by Mia Asher
My cheeks are on fire. The memories of his kiss, the heat and the strength of his arms around me, spin inside my head like a revolving door, leaving me dizzy. Flustered, I say, “You-you caught me off-guard. That’s all.”
“Sure, beautiful.” He leans lazily on the wall, crossing his arms. He appears at ease and full of himself. “Besides I’ll be damned if I have to apologize for kissing you.”
He peels himself away from the wall and closes the space between us. My heart drums out of my chest. I know I should move, but my feet seem frozen on the spot, my fight or flight response rendered useless by a man with the devil in his eyes fast approaching me. He watches me as though I am already in his bed, naked, ready to be taken by him. And my God, for a weak, treacherous second, I wonder what it would be like. Animalistic. Feral. Erotic. Just like him.
When he’s standing in front of me, he leans down until his lips are almost grazing mine. His breath, soft and sweet, against my skin. “Because I liked it. Very much. In fact, I’m tempted to kiss you again.”
I take a step back, fear, and maybe excitement, running freely in my veins. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“You know I would, and you’d love it as much as the first time.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I laugh in disbelief and shaken to the core. “I’m leaving now. Thanks for the rescue,” I add sarcastically.
I don’t wait for his answer. I turn blindly on my feet, leaving the man standing behind me. Every part of me begs to rush out of the gallery and put as much space as possible between us, but I force myself to slow down, each step deliberate and assured, showing him that he didn’t get to me.
“Wait, that’s the—” he adds, but I ignore him. Turns out to be a mistake because I find myself in some room rather than nearer to the exit door. Seriously? Seriously? I’m not prone to tantrums, but I’m very close to stamping my feet on the floor.
Blushing angrily, my hands in fists, I walk back only to find him standing languidly in the same spot where I left him. His eyes dance with mirth. “Made the wrong turn?”
“Go to hell.”
The last thing I hear is his laughter.
The next day …
AFTER A MORNING RUN, I stop outside the building to catch my breath. Sweat drips down my forehead and every muscle in my body burns, but I’m feeling good. I’m bent over at the waist with my hands on my knees when a couple bumps into me. They utter a quick, indifferent apology in French without glancing my way and disappear in the building. Great, I guess I just met a neighbor.
Sighing, I shake my head and follow suit. I check myself when I notice the same couple waiting for the elevator in the lobby. They’re too occupied with one another to notice they’re no longer alone. I can’t see his face from this angle. Only hers. He pushes her back against the wall as the woman laughs throatily. Her laughter disappears as he begins to lazily kiss her while she holds onto his shoulders for support.
Unimpressed and beyond uncomfortable by their lack of tact, I put as much space between us as possible, and press the up button repeatedly. To distract myself, I stare at the marble floor and methodically count its black and white tiles.
Not that it works.
I can still hear the woman moaning softly between kisses as he whispers tantalizing words in her ear. I don’t understand, but there’s no need. Pleasure and maddening carnal desire vibrate through every syllable he utters, hypnotizing her. The thought of what he could be saying makes my cheeks grow warm.
I try not to look their way but curiosity, tempting as always, wins in the end. The couple is lost in their heated embrace, unaware of their surroundings. His face buried in her neck, my eyes focus on her hand, following its every move as she palms the outline of his back. The eroticism of it all hits me like a drug. A potent high. I want to look away, but I can’t. William doesn’t believe in public displays of affection such as this. He finds them distasteful and beneath himself and his name. He would never touch me like that outside the privacy of our bedroom, and I don’t think I’d let him.
But part of me is fascinated. Captivated by the indecent scene unfolding in front of my eyes. And for a moment, I’m jealous of this man and woman who can easily give their middle finger to convention and the rules of etiquette in the name of lust and desire. Once upon a time, I didn’t care what people thought of me. Freedom felt too good to give a shit. But that was many years and lifetimes ago. My errant mind drifts to last night, the indecent stranger, the damn kiss, and everything it made me feel, but I angrily shove those thoughts out of my head. Wishing I could exorcise the experience from my memory completely.
