You're Still the One

by Sasha Clinton

  He smiled that half-smile of his, which cracked an untouched corner of her heart open. “Glad to hear that.”

  She would almost have believed he cared. But rocks were not capable of caring.

  Uncomfortable silence enveloped them as they both tried to break the ice.

  “Mary told me you’ve finished writing the manuscript.” Ashley took a gulp of whiskey to calm the nerves that were jittery.

  “I sent the document to her. Didn’t you receive it?”

  “I did. I haven’t read it yet. I’ll be sending it to one of the freelance editors we work with for a developmental edit, then I’ll do my edit after that. Then there’s copyediting and proofreading, after which your book will be typeset and go into production. The process of editing will take around two months and we’re looking at November for the release date.”

  “November is a long way away. It’s only August.”

  “The process of publishing a book takes time,” she said. “But a release date close to Christmas means you can count on holiday sales.” Ashley gulped down another hit of whiskey. She couldn’t stop drinking. He was making her nervous.

  “Oh, right.”

  She slid the drinks menu across the table to him. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Green tea.” What was with this green tea fad? First Mary, now him.

  “Nothing alcoholic?” She’d have assumed he needed something strong too, to be able to face her.

  “I have to drive back. I assume you don’t have to.”

  Oops. She’d forgotten about DUI. She eyed the glass that was now half empty—and no, that wasn’t the pessimist in her saying that.

  Time to change the topic. “Isn’t the fish tank gorgeous?”

  “It is.” He spaced out, looking at the fishes. “Did you know that if starfish get hurt, they can regenerate themselves? Don’t you wish humans had the same ability?”

  Oh, yes, she wished they did. Then she wouldn’t have to carry around the scars that he had given her like a badge of honor.

  “What’s the reason you decided to write an autobiography?” she enquired.

  The gurgle of water in the aquarium had him distracted, so she had to repeat her question.

  “There were some facts I needed to clarify to the public.”

  “Like what?”

  “Things about Dracosys’ beginnings, and our IPO. There are a lot of misconceptions surrounding that. And I wanted to talk a bit about my experience with marriage. Our marriage.”

  Ashley balled her palms into fists. She had been dreading this topic but it seemed it would have to be dealt with.

  “What about our marriage?” she asked, sharply.

  “You’ll know when you read chapter eight.” He left her hanging.

  The first file she would open on getting back to the office would be chapter eight of the document Mary had emailed her.

  “You wrote a chapter on our marriage?” Had it meant that much to him?

  “Two, actually. One on you and one on our marriage.” There wasn’t the mildest inflection in his tone. No tenderness.

  “If you mentioned my name or about my depression and suicide attempt, I’m going to edit it out. You don’t have the right to write about those things.”

  She was beginning to see the advantages of being his editor.

  “I’m not that insensitive. You remain anonymous throughout. There’s nothing revealing there. In the process of writing my autobiography, I think I’ve mastered the art of saying nothing while sounding like I’m saying something.”

  We’ll see, she thought.

  “What else have you written about that I need to know about?” She tapped on the table.

  The edge of his mouth shifted up. “My marital status.”

  Her stomach knotted, and it wasn’t because of hunger. Was Andrew single? Wait, that shouldn’t matter. Despite the curiosity she felt inside, she had to act aloof on the outside to avoid misleading him.

  “Your marital status doesn’t matter to me. I’ve moved on. And I’ve changed. I’m neither as timid nor as dependent as I used to be.”

  “You were never timid. Always a spitfire—since the moment we met.”

  She was flooded with memories of their first meeting.

  Her nipples hardened instinctively, waiting for the brush of his fingers, the flick of his tongue to send them back to that same frenzy. She was grateful he couldn’t see how aroused she was. Padded bras were the greatest invention of this century after the internet.

  “Just remember that I’m not going to let the book go to press if it contains anything personal about me.” she asserted.

  “I got the message. You don’t have to keep repeating it, dear.”

  Dear. It was a meaningless endearment. But it made her blush.

  “I’m glad we’re both clear on my low tolerance for nonsense.” She must look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, she was blushing so furiously.

  He didn’t fail to capitalize on that. “We are, although I’m not quite clear on why your face is red as a strawberry.”

  Too embarrassed to make anything but shallow excuses, she did just that. “Must be the heat. I’m sweating in these clothes.” She pretend-fanned herself.

  “You’re suffocating wearing a skirt and sleeveless blouse?”

  “You must have high heat tolerance to be wearing a suit and not feel the heat. Not everybody can do that.”

  “I can handle the heat.” The double meaning behind those words was accentuated by the constancy of his gaze on her.

  The mercury shot up a few more notches. To distract herself, she checked the time. She hadn’t noticed how quickly time had passed. Then again, she never did when she was with him.

  Thirty minutes had flown by and they were yet to order anything. If she had to get back to her desk by two, this lunch had to end in the next half hour.

  “The entrees look so mouthwatering.” And expensive, she mused, guiding his attention onto the menu—away from the sparks between them. “Do you have any particular preference?”

  “I’m vegetarian,” he said flatly.

  “Since when?” He hadn’t been a vegetarian when they were married.

