Besides, a part of me—of us—died that day in the water. I gave up on love. I can resurrect it as little as I can get back the forty percent of my lost cardiac function. Hatred moved in and took over. Now that my reason for hating is gone, my heart is empty. I experience fear, pain, anxiety, and anger, even arousal, all emotions or impulses tied to instinct and survival, but I don’t feel love. I feel relief at being alive, but I don’t feel joy. It’s ungrateful. Pitiful. Pathetic, really. I simply can’t help it.
Ian takes the wheelchair while I grip the IV rail. I don’t ask where he’s taking me as long as I don’t have a say. We cross the lobby, take the elevator, and go back to my makeshift hospital room.
My lips part when we enter. The desk has been pushed against the window and set with a white tablecloth, fine china, and candles. Beyond the desk, the floor drops to that staggering view of black skyscrapers with golden windows blazing in the last sliver of orange daylight.
I tighten my grip on the armrest as I take in the setup. “What’s this?”
He leaves me at the one end of the table. Like of old, my pills are laid out next to a glass of water. “Neither of us had a proper Christmas dinner.”
A plate covered with a silver lid waits on each place setting. He takes a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and pops the cork.
“Your initiative?” I ask, studying him from under my lashes. If this is his idea of getting back into my panties, it’s not going to work.
“Lina’s.” He fills our glasses and hands me one. “She had everything sent over. I only had to set the table. Sorry I made you wait, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”
I breathe a little easier. At least it’s not a seduction dinner disguised as romanticism.
When he’s seated, he clinks his glass to mine. “To life.”
“To living,” I agree. Whatever that entails now. I’ll figure it out.
We fall quiet. There’s been much to say, but we’ve said it all. When push comes to shove, a year can be crammed into a few minutes. A lifetime can be summed up in a few words and emotions made out to be insignificant when they’ve wrecked your life.
Sipping the champagne, I turn my face toward the view, but all I see is the reflection of a woman who can do with a shampoo.
“Cas.”
His voice is deep, etched with concern and an ill-concealed plea.
I stare at the lights of the Ellis Park Stadium. “Mm?”
It’s eerie being the only people in a business tower that’s closed for the holiday. It’s weird sharing this dinner over candles, pretending to enjoy the view. It’s strange being together and not touching, not that I want to.
“Talk to me,” he says.
Reluctantly, I look back at him. Fine. “Thanks for saving my life.”
His expression twists. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m sorry for believing the worst of you, but I reckon we’re even. You didn’t think very highly of me either.”
He works his jaw as he twirls his glass, staring intently at the bubbly liquid. Exhaling through his nose, he lifts his gaze back to mine. “We both came to conclusions that seemed logical to us at the time. It’s over. It’s in the past. I want to move forward.”
“Great.” I take a gulp of champagne. “You should. I have.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me. I know you.”
I scoff. “You knew me.” Not even I know the new me. Anyway, self-knowledge is overrated.
He leans back in his chair, his demeanor strangely accepting for someone who’s just been rejected. “Eat your food. It’s getting cold.”
Mechanically, I do as he says. I set the lid aside and dip my fork into the food. It’s a gourmet meal of vegetable couscous, North-African style, but I may as well eat cardboard. I finish everything on my plate, polish off the white chocolate mousse and strawberries, and down the champagne.
Wiping my mouth with the napkin, I say, “Please thank Lina for me.” Even if I didn’t enjoy the meal, her effort deserves gratitude.
“You can tell her yourself,” he says, taking his napkin from his lap and leaving it on the table. “She’s dropping in tomorrow.”
When I push away from the table, he stands. “No coffee?”
“No, thanks. If I drink coffee now, I won’t sleep.”
“There’s decaf.”
“I’m tired.” Which isn’t a lie.
He comes around like a gentleman and wheels me to the bed. After arranging the IV stand, he helps me into bed. Hospital gowns, dirty hair, and plastic tubes don’t go well with candlelight dinners. I’m suddenly conscious of my state as I settle under the covers and allow him to pull the blanket up to my chin.
“Are you sleeping on the sofa again?” I ask before I can stop myself. Damn. I add quickly, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Like what?” he asks with a tilt of his lips.
“Like an invitation.”
“My loss.” His smile stretches into a sexy grin. “In that case, yes. I’ll crash on the sofa again.”
“You can sleep somewhere else.” When he raises a brow, I say, “In the building, I mean. There must be a hundred offices.”
He leans closer. “Someone has to watch over you.”
“I thought you said this place was safer than anywhere else.”
“It is.”
Straightening, he walks to the sofa and unbuttons his shirt. I should look away, but I watch as he unbuttons the cuffs, peels off the shirt, and bundles it into a ball in his large hands. I drink in the hard ridges of his body and the ink on his skin. Turning, he draws back an arm and tosses the shirt onto the swivel chair that stands against the wall.
I suck in a breath. His back sports a new tattoo. An orange tree runs from his flank up to his shoulder. The roots branch out over his lower back and side. It’s so well drawn it looks as if the network of roots is grafted with his skin. A branch with orange blossoms runs up to his shoulder. The petals curl over the arch, only the tips of a flower visible on the curve as he faces me again.
Why did he get it? The answer is obvious. The truth stares me in the face. He never said it, but he declared it in permanent ink on his skin next to the values that govern his behavior, his life.
“It’s not some kind of gravestone,” he says in a quiet voice.
My gaze slips to the pendant on the leather string that hangs in the center of his breastbone. “What’s not a gravestone?” I ask, pretending not to know what he’s talking about. It’s too deep, too personal. We don’t share that kind of intimacy any longer.
“The tattoo. It doesn’t symbolize grief.”
I can’t help from asking, “What does it symbolize?”
“Love.” His gaze intensifies. “The kind that gets under your skin.”
He’s indeed sentimental, much more than I gave him credit for, but I don’t want to acknowledge the things that have gotten under his skin. I want to forget.
Suddenly, I regret not using him. Sex is a good mechanism for forgetting. It’s too soon to think about sex when I’ve only been operated on yesterday, but my lady bits remind me they’re still functioning. My year of celibacy doesn’t help.