. It’s not your fault at all. I’m just trying to explain. We hooked up three months after Jack and I split. Our marriage was over.”

  “That’s his name? Jack?”

  I nodded. “I caught him fucking some woman he worked with.”

  “He’s the cheater? So, what was I? Your revenge fuck?”

  “No! I don’t know. Maybe in the beginning. That very first night, I suppose I was out there trying to get back at him. But then I met you, and it wasn’t like that at all. It was all about you and this crazy connection we have.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me after we started seeing each other?”

  “Because I thought it would go away.”

  “Your marriage?”

  “No. Our connection. You’re so young and beautiful, and well…I’m not either of those things anymore. I thought you’d get bored with me and find someone who was more suited to you—someone your age and your equal.”

  His eyes flashed and his jaw clenched just before he shook his head. “That’s a bullshit statement.”

  “It’s how I felt, Bran. I didn’t know what you saw in me. I didn’t know that that feeling was only going to grow and intensify. I’d never met someone like you before, never felt this strong about someone. I’d only ever dated Jack. I came to you completely clueless.”

  “But you didn’t come to me as a single woman.”

  “Technically, no. But you never shared me—I promise you that. The moment I walked out on him was the end of our relationship. We were broken up when you and I met. The moment our one year of separation is up, we’ll be divorced. I have an attorney working on it. Call her if you want.” I reached for my bag to grab my phone but dropped the whole thing on the floor when he advanced on me.

  Taking a hold of my upper arms, his touch seared my skin as he met my eyes, studying me intently like he could see the lies and truth in my irises. “Those times when you came to me upset, it was because of him, right?”

  My eyes stinging from the memory, I nodded. “I came to you because I needed you. You made everything feel right again.”

  “Those were the times you should have told me what was going on.” He released his hold. “Instead, you hid the truth, kept the knowledge of your marriage up here.” He tapped a finger to my forehead. “While you wormed your way into here”—he tapped against his chest above his heart—“with lies.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t lie,” I whispered, feeling my tears fall and glide down my cheeks.

  “Then why are you crying?”

  My mouth opened then closed, wordless. He was right. Omitting the truth is the same as lying. I should have been honest from the start, should have told him so many times before we got to this moment. With a shake of his head, he stepped away. He looked…disgusted. Then he turned to the window, raking his fingers through his hair.

  “I think you should go,” he said, his voice cold and unfeeling.

  “No, Bran. Please. Please understand. It’s you. It’s only you.”

  “How often did you see him?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He turned to face me. “While we’ve been dating, how many times did you see your husband?”

  “I…” I knew the number, knew the amount of times I went somewhere without telling him. I’d convinced myself that I was protecting him when really I was just protecting myself from the truth. Bran and I were having an affair. I was a married woman and he was the lover I hid from the world.

  “How many times?” he repeated through his teeth.

  “Every second Wednesday, sometimes more…”

  “What were you doing with him?”

  “I never slept with him,” I said quickly.

  “Answer the question.” There was something about the way he spoke, something that was resonating deep inside my bones. He was asking me the things I’d been asking Jack—the questions of a person who felt betrayed by the person they loved.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. He deserved the truth. Full disclosure. “I met him for lunch just after you and I began seeing each other. That legal trouble I told you about? He took an intervention order out against me after I knocked him unconscious the day I found him mid-coitus with the accountant from his work. I hit him over the head with my laptop and an ambulance was called when he wouldn’t wake up. That was the reason I met him. I wanted him to revoke the order so I could work as a solicitor advocate again. He used the order to make me go to marriage counselling with him. Every fortnight on Wednesday afternoon, we met at our counsellor’s office and discussed what went wrong in our relationship—namely his nine affairs over the course of eleven years. I quit going when I realised he had no intention of revoking the order. That time I met you after class crying? That was when I found out how many women there had been. I told him I was done with all of his bullshit. I’d rather spend a year working as the junior advisor than spend another moment in his company, another moment where I felt as though I was deceiving you. The next morning, he messaged me asking who you were. So I left while you were still sleeping and met him at a café where he showed me a surveillance folder with pictures of you and me together. He wanted to use it to blackmail me into leaving you and giving him another chance. It had information about you and that woman you dated in Queensland—the one you almost got kicked out of school over.” Bran’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, I knew about that. But I let you keep your past a secret. I figured we’d have plenty of time to dig through the dirt in each other’s past, because I told him to shove his blackmail plot up his arse. I’d rather lose my job than lose you. It was t
he moment I realised that you were more important to me than anything else in my life. It was the moment I realised I was in love with you.”