  “Since seven years ago.”

  “Do you eat fish?” she asked, not quite sure whether anything on the menu was vegetarian.

  “No. Pescatarians eat fish.” He scanned the menu for something that met his dietary restriction.

  The smiley waitress, the one in the pink kimono, took their order. Edamame beans, gomae salad, assorted sushi, beef teriyaki and grilled tofu. The post-small talk lull dragged on as they both avoided asking any more personal questions.

  Ashley coughed and checked her email to seem occupied. His presence made it difficult for her to focus on anything, though. He had the kind of presence that commanded attention. Demanded attention. Yes, she was still physically attracted to him. There was no woman in this world who wouldn’t be physically attracted to Andrew Smith. He was hot. Period.

  But she was smarter now. She never repeated her mistakes. She wouldn’t fall for those smoldering eyes again. For all his hotness, his heart was more frigid than the North Pole. And emptier than the Grand Canyon.

  “So who do you think is winning?” He finally broke the ice, adjusting his lilac silk tie.

  “Winning what?”

  “This war of silence.”

  His eyes trailed over her neck, following the curve all the way down to the point where it converged with her breasts. There was something about the way he looked at her. He was dousing her nervous system in kerosene and lighting a matchstick.

  She breathed deeply. Andrew Smith was a blunder she couldn’t make again.

  “I was under the impression that you didn’t want to talk.” she said.

  “What made you think that?”

  Nothing, actually. But she couldn’t say that.

  “You were looking at the fish tank. I thought you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

&nb
sp; “I wasn’t looking at the fish tank. I was looking at you. You are the one who’s been looking at your smartphone screen.” The baritone, low and mellow, was laced with a hint of irritation.

  “Oh, sorry.” Making small talk was becoming harder and harder. She looked to the bamboo shoots at the entrance. “Those bamboo shoots are arranged very artistically. It must have been difficult to get them to look so aesthetic.”

  “Neither you nor I give a fuck about how well ordered the bamboo shoots are.”

  She smiled politely, trying to keep her composure. Yet she felt it crack as the cauldron inside her bubbled up to her tongue.

  “So what is it that we do give a fuck about?” she asked.

  Andrew gulped down some water. “Sorry, that was unwarranted. I’m edgy these days. The bamboo shoots are very artistic indeed.”

  “Problems at work?” In her one-year internship as his wife she had learnt that stress at work always showed up in his attitude.

  “We’re expanding to Europe, so it’s exhausting because of the time difference between London and New York. But I’m excited. And it’s going great.”

  Still a workaholic. Some people never changed.

  Their steaming hot dishes were delivered to them, just as her stomach was beginning to rumble. Ashley took in the scent of the various delicacies spread out on the table, waiting for him to start, not wanting to be the first one to eat.

  “Please, go ahead.” She played the gracious hostess.

  Andrew picked up a block of tofu with his chopsticks and chucked it into his mouth.

  “It’s firm and well seasoned, like tofu should be,” was his verdict. Talking of tofu must have reminded him of the long-ago comparison she’d made between her fingers and tofu. “Your fingers are as beautiful as ever.”

  The compliment raised every hair on her arms and legs. Not that there were that many—she had shaved in the morning.

  “Thank you,” she uttered, holding back the urge to use her fingers to feel the bridge of his upturned nose. It was so close. Close enough to touch.

  He continued to eat, not aware of the secret glimpses of him that she snatched while pretending to have her nose buried in the rice bowl. She had mouthfuls of the Jack Daniels, to distract her one-track mind, until she hit the bottom of the glass.

  Please don’t let me get me arrested for DUI, she prayed.

  When the waitress removed the plates, they still didn’t communicate. Ashley sank her arm into her brown handbag to draw out her wallet.

  “Can we have the bill, please?” she requested.

  “I’ll bring it over.” The waitress said with a genial smile.

  The bill arrived and she put down her card. It was standard protocol for editors to pay for lunch. Besides, there was no way was she going to let him pay. To his credit, he let her pay without argument. After the payment was done, she gathered her purse.

  They got up, at the same time.

  “It was nice meeting you, Andrew.” She shook his hand with forged amicability.

  “The pleasure is all mine.”

  His body moved with a feline grace as he held the door open for her.

  “Be careful on the subway,” he said, ducking to save his head from the too-low doorframe of the Pink Fish as they both came to a halt under the rays of the mid-July sun.

  “Okay.”

  As he walked away, she could trace every muscle in his lower body through his tight trousers. Places where her hands had once been. She tried to erase that image from her mind.

  There were some roads that were too precarious to travel down twice.

  Chapter 6

  The first call Andrew made after getting back to his office was to his agent, Derek. Judging by the sirens going off in the background, Derek must still be at the hospital.

  “Hi, it’s Andrew. I just returned from lunch with the editor. How’s your daughter?”

  “She’s going to be okay. It’s only a minor fracture. How did the lunch with the new editor go?” Derek questioned, a little breathless.

  Andrew considered the best way to approach this, but there was only one way. “She’s my ex-wife.”

  “Ashley is your ex-wife?” Derek’s rising intonation peaked at the word ‘wife’.

