And I guess because I say that, we don’t move anywhere else. We continue to stand in the darkened foyer, feet apart, just staring at each other.
We don’t speak for a few moments. The longest moments.
I’m trying to stand still and not wobble, trying to appear as sober as possible, wondering if my breath is okay, wondering if I have mascara goop in the corners of my eyes. Wondering all sorts of little things that have nothing to do with the big things.
Meanwhile, Brigs is still studying me. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed in me or not.
“So talk,” I tell him, but instead of sounding all cool and tough like I thought I would, it comes out meek and quiet. Because I’m afraid, so damn afraid, to hear what he’s going to say.
Leave me alone.
Or.
I love you.
One would devastate me. One would make me happy.
But both would ruin me in the end.
“Did you mean it?” he asks gently, eyes searching mine. The hollows of his cheeks look extra sharp in the shadows.
“What part?” I ask. Then I say, “All of it.”
“All of it,” he repeats. “How you don’t want to work for me anymore.”
I look away, finding focus on the tops of his black and grey suede sneakers.
“I…” I start but have no idea how to finish the sentence.
“How you’re a catalyst for change.”
It all seems so silly now. But even so I raise my chin and look at him, immediately absorbed by his presence, by the depth of his eyes.
“I want to be.”
“How so?” And he takes a step toward me.
I inhale sharply, trying to steady myself. Only the door is behind me.
“You saw me today,” he continues. “Why didn’t you say hello?”
I lick my lips, my throat dry, the chardonnay a mistake. “I thought it would be wrong.”
His frown deepens, leaning in closer. “Why?”
“Because,” I tell him. “It felt wrong.”
He looks like he’s about to say something else but his lips come together. He tilts his head, observing me deeper. “Why?” he finally says again.
“Because,” I say slowly, eventually meeting his eyes. “Sometimes I feel like I’m more to you than a research assistant. Because I know you’re more to me than someone who writes me a check.”
His brow pinches together as he lets out a ragged breath. His eyes are this mix of fear and wonder that I wish I could bottle because it’s leaving a scar on me. One I’ll look back on.
He reaches out with his hand and grasps the ends of my fingers.
My breathing deepens, my heart beginning to gallop.
“Tasha,” he says, and I delight in the way he says my name. He squeezes my fingers. “You’re right. You are more to me than a research assistant. There is no pretending otherwise.”
I don’t want to be pathetic, don’t want to be weak.
Still I whisper, “How much more?”
I wish my voice didn’t shake.
He stares at me sadly and shakes his head. “A terrible amount.”
Then he winces sharply and turns away, letting go of my hand. He leans against the door, arms splayed as he tries to breathe.
I don’t want to intrude.
I want to intrude.
“My whole point of the email,” I explain quietly, “was…”
And I trail off because that’s the problem with being drunk.
So instead of finishing my sentence I reach out and place my hand on his back.
He’s hot through the shirt and his muscles tighten under my touch.
I briefly imagine touching his skin underneath, what it would feel like to run my hands over it, maybe my nails.
“You said you didn’t understand why I spend all my time with you,” he says, and I can feel his words against my palm. “Why I’m not with my wife instead.”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” I tell him, trying to play it off.
“No, but it’s what I heard,” he says and suddenly turns around.
I don’t have time to back away.
Or maybe it’s that I did and I chose to hold my ground.
To be just a few inches from him.
I can smell him, rosemary and soap, see his pulse tick wildly in his throat.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something so badly before.
“And?” I ask.
“Tell me what I am to you,” he whispers, leaning in closer.
I suck in my breath. Afraid that if I exhale I’ll let all my secrets loose.
He’s so close now, and the air between us is short and sharp. Maybe I don’t even have to say a word. He can just glean it off me, the way an archeologist can pinpoint a year within billions of years because of a grain of ash on a fossil.
“Tell me,” he repeats, and I read the urgency in his voice. I dare to meet his eyes again, and they are feverish, like an iceberg melting at a rapid rate.