I place the concealer on the vanity and stare at nothing. I told Elliot that I was shoved down the stairs. Did he believe me? It's hard to tell. I wasn't thinking very clearly last night. He might've assumed I was imagining things. He certainly didn't believe me when I told him I had a good reason for associating with Mr. Grayson, and I don't see how the incident at Elizabeth's event is any different. Of course he'll want to believe that everything at his sister's dinner was perfect. On the other hand, he might take my word for it, since I'm not generally a clumsy person and-
I exhale deeply, suddenly angry and disappointed. This whole line of thinking … it's all moot. I don't want him to believe me on a case-by-case basis. If his trust can't be absolute, I don't want it, just like I don't want his love if it can't be true and unwavering.
By the time I'm done with my makeup and have a robe on, knocks come from outside. "The food's here," Elliot says.
"I'll be out in a minute."
I wrap my still soggy hair in a fresh towel and step into the living room, where a table is set for two. A stiff white cotton cloth covers the round surface, a small centerpiece made with stargazer lilies in the middle. Two chairs are set facing each other; in front of them are two plates with covers and small bowls filled with fresh berries. On the side are a small basket of lightly toasted bread, warmed butter and small jars filled with various French jams, plus elegant pitchers of apple juice and water and a brushed stainless steel insulated carafe that undoubtedly has coffee inside. It's entirely too fancy for a breakfast. It reminds me of our honeymoon, where everything was perfect and romantic, and a shard of pain pierces through me.
He squints at me. "What happened to your bruises and cuts?"
"Makeup." I wave one hand at the food. "I really didn't want anything."
"I ordered extra just in case. You don't have to eat it if you don't want to." His voice is inscrutable. It only adds to my unhappiness. I still can't believe that only a week ago, I thought I could have it all.
In a gallant-and practiced-gesture, he pulls out a chair for me. I sit and let him settle me up against the table, all the while wondering who else he's seated like this. It's a petty and ludicrous thought, but I can't help it when my feelings are all over the place. I didn't care earlier, because at first I didn't want to, and later because I thought we were trying to have a genuine relationship based on affection and caring if not love-it would've been small-minded of me to be jealous of his previous women. It's heartrending to realize I was the only one who thought his being nice to me actually meant something, but it's too late. I'm already emotionally entangled, and won't be able to extricate myself without a lot of effort.
Watching him take the seat across from me, I realize there is a distinct disadvantage to my being in a robe with my wet hair wrapped in a towel while Elliot looks magnificent as usual, his presence born from natural confidence and a self-made success that's bigger than life. I wish I'd taken the time to make myself more presentable. Even if I could never be like him, at least I wouldn't look so … small and pathetic.
Then I shake myself inwardly for even thinking that. Everything that's happened between us in the last seven days told me everything I needed to know about where I stand in Elliot's esteem.
Wordlessly, he serves me coffee. I dump lots of sugar in, hoping that the extra energy along with some caffeine will jolt my brain into gear. He drinks his, watching me over the rim of a white cup, its delicate handle looking almost too fragile for his hand.
The breakfast is a three-egg omelet with two different types of cheese and lightly sautéed mushrooms. Is it Elliot making a gesture? I had the same omelets on our honeymoon in St. Cecilia.
He watches me expectantly, and I take a small bite. It's surprisingly good, and I find myself ravenous all of sudden, despite the tension coiled inside me.
The silence stretches, sitting heavily between us. Only the sound of clinking silverware and china breaks it. Every time I raise my eyes, I see Elliot studying me as though I'm some exotic specimen under a microscope. I'm not certain why he looks at me like that, what he wants to discover. He's already made up his mind about me, hasn't he?
My plate polished clean, I finally place my fork on the table and lean back with a fresh cup of coffee.
Elliot clears his throat. "Tell me about how you met Grayson."
I freeze, then slowly sit up straight, spine stiff and shoulders pulled back. "Why do you care? Didn't whoever you hired to figure everything out tell you?"
"Not everything."
I look away for a moment. Perversely enough, now I'm reluctant to tell him. Maybe it's because I'm resentful of the way he's shut me out. Or maybe I just don't want to bare another piece of myself, only to be found wanting.