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This wasn’t an affair, I realize—it was a love story.
“They really loved each other, didn’t they?”
“Yes. I suppose they did love each other. We were their safe bets. But they were each other’s safe haven.”
“You need a distraction,” he muses. “I need a bullet to the head,” I murmur.
“You know, Mars is red because it’s covered in iron oxide, which is essentially rust. It is also the prime candidate to be the next place humans would live on.”
“What’s your point?” I look up at him with a sigh. “My point”—he takes a sip of his drink—“is that just because something doesn’t work properly, or is rusty—lik...
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I’m not that little southern girl Paul had fallen in love with. I’m the bitch who tried to get a job at Calypso Hall—and succeeded—so she can get closer to you!”
“I’m a manipulative, weak, gross excuse for a woman, and I wanted to use you. I’m selfish, just like you said!”
Rather than look stunned, hurt, annoyed, surprised—any of those things—he smiles that lopsided, worldly smirk of his that makes me crazier than a sprayed roach. “Why, this is wonderful news, Bumpkin! Drink.” He thrusts his brandy glass in my direction. I gulp half of it in one go.
in case you need to hear this—you’re still the most wholesome person I’ve ever met in my entire life. Please don’t thank me—I don’t consider it a compliment.”
“And I still think you’re too good for Paul.”
“Paul liked that I was good.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Paul never understood you,”
“That’s right, life is a messy business. Living is a lesson in endurance.” Arsène nods. “And endurance is a lesson in humility. The problem with humankind is that everyone wants a simple, comfortable life. But that’s such a terrible existence. How could you ever appreciate the good moments if you haven’t braved the bad ones?
“Do you think you’ll ever move on from Grace?”
“No.”
I don’t think any woman could ever compare.”
“Being nice is a great trait.” “That will not get you in the history books.” He salutes me with his drink. “Not everyone wants to get into those books,” I point out. He makes a disgusted face. “Oxygen wasters.”
“Sex is never about sex.” I stand up, buttoning my blazer. “It’s about power, pleasure, gratification, but never about just sex. Which means that no matter what I want from her—sex is not it.”
“How do you make it taste so good?” “Real sugar, chicory, and just a drop of sorghum. That’s how Memaw used to make it.”
“How is that your business?” I ask. “It’s not.” He approaches the credenza and sifts through items like it’s a crime scene. “But I’m a problem solver, and when presented with one, I usually find a solution.”
“After tonight, we’re not going to see each other again. You were born for greater things than being the arm candy to another man who could never love you.”
“After this, there will be no more dinners, no more movies, no more cuddles.” “No more schemes, no more information to share,” I add, nodding.
“This.” He points between us. “Is consensual, correct?” “Yes.” I angle my chin down, watching him. “I want to have sex with you.”
“I want to have sex with you too,” he admits on a choke, tipping his head back, closing his eyes. “Fuck, I’m hard pressed to think of anything I’ve...
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“Wait.” He is heaving. “Let me look. I wanna have my fill. I’ve been fantasizing about this moment for far too long to devour you quickly.” He shakes his head, laughing at himself a little.
“When I saw you in Italy, I had the acute sense that Paul chose you because he saw you as an investment. A piece of art bound to increase in value over the years. Something different, precious, one of a kind; he was right. You are not like the rest, Winnifred.”
“You are nothing like other women. Nothing like other people. But, like all pieces of art, you are bound to break.”
“Break me, then.” “I can’t.” His lips touch the shell of my ear. “You’re already broken.”
“Ah, this is no good.” He drops his head to my chest, kissing the valley between my breasts. I run my fingers through his silken hair, dread filling me. “It’s not? Do you want me to . . . ?” “No, you’re good. Shit, you’re perfect.”
“What I mean by this is no good, is that it’s too good. Way too good.
“God, Winnifred. You’re so sweet, even when you’re killing me.”
Call the doctor. —A.
Paul and Grace were pregnant. They were going to become parents together.
Innocently, I thought she was referring to Paul. But she wasn’t. She was referring to her miscarriage.
I lost my hope. I lost my faith in humanity. I lost the precious memories I have from my late spouse. I lost everything. But I think I’m beginning, for the first time in years, to gain something too. Perspective.
She’s an angel on Earth, and if you lost her, well, I’m inclined to believe you deserved it.”
I arrive in Nashville, Tennessee, ready to commit capital murder. The only thing stopping me is the fact that the woman I’d like to strangle will be missed by many, including, to my great fucking shame, myself.
Just fucking admit it, idiot. You don’t hate this woman as much as you want to. Not even close. Not even close to close.
The truth is, I haven’t the greenest clue why I’m here.
“We need to talk somewhere private,” I say. “Are you going to yell at me?” She narrows her eyes, her defiance back in full force. I give it a moment of consideration. “No. You’d just yell louder if I do.”
Why am I nervous? I’m a grown-ass man.
For the first time, disappointing someone means something to me.
And so, on the side of the country road, and for the first time in my entire life, a girl ditches me.
A man doesn’t up and leave to chase after an employee. It takes passion to arrive somewhere uninvited.”
“I also thought he likes you as more than just a friend, which, Arya said, was impossible, because he apparently doesn’t do feelings. Well, I don’t care what he wants to do, in practice, he caught a lot of feelings toward you, and there ain’t no cure for that.”
“You’re in love,” Christian announces, point blank. “You haven’t been able to think of anything else, to date anyone else, to do things worth doing. You need to tell her what you’re feeling.”
“Am I supposed to wait for her to answer? Because dead people aren’t known for timely correspondence,” I reply with utter indifference.
“I’m not talking about Grace,” Christian says almost softly. “Me either,” I say easily, standing up and hoisting my duffel over my shoulder. “I’m talking about Winnifred Ashcroft, who is very ...
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“You choose to be mad at her because anger is a great distractor. So useful for masking love. It’s the oldest trick in the book.”
“I can’t fall in love.” My slides slap against the hot floor noisily as I take the stairs to our compound. “Always been incapable of it. The closest feeling I have to it is obsession, and the last time I was obsessed with a woman, it ended badly.”
