Her eyes rise to mine as I pull my drink's straw to my lips.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I was thinking about what you said earlier."
"Wait—you were thinking? With your big brain instead of your little one?"
"First, both of my brains are big, thank you very much. And you were right. You and I, we can't just hook up."
She brings her pen to her mouth. "Go on…"
"Think about it, Mila. You and me, there's something here. It's so obvious. Maybe the reason we can't move on with other people is because we're supposed to move on with each other."
She stares at me for a long time, several expressions flashing across her face.
I go on before she can voice her objections.
"I want to show you this can be something real. I want to do it right. No mindless hooking up, no sneaking around the office trying to cop a feel—although, maybe yes to that."
"Oh God." She cringes. "I thought we had a silent understanding to never discuss what happened this morning. I almost died of embarrassment."
"Mila, this isn't a thing we'll do in hiding. This is a thing we'll do for real."
"Are you asking or telling me?"
She cocks a defiant brow, waiting for my answer. The threat of her cunning tongue whipping back at me is one of my favorite parts of being around her.
She keeps me on my toes.
"I'm asking you out on a date, so I can prove to you we make so much sense together."
She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, glancing down at the pages of her notebook. I slide a hand across the table and lay it over hers. Her gaze meets mine.
"I need to get this speech ready. The awards gala is Sunday night. The speeches get streamed online, shared hundreds of thousands of times. I need it to be…I need it to be real. And important."
"You're beating your head against every detail. You've got to let go a little. Real is messy. You can't manufacture real."
She drags a hand over the base of her neck, fingers splitting between the opening of her button-down blouse.
"You're right. I've got a dozen drafts. I've got to let go and pick one."
I grin wide. "So you'll come out with me?"
"Friday night. I've got a lot to do this week to prepare for the gala."
"Fri—But that's not for another four days."
"Yes, Andrew. That's typically the way the week works."
"Can we at least sneak in a little groping in your office until then?"
"No."
"Your conditions are unreasonable."
"I'm not done. When we do go out, I'll also need my feet massaged every five city blocks."
"Why don't you just wear sensible shoes like a reasonable person?"
"Why don't you quit making me walk fifty blocks anytime you take me on an outing. It's like you're a reincarnated medieval torturer."
"Date," I correct.
"Huh?"
"You said outing. This isn't an outing. I want to be clear, Mila. This is a date. If you need more time to think about it—"
"No, of course not. I think a real date's in order. I mean, I did just feel up your dick this morning."
She looks so beautiful with that coy smile on her face. I resist the urge to lift from my seat and lean over to plant a kiss on her lips. Instead, I make a show out of straightening my suit sleeves.
"I don't like to brag, but…there's a lot to like."
"Oh, trust me," she brings her straw to her lips, "I'm quite aware."
TWELVE
MILA
ANDREW CALLS ME ON the way to my place and tells me to put on dancing shoes. After all these years, he still can't accept that I can walk a tightrope in stilettos. The cab drops us off in front of a lively restaurant. Patrons sit out on a balcony and Spanish music blares in the background. But walking in, I realize this place isn't just loud, it's alive.
All the sounds pulsing through the city are weaved into the ambiance, from the music to the hum of conversation to the glasses clinking and drinks pouring. Excited screaming and cackles of laughter. I typically shy away from loud places, but tonight, the sounds welcome me, pushing away all my thoughts, allowing me to enjoy the current moment in its purest form. I guess it's the perk extroverts enjoy naturally. The ability to put aside thoughts and feelings, to not be trapped inside their heads. The energy in the room elevates mine like a hit of adrenaline.
The walls are speckled in bright Caribbean hues and resemble the canvases of expressionist paintings. Andrew takes my hand and we follow our hostess between loud, crowded tables to sit at the edge of a dance floor. Our table is flush against a wall with a mural of people donning hats and playing music on a beach.
Andrew sits beside me, the way he always does when we are at a table for two. I'm starting to wonder if he's always opted for noisy places to justify our proximity.
The energy of the place is infectious, the music stirring my instincts to move. Several people are already on the dance floor, moving with exceptional rhythm. We watch them as we eat tapas and sip our drinks.
I lean into Andrew and ask, "Are you really going to dance with me, or are we just here to watch?"
I love dancing but as I've gotten older the opportunities to dance have dwindled down to private sessions in my living room.
"Why is it so hard to believe?" He leans in closer. "You don't think I can dance? I'll have you know, I'm pretty damn good."
I shrug and pick up the cocktail the server set down moments ago. Most men I know don't know how to move their bodies. The Hispanic men here, though, make it tough competition for Andrew.
He waits for my answer, his beautiful blue eyes narrowed and a playful smirk on his lips.
"You just don't look very coordinated," I say. "Look at your arms."