Trance-like, I accidentally drop my phone, and the sound of it landing on the tile floor catches the stranger’s attention. At once he stops kissing her and looks in my direction. Surprise registers in his face. This cannot be happening, I think to myself. This cannot be happening to me. The ground beneath my feet shakes. I wish myself buried six feet under. Or back in the safety of my home in Greenwich. Because the eyes of the devil—the same vivid blue eyes I wished to never see again—are staring right into mine.
He lets go of the woman, runs his fingers through his raven hair, his movements easy and careless yet assured, and walks towards me. As he closes the short distance between us, I remain frozen like a statue. He bends down to pick up my forgotten phone and hands it back to me. An insolent half smile pulls the left corner of his mouth.
“Looks like fate has a macabre sense of humor.”
“Thank you,” I reply coolly, trying to hide the chaos raging inside me as we stare at each other. I reach for my phone, making sure not to touch him. “And yes, it appears that way.”
His gaze on me feels as though he’s undressing me with his eyes. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he says softly, his words like a caress.
“Sébastien … mon amour,” the attractive woman says, drawing his attention to her.
The elevator arrives. By the time the doors open, I’m grateful for the brief escape it offers. I step in, cross my arms, and proceed to focus all of my attention on the buttons, studying them as though they are the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. And when they join me inside, I pretend they don’t exist, yet I am keenly aware of him, of every move he makes, and his smell—like a forest in winter. Clean, crisp, woodsy.
Upon reaching my floor, I step out of the elevator as calmly as possible even though I feel like a pack of wolves is hot on my heels. I try not to look back, but I’m unable to stop myself from stealing one last glance of him—the biggest and most threatening wolf of all. It turns out to be a mistake. I find him staring back, appearing like he’s ready to have me for his meal. He watches my face unabashedly. Taunting me. Inviting me. Reminding me of what happened between us.
“See you around, neighbor,” he says, his words a promise. He smiles roguishly as he reaches for the girl’s hand and places a kiss on her open palm that goes straight to my core.
Like a coward, I want to look away, but I won’t let him see how deeply under my skin he’s gotten.
“Don’t count on it,” I say, raising my chin and holding his gaze as the elevator doors close in front of us.
Later that day …
Numb on the inside, I stare at the cream-colored tiles in front of me. “So you’re not coming anymore?” I ask hollowly, gripping the phone tighter as I turn the stove off. The meat sauce bubbling in the large metal pot, William’s favorite, is forgotten.
“What happened?” I step away from the kitchen, suddenly feeling sick by the smell of oregano and tomatoes.
“Larry needs me here, darling. A lot of money is on the line with this acquisition.”
“What about your meetings here?”
“They’ve been moved to later in the year.”
Two days ago, when William told me to come to Paris ahead of him because of a “last minute” rescheduling of his meetings, I should have known. But things were going great, and so I believed him. I thought we had turned over a new l
eaf. And if he was trying to work on us, the least he deserved was my trust.
As soon as I walked into the gorgeously decorated apartment, I threw myself body and soul into making it a home. I don’t know how to do much, but I can create a mean flower arrangement and stock a fridge, and I’d kept myself busy, willing the hours away until William would finally arrive. When everything would be as it should be. And if a little voice whispered close to my ear that something was wrong, I’ve ignored it. This was the new us. The new us has no room for my old fears and paranoia.
“Of course it’s not what I want,” he says over the phone, pretending to be frustrated. I can almost picture him sitting in the leather chair of his office as he runs his fingers through his hair. “But my hands are tied. I’m needed here.”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, realizing that I’m fighting a losing battle. “There’s no point talking about this anymore. The fact is I’m here, and you’re there. And you’re not coming anymore.”