  “You love me,” he stated, leaning his body weight against the windowsill.

  “You know I do. More than my job, more than my dignity, more than myself.”

  “Just not enough for the truth.”

  My heart stilled. This wasn’t working. “I’m telling you now.”

  “Now is too late.”

  I moved closer to him. I could feel the tension radiating off his body as I reached for him hesitantly, but I pushed through my nerves, placing my hand against the curve of his shoulder. He shook me off.

  “Please, Bran. Don’t do this to us.” I touched his hand, taking it in both of mine, and for a moment, I thought it might be OK as he stared at our joined fingers. I lifted his palm and pressed it against my cheek, kissing its centre. “Please. I love you so much. Don’t let this be it.”

  The apple of his throat bobbed before he spoke. This time, his voice was much softer, his gaze more intense as he stared at his hand held in mine. “Have you wondered why I don’t look like my father?”

  The moment the words left his lips, my heart fell and I released his hand, slumping my weight against the wall beside him. “He’s not your dad,” I whispered, suddenly understanding exactly why he’d reacted so vehemently to today’s revelations, why he was so dead-set against lying.

  “My mother had a penchant for sleeping with the help.”

  “That isn’t what this is,” I assured him, trying to take his hand again. I needed him to understand that. “You are so much more to me than—”

  “Than a dirty fuck?”

  I shook my head. “No. That was not what I was going to say.”

  “My entire life, I’ve been forced to be a part of a lie, forced to pretend I’m a Sharp and act as though I’m my father’s real son while being constantly reminded what a disappointment I am to the name. But it’s not my name. I don’t even know what my name is.” My heart went out to him, living with a secret that felt that huge must have been horrible for him. “I made a mistake when I agreed to be your secret too. I did it because I wanted you, wanted you so much that I was willing to do whatever it took to have you—as long as you were mine. But even that was a lie, because like me, you bear the name of another man. You were never mine to take. You’re still his.”

  “I don’t belong to Jack. I never gave myself to him like I have to you.” Lifting his hand, I placed it against my chest, holding it over my heart. “You own me, Bran. Body, mind and soul. I’m yours.”

  He wouldn’t look at me, kept his eyes downcast and his hand limp and unparticipating in the touch. But his chest heaved with the struggle to stay that way. Even angry, I knew he still wanted me, craved me in the same way I craved him. I couldn’t let this end here, couldn’t let him push me away when what we had surpassed any sort of feeling known to exist. Love was a feeling, something that grew until it wrapped around you in a blanket of comfortable warmth. But this, this thing I had with Bran, it was even more than that. It was an urge, an instinct, a necessity. If one had to live without the other, I feared we’d become like a flower without sun, withering away.

  Taking a sobering breath, he removed his hand. “And still, you were sneaking off to work on your relationship with another man.”

  “No. I went to counselling to get rid of the intervention order.”

  “But he thought you might, right? A man doesn’t sit in a counsellor’s office or touch the side of his estranged wife’s face if he doesn’t think he’s getting somewhere.”

  “I kept telling him no,” I whispered, knowing that the very fact that I kept showing up had offered him hope. “I’m sorry, Bran.”

  He turned away. “I can’t trust you anymore.”

  A sob escaped my lips as I covered my face, trying to regain control over my emotions. Then I stepped closer to him, pressing my face against the shirt on his back, breathing him in. “Please understand. I’m yours, Bran. I’m yours.”

  He turned to face me, searching my eyes as I lifted my hand and touched his cheek, running the tips of my fingers over his skin. “I’m yours,” I repeated, tilting my head upward, my lips brushing lightly along his jaw. I could hear his breathing changing, feel the quiver of his desire beneath his skin. Slowly, his hand returned to my chest, flattened out, then pressed against my flesh. My breathing hitched and I pressed my lips against his chin, urging him to bow his head and meet me part way. “I love you, Bran. You’re all that matters to me. Please understand.”

  His hand twitched, moving upward, but seeming to fight the urge. Sweeping fingers caressed the skin on my neck, moving into my hair, before pressing against my scalp and dragging back down until his hand rested once again on my chest and the base of my neck. Then he pushed me backward, my body landing against the wall with a thud.

  With his eyes closed, he leaned in close, inhaling deeply, his body shuddering with barely controlled restraint. His arms moved so they caged me in, his forearms against the wall, hands holding either side of my head as his forehead pressed against mine. All I could hear was his ragged breathing. All I could feel was his heat and the emotion vibrating the air between us.