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m guessing you guys didn’t part amicably.”

  “Yes again.”

  Feet shuffled at the other end. Derek had a habit of pacing around when deep in thought.

  “I don’t know what to say. Can you work with her?”

  “I can,” Actually, he was eagerly awaiting working with her. “I think she’s the most qualified person to edit my autobiography, because she’s lived through part of it. I know she’ll do a good job on it.”

  Derek snickered. “It sounds like you’re enamored by her. By her professional skills, I mean.”

  Andrew hated to admit that Derek was right.

  The years had transformed Ashley into a stunner. She had been a vision—an enticing vision—in a beige skirt that clung to her shapely derriere and the black blouse with a low neck. Only his firm grasp on the past had made him stay glued to his seat… or rather, his mat.

  Not that he was even sure that she was single. For all he knew, she might have a boyfriend—a really lucky boyfriend. And hopefully a better one than he had been.

  Even if, after all these years, he was attracted to her, he couldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  He couldn’t let his selfishness hurt her this time. No matter how much he wanted to kiss those perfect lips, stroke those sandy strands, hear the melody of her laughter… she was the one woman who was forbidden. Dragging her through hell once more would be inhuman.

  At twenty-four, he’d had the excuse of inexperience, but at thirty-one, that wouldn’t cut it anymore. He had to stay away from her. That was the only thing that would do.

  “Daddy,” a child called. It must be Derek’s daughter.

  “Amy, I’m on the phone.”

  Amy. Andrew closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw a vivacious girl with the same dark curls and penetrating brown eyes as his agent. Andrew smiled, envisioning rosy cheeks and lips the same color.

  Buds of longing grew in him. For a while now, he had been thinking of having kids. At thirty-one, he had finally acquired the financial stability and emotional maturity to be a parent. The only thing he hadn’t acquired was a wife, or rather his wife.

  After growing up in a single-parent home, Andrew wasn’t going to raise a child alone. His children would have a mother. A real mother, not a face they only saw in pictures. And that mother would be Ashley. He couldn’t imagine anyone else living with him. Couldn’t even consider kissing anyone else before going to work every day and before going to sleep every night.

  Which meant he should forget about kids.

  He squeezed the thoughts back to their dark source. His office was no place to be daydreaming.

  “Okay, Andrew, I have to go. Amy will eat me up for lunch if I don’t buy her something to eat instead.” Derek said.

  “Ha. Bye.” Andrew lay his phone on the table top.

  He focused his attention on the flashing screen of his Mac, but saw Ashley’s reflection instead of the spreadsheet. She was going to haunt him all day today, even in his dreams.

  The sound of an email arriving into his inbox made him sit up straight. Anticipating an update from the finance department, Andrew clicked on the email without reading the subject.

  Blood. That was all he saw before his lungs stuttered and his body started caving in. He had known this was coming since he’d met her.

  He shut off the gruesome image flashing on the computer screen with a punch of the power button. Somebody had sent picture of lungs and blood in a lung cancer awareness email. Blood always triggered the memories, the alarm, the hysteria that accompanied an attack.

  His ribcage started folding in, muscle by muscle, and an electric sting punctured his thoracic cavity. Oxygen supply came at irregular intervals, m
aking him dizzy.

  Mixed with the physical agony was the mental torture. Recollections of Ashley in a lake of blood. Visions that he had not seen in a long time.

  He threw open his drawer and flushed out every scrap of paper, frantically searching for the aluminum foil of the strip of tablets.

  Where was the damn Xanax?

  He knew he had put it in here somewhere.

  His windpipe was locked. He massaged his throat, trying to coax it open. Desperation grew in line with the quickening of his pulse. Andrew tried to take deep breaths, but nothing would pass through the narrow passage of his throat.

  The dizziness swirling inside his skull was starting to detach him from the plush visual of the CEO suite. The choking feeling grew, making his eyes water. His body was trying to strangle him.

  Andrew looked out of the office and remembered that Adele was still outside. He should call his secretary. She had some medicines in her drawer, too, as a backup. Thankfully, the phone was within reach atop his table.

  On his third try, he managed to reach it.

  Zero one one. That was Adele’s number.

  “Hello, Dracosys. CEO’s office. How may I help you?” she said.

  He coughed multiple times, before forming his first coherent phrases. “Adele, now… my office…”

  “Mr. Smith, are you okay? Are you having an attack?”

  More coughing. “Yes… come now.”

  “I’ll be there.” Adele abandoned the call.

  He rested against the wooden table’s legs, losing the battle with his willful brain. It had been almost a decade. Why was he still having these attacks? Ashley was long gone from his life and any remains of her should be gone too.

  The problem had begun the night after her surgery. At first it had been disturbing dreams that had shown up daily. Then, when he had tried visiting her at the hospital the following day, the attacks had started in earnest.

  Every time he approached the gate, the smell of iron and hemoglobin, antiseptic and medicine, distress and fear crushed him and brought him to his knees. He had barely been able to hand her the divorce papers personally and get two decent phrases out of his mouth before his throat had clenched and made it impossible for him to stay with her.