“Val—”
“Don’t,” I say a little too forcibly. Loosening the grip on the phone, I wipe a tear angrily off my face with the back of my hand. When I’m more in control of my stupid emotions, I add, “This is what I’m going to do—I’m going to stay here.”
“You’re not coming home?”
“No, I don’t think I will.” I suck in a breath, searching within me for strength to stand against him. “I need to be alone. I need time to think. Time to sort things out in my head. And I obviously can’t do it around you.” Because I’m a fool around you. He continues to feed me lies, and I continue to eat them, hungrily swallowing them, because I’m starving.
“For fuck’s sake, Val. Sort what things out?”
I let out a sigh, going to the bathroom in search of a tissue to blow my nose. “Do you really have to ask?”
He’s silent for a moment too long. It’s deafening and final.
Suddenly tired, so tired, I sit on the floor of the bathroom, the cold of the tiles seeping into my bones, and lean back against the wall. I know I might be overreacting. It’s just a trip, no? But I’m angry with myself for falling for his lies again, and I have no one else to blame for that but my weak heart.
“Let me ask you something. Did you mean any of the things you said? Or was it all bullshit?”
If he were standing in front of me, this is where he would look away, unable to meet my gaze. “Of course I meant it, Val. I still do.”
So many thoughts embedded with doubts and fears run through my head. I hate it, but I can’t stop them from overcrowding my mind. If what he’s saying is true, then why doesn’t he just fly here once those meetings are over? Take the time off he promised. Was the trip a ruse to get me out of his hair, out of the city? Is he fucking around again? However, I can’t bring myself to voice any of them. I keep them to myself, rotting inside me. Because I’m weak, and I’m afraid to find out what the answers will be. Denial is such a luring, deceitful bitch, isn’t it?
“Sometimes I wish I were strong enough to leave you.” I pause, feeling hot streaks of tears falling diagonally on my skin, picturing his green eyes. “Maybe I’m a bigger fool than I originally thought because I can’t stop myself from loving you.”
I hang up the phone without giving him another chance to answer.
“DO YOU KNOW WHAT I thought when I first saw you?” William asked, pulling me closer to him.
The Pacific Ocean was our backdrop as we danced on the beach of Puerto Escondido. The restaurant where we had dinner was playing “El Lado Oscuro” by Jarabe de Palo. Mezcal was running freely in our veins. The sand in our feet. The salty, hot, humid air embraced our skin. The stars shone brightly. The sound of the waves crashing not far from us. I wanted to freeze time and make the moment last forever. I reclined my cheek on his chest and listened to the beating of his heart.
“No … you’ve never said.”
“You were crying to Sailor about a guy.”
“One of my finest moments,” I said sarcastically.
“I found it endearing.”
I groaned. “It was pathetic. But you were saying … What did you think about me?”
“Are you fishing for a compliment, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?”
“When am I not?”
He laughed, and the sound alone could drive a woman mad. I bit my lip to stop myself from moaning as he began to kiss my neck, my bare shoulder, every part of me he could reach. “I saw this girl, barely a woman. She had long, wild, curly hair. Her clothes didn’t quite match. And she was talking so fast between sobs it was hard to keep up with what she was saying.”
“Oh God.” I buried my face in his chest. “That bad?”
He placed a finger under my chin and gently tilted my head up until our gazes met. “Yet every blue-blooded man in that coffee shop couldn’t take his eyes off of her.”
“Were you one?” I asked shyly, my heart beginning to drum a mad tattoo.
“Darling, I was jealous of the barista who got to serve you. I was jealous of the man who made you cry. I was jealous of every man who came before and would come after me. Someone offered you a napkin, trying to catch your attention. I watched him, ready to punch him for daring to go near you, but then you barely noticed him. You were so oblivious of your effect on men.” He paused. “You still are.”
“I’ve never cared about any of those things.”
He smiled ruefully. “I know.”
“Besides, I only care about one man.” I stopped dancing and took his hands in mine. I lifted them to my mouth and kissed each of his palms. “I belong to you.”
