“Ah, you’ve been counting,” I tease but there’s a tremor in my voice. Has it really been that long? Why haven’t I noticed?
Because it hasn’t been ten days for me. It hasn’t even been a day. In the wee hours of the morning I had been with Robert Dade.
Dave moves his hand to my wrist, his fingers pressing gently down on the little vein that gives away my speeding pulse.
How can I do this? How can I be with two men within twenty-four hours? How can I call myself anything other than a slut after that?
I focus my eyes on the port, not even allowing myself to blink, as if even the slightest movement of my lids might produce tears.
“Let me pour us something to drink?” I ask meekly. My guilt has made me timid. It makes me blush and tremble.
Dave sees all this, he feels my racing pulse . . . but he reads it differently. He leans over and tenderly touches his lips to mine. It’s a soft kiss, loving, and as he quietly opens my lips with his tongue, I yield to him, raising my arms and wrapping them around his neck as he pulls me closer. Some of my fear subsides. This feels simple, comfortable, secure. God, do I crave a sense of security right now.
And I like the way Dave holds me, like I’m precious and worthy of admiration.
It’s so dissimilar from the uncontrolled passion that shoots from Robert’s fingertips. I remember him biting my lip, holding my arms above my head while tenderly kissing my neck, pressing me up against the wall as I welcomed him inside me. . . .
I pull away from Dave. “A drink,” I say weakly. “I want us to have a drink together first.”
Dave’s confusion is clear but it’s the hurt I see that tears at my heart. I lean forward and place a closed-mouth kiss on his jawline. “Just one drink first. I want you to taste this port.”
He nods and walks out of my kitchen.
How many times have I seen Dave leave a room? It never bothered me before. But now the sight of his retreating back hits me like an ominous omen. I have to take three deep breaths before I can steady my hands enough to effectively dislodge the cork.
I find him on my sofa. He doesn’t look at me as I hand him his glass. The wine is such a deep red it’s almost black and now even that innocuous detail seems telling. The room is suddenly filled with signs and every single one of them is alarming.
Another deep breath, a few more silent words of reason to help me pull it together.
Dave finally raises his eyes, his pain sharpening into something that resembles an accusation. “Are you still mad at me?” he asks.
I stare back, blankly.
“I shouldn’t have left you that night,” he continues. “The night you straddled my lap and asked me to . . .” His voices fades off and he looks away again. “I apologized with roses. But if that’s not enough, just tell me the price for moving past it. Because this”—he vaguely gestures with his hand at everything and nothing—“this is hell.”
“I’m not charging you for a miscommunication. I’m not angry.”
“But something’s off,” Dave observes. “When I put my arm around your shoulders, you don’t lean into me the way you used to. It used to be that when I reached for your hand, your palm would just naturally melt against mine. Now it’s as if our palms don’t fit together the way they used to. I asked you to marry me tonight in front of everyone in the world who matters to us. Is it too much to ask that we celebrate and . . .” Again, his voice fades.
I almost don’t recognize this man. I’ve never seen him miserable.
I did this to him.
“Dave,” I say his name carefully and sit by his side. But I don’t reach for him. Instead I sip the rich sweet notes of wine and try to find an explanation that will help rather than destroy.
“Did I scare you that night?” he asks. “Please tell me I didn’t. I want to make you feel safe. It’s my job. Please tell me I didn’t mess up something so fundamental. Please.”
“No, you make me feel safe,” I say quickly. “Always.” I study the contents of my glass before taking another sip.
“Then what is it?”
I don’t answer right away. I’m busy gathering up my scattered bits of courage. This is the moment. I know that. It’s now that I need to tell him.
“Is it your sister?”
The non sequitur jars me, throws me completely off balance.
“You know we’re a week away from her birthday. Melody would have been thirty-seven, right?”
How on earth did we get here, from talking about the troubles in our relationship to talking about Melody? She has no place in this exchange.
“She died two days after her twenty-second birthday, right? That means we’re approaching the fifteenth anniversary of her death.”