Three is a War(63)

“It’s the truth, baby.” He stands and holds out his hand. “Dance with me.”

Those three words on kissable lips? Most decisive answer ever.

“Yes.” I grip his strong fingers and climb to my feet. “Tango?”

“No.” He lifts my phone from the nearby bench and swipes the screen.

As he returns it to the bench, XO by Beyoncé swirls softly, gently, around us.

Our wedding dance.

His gaze sweeps down my nude body, lingers on my panties, and lifts to my mouth. Then he holds me in his arms and rocks us to the beat, moving us along the edge of the dock. It doesn’t take long to find the quick-quick-slow rhythm. We slide through Lambada Zouk steps with flowing body waves and sensual footwork, smiling, twirling, lost in the intimacy of eye contact. It’s beautiful. It’s everything.

Almost everything.

Something’s missing.

I pull him tighter against me and continue moving through the routine. We’ve practiced the choreography so many times he’s perfected it. He leads with confidence, his technique spot-on. He nails the hip movements, deep dips, fast turns, and upper-body torsions like a pro. But I don’t feel the energy.

The energy that makes my heart beat.

Has it always been missing? I spent weeks teaching him this dance. How did I not notice? Maybe because I was distracted and oversexed trying to keep up with the desires of two men.

Maybe it’s nothing. I’m just tired and in a mood.

I focus on dancing, on Cole’s arms around me, on the sound of his breaths as he spins me across the dock. His knuckles graze my nipple. His lips brush my neck. His love is palpable, hungry, and undying.

But no amount of dancing or seduction will make my heart forget the other man it beats for.

It’s like the universe is trying to tell me something.

I don’t want to hear it.

I don’t trust it.

So I ignore it.

I ignore it as we dance through three more songs. I ignore it when he lowers me to the decking and makes love to me.

I ignore it for the next three months.

Then one night, I find myself sitting alone at the kitchen island, spinning the engagement ring on my right hand. I told myself I’d move it to its proper place when I stopped hurting so much.

The ache hasn’t ebbed. It’s sprouted roots and grown fangs. Maybe if I move the ring, it’ll go away.

With a deep breath, I slide it to my left hand.

Am I officially Cole’s fiancé? I don’t sense any of the warm, fuzzy feels that flooded me the last time we were engaged.

I feel guilty. Uncomfortable. Deceitful.

I’m wearing a token of Cole’s love while staring at the front door, silently hoping Trace will walk in.

I need to talk to Cole. He’s been nothing but understanding. I’ll tell him what’s on my mind, and maybe he’ll tell me I’m over-analyzing. Maybe he’ll tell me to shut the fuck up. Either way, we’ll work through it. Together.

Assuming he’s in the bedroom watching TV, I head in that direction, up the stairs and down the hall. And stop at the sound of music. It’s not coming from the bedroom. It’s closer.

The hallway has eight doors. Most of them remain locked. I’ve never tried to enter and invade that part of his past.

As I creep forward, following the morose melody, I focus on a door I’ve never opened. It’s partially cracked, spilling light into the hall like an invitation. I approach it and slowly push.

The evocative lyrics of James Bay’s Let It Go pours from the dimly-lit room. The back wall is covered with racks of guns. Little ones. Big ones. Guns that don’t look like guns. My pulse kicks up. This must be the armory.

Rows of file cabinets, multiple desks with running laptops, tables stacked with goggles, vests, boots, belts, computer and camera equipment, and gear I don’t recognize—all of it looks expensive and high-tech. Another table is dedicated just to cell phones. There must be dozens of burner phones, all plugged into a power strip that runs along the wall.

And hanging on a hook in the far corner is my wedding gown. It looks so out of place yet lovingly cared for. My chest squeezes.

I feel like I wandered into Cole’s secret room of longings. I shouldn’t be here. As I turn back, I spot him sitting on the floor by the door. I must’ve walked right past him.

He drapes his arms over bent knees and rests his head against the wall, staring up at me. His expression is as soul-searching as the music playing in the background.

“I thought you retired.” I glance back at the charging phones and powered-on laptops. “What is this?”

“I am retired. I only come in here to check my messages.” His gaze cuts to the table of phones. “I get a lot of job offers.”