“I know.”
The young waitress places a plate full of fruit and an espresso on the table. “Merci.” I reach for the napkin and place it on my lap.
“De rien.” She smiles before walking to the next table to take their order.
Not really hungry, I reach for the china cup. As my fingers grow warm with the heat coming from the cup, I take a deep breath and enjoy the smell of coffee filling my lungs.
It’s funny how certain things remind me of William and our life together. Breakfast on the table. The smell of coffee. Mezcal. Spanish music. Every memory is embedded in me, part of who I am. If you had asked me the day I married him if I thought our marriage was strong enough to endure temptation, weakness, poverty, highs and lows, grief, losses—every damn proverbial curveball thrown at us—I would have laughed in your face and said that our love could survive it all. Funny thing is, I truly believed it. We were so happy. But then again, it had never crossed my mind that William would have an affair with another woman. Or lead a separate life with her behind my back. Sailor begged me to leave him.
But I couldn’t.
I take a sip of the espresso, watching the Parisian people carrying on with their lives outside the café on streets full of history and beauty. My therapist asked me why I stayed—was it the money? The status? My cushiony lifestyle? Love? Memories of what we had been, what we were? Fear of the unknown, of being lonely and what I’d be throwing away? I wasn’t a practical person. I always let my heart lead the way, but when faced with those questions and the stark reality they offered, it was hard to fool myself.
It wasn’t only my love for William that made me stay. I had done nothing with my life except be William’s wife, and the thought of figuring out who I was without him terrified me. It still does. If I’m honest with myself, I think that’s what hurts the most about his betrayal. That he made a farce of everything I stood for, everything I held dear. He made me doubt myself as a wife, as a person, and as a woman.
Almost finished with my espresso, I browse a travel guide of Paris, unsure of where to go next. The Louvre or Notre Dame? After the phone call and a good cry, I’d made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t let the state of my marriage bring me down or allow the turmoil inside me ruin my stay. Screw that. I won’t give my husband the satisfaction to wreck this, too. I’m in Paris, the City of Light, where Picasso, Hemingway, Matisse, and many others lived.
I plan on enjoying myself while figuring out what to do with my life and whatever is left of our marriage.
I push my glasses higher up my nose while reading a passage about the architecture of the famous Cathedral. William hates them, saying they make me look like a nerd. He would always ask me to not wear “those stupid things” and put my contacts in. I smile, pleased. I guess I still have a streak of rebellion left in me.
The waitress comes over to remove my plate. I’m thanking her when the maddening man from the gallery walks by the cafe, the one whose kiss and arms I still feel around me like phantom limbs. His gait is easy and relaxed. He’s almost past the restaurant but stops when he recognizes an older gentleman sitting a few tables away from me. He goes to talk to him, and my heart goes into overdrive by his mere proximity. They shoot the breeze for a little. And like a Peeping Tom, I seem unable to stop watching him. The way his hair falls loosely over an eyebrow. This boyish half-smile that lingers after he laughs at something the other man said. The sharp lines of his features at odds with the lushness of his lips. Brutal. That’s it. He’s brutally handsome without even trying.
He looks up and lets his gaze travel across his surroundings. Panic, and fear that he’ll notice or catch me gawking at him, makes me drop my book clumsily on my lap. With my heart in my throat, I pick it back up as fast as my awkward fingers will allow, raise and hide behind it, pretending to read while silently praying that he didn’t see me.
Please. Please.
“Hello, neighbor.”
Crap.
“Hey.” I force myself to meet his eyes, and I’m taken aback once more by how piercing they are. They are eyes that make love and enslave you. But then again, everything about him is designed to awaken one’s darkest, most erotic fantasies. “Hi. I didn’t see you there.”
If he knows I’m full of shit, he doesn’t call me out on it. “How’s the book?” He tilts his head to the right as though trying to read the title. The corners of his mouth twitch, amusement dancing in his eyes.