  “I understand that you lied.”

  I choked out a sob. “Bran, please.”

  His breath hissed out between his teeth, heat radiating off his body. “Do you feel this?” he grunted, pushing his hips against me, his erection throbbing against my stomach.

  “Yes,” I gasped, my chest heaving.

  “It’s what you do to me. I want you. So much it makes my blood burn, so much that I want to fuck you even when I can’t stand looking at you. But you hid the truth from me, Cora. And I. Can’t. Fucking. Stand. Liars.”

  Pushing against the wall, his body left mine at a speed that felt like a blast of ice washing over me. “No,” I cried, my hands grabbing his chest, fingers holding fabric, seeking skin. “Bran, please.” I wanted to deny that I’d ever lied to him, wanted to tell him that nothing about us was ever a lie. But it all was, right from the very beginning. I even lied about how I felt towards him, told myself it was only a fling when I knew full well that what we had was so much more.

  His hands wrapped around mine, our gazes finally matching up. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be in love with you, Cora?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s like water. I want to swim in it, feel like I could drown in it, but it slips straight through my fingers when I try to hold it in my hands.”

  “What does that mean?” I whispered, my voice shaking as my fists held on a little tighter.

  “That it’s stupid to try and hold on to something I can’t have.” With a swift flick of his wrists, he knocked my hands free and turned away, swiping his jacket off the bed, leaving.

  A wave of desolation slammed into my chest, I was powerless. “Would it have made a difference if I’d told you in the beginning?” I called out before he reached the door.

  Pausing, he didn’t turn to face me, just spoke facing the door. “Probably. I never would have touched you if I’d known.” Then he left. And I didn’t run after him, didn’t even cry out his name. I simply sunk to the floor and put my head in my hands, tears streaming down my cheeks.

  34

  Me: If being honest from the beginning means that we never would have been, then I’m afraid I’m not sorry at all. I’d rather spend the rest of my life missing you than never having known what you were to me.

  Sent.

  Received.

  Read.

  Me: Actually, no, I am sorry for withholding the truth from you. It was wrong of me to keep half of my life a secret from you. It wasn’t that I was hiding it. It was just me being selfish because I didn’t want to be sad around you. I didn’t want to lump my stupid thirty-year-old problems on your twenty-year-old shoulders.

  Sent.

  Received.

  Read.

  Me: Please
don’t leave me because I fucked up. I love you.

  Sent.

  Received.

  Read.

  I wrote that last text out and deleted it more times than I could count. No matter how I worded it, it came out a little pathetic. In the end, I sent it anyway, because I was pathetic, and I wasn’t going to give up. I understood he was hurt. I hadn’t been straight with him. And while, yes, technically, our relationship could be considered an affair, the fact that I was already separated without hope of reconciliation meant that my marriage was unequivocally over when we met. And that had to count for something. Surely he wasn’t going to throw away what we had because of a technicality? It was stupid and he was being pigheaded. This wasn’t over.

  I’d spent half the day in that hotel room, crying my eyes out over the disaster we’d become, texting him in the hope he’d return and take it all back. But the fact he was reading my texts and not responding just made me cry a little harder. When Olivia called looking for me, she could barely understand a word I was saying. I had to text her my location, and when she showed up and listened to my tail of woe, she pulled me off the floor and told me to wash my face and get my shit together.

  “We don’t fall apart over men, Cora,” she’d said, holding me in front of the mirror. “You are smart, beautiful and trusting. There is nothing wrong with you, nothing you need to apologise for. Do you know about every one of his past relationships? No, you don’t. Why? Because they have nothing to fucking do with what was going on between the two of you. If that boy wants to play in the pool with the big kids then he needs to grow the fuck up, realise people over twenty have some baggage, and get on with things. And you, you are a thirty-year-old woman crying on the floor in a hotel room that doesn’t even have a mini bar. I can’t even begin to tell you what’s wrong with this picture.”

  Somehow, she’d turned me from a crying mess, to a woman resolute in knowing what she wanted out of life. I wanted Bran, and I wasn’t going to give up on him. He filled me, heart and soul, and there wasn’t a single thing in my life that meant more to me than he did. Things that had previously been my focus had lost their allure. I wasn’t just a solicitor advocate. I was a woman first. A woman in love who had wronged someone dear because of my stupidity. I wouldn’t allow it to be our end. I fucked up. But I refused to accept that my fuck-up should be categorised with his mother’s inability to keep her legs together throughout her marriage. That wasn’t me. He needed to understand that.