My gaze moves over the sleeves of his navy blue button-down shirt, which hug his large arms. Those firm, masculine curves are erotic in an almost confusing way. Biceps should not have so much power.
"What about my arms?"
"How do you even move them?" I mimic stiff, robotic arm movements.
"You've got jokes, Mila. How about I just show you?"
He gets to his feet and stands in front of me. For a moment, I just stare. He's so handsome. The color of his shirt makes his eyes glow in the dim lighting. His wide shoulders give me the urge to be between them and feel his arms wrap around me.
"Are you going to take off your shoes?" he asks.
"One more comment about my shoes and I'm going to stab you in the eye with them."
"Quit talking dirty to me, woman. You know I like it when you're angry."
He extends a hand and I take it, smiling despite myself. We head to the dance floor, squeezing past sets of couples that weave in and out of the way without disrupting their dance steps.
Andrew brings me out to the center of the dance floor, where we are cocooned between dozens of other dancers, moving at an intimidating pace around us. They don't pay us any mind, though, as we take our time positioning our bodies in front of each other.
He grabs one of my hands in his and settles his other at my waist. The very next thing I know, Andrew is moving to the music, guiding me along with him. My jaw drops as I struggle at first to match his pace.
"Holy crap, Drew. You really can salsa." Still not quite believing it, I add, "How did I not know this about you?"
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Mila."
He tugs me close then releases me for a spin, before reeling me back into him again. My head swirls in delightful bliss at the way my body moves at his command. The way he leads, the effortless yet masculine way he moves is sexy beyond belief.
"Clearly." I set a hand on his chest to steady myself and I find his muscles firm under my fingers. I enjoy them for only a second before he has my hand in his again.
"I grew up in the Bronx," he says, "I chased Latinas most of my life. Of course I can dance salsa."
He extends his arm. Holding out the
hand clutching mine, he steps back while continuing to dance. His gaze travels down my body in a bold and unapologetic way I've never seen. And the look in his eyes when they slide back up to mine? It sends a rush through me.
"You're doing great," he says. "I can't believe how you dance in those heels. It's such a fucking turn on."
He spins me around and presses me to him, swaying for a few beats as his hand crawls over my stomach, before spinning me back to face him again.
"My heels turn you on? I thought you hated them."
"Are you fucking kidding? I only hated how much they turned me on."
He pulls me close again, and our bodies become as flush as our movements allow. His lips are by my ear.
"One day," he says, "I'm going to fuck you with your stilettos on."
His words hit me in the knees, weakening me. Lord, help me. That day could be right this second as far as my lady parts are concerned. He slows our movements down, despite the music being the same. He sets his forehead on mine and sways us nice and slow, his hands holding me tight.
How can this feel so new, so exciting, when we've known each other for so long? The Andrew in front of me is the same man I've known and yet, completely different. There's a look in his eyes now, a door that opened when I kissed him. Possibility lingers between us, anticipation for the things to come.
Strange how he's been in front of me and yet I feel like I've been missing him all this time. I didn't allow myself to see him clearly. To see us clearly. He's right. There's something here. We make so much fucking sense.
We forget the people surrounding us and dance like the floor belongs to us. We laugh and when I stumble, he catches me with ease. We enjoy a moment that stretches seamlessly to the next and is everything I want it to be. The songs blend together, and the steady flow of people around us grows and ebbs away in waves. Every time he spins me, he brings me back even closer and it stirs a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. For a time I cannot grasp, everything I've been carrying around for the past few weeks drifts far off into the distance. I know, with the clarity that comes from pure giddiness, this is what I want.
Andrew slows down our dancing again, bringing my hands up around his neck. His hands glide down my arms, eliciting shivers throughout my body. He sways us back and forth, ignoring the urgency of the song and creating our own. I'm glad because the soles of my feet are beginning to ache, but I'll drop dead before I complain to Andrew about my heels.
"I'm having a great time," I say.
"I am, too. I like to see you like this. Letting go and enjoying yourself."
"It's you. You bring this out of me. You make me…you make me happy."
"For a minute there, I thought you were going to say I make you horny."
I throw my head back and laugh, louder than necessary. Because loud laughter blends into the sounds around us and we've been laughing with ease all night at even the slightest amusement. And you know what? It feels damn good.
I've barely had anything to drink all night and I'm buzzed, feeling lighter than I have in months. It's not just my feet aching, it's my face, too.
Andrew takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor to the bar. I slide onto a stool and catch our reflection on the mirrored pane behind the shelf of alcohol.
"We look good together," Andrew says over my shoulder.
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to tell him I was just thinking the same thing.
He slips his hands around my middle and lowers his face to the crook of my neck. I stare at our reflection and a sudden worry clouds my happiness.
Every single man I've dated since Cole has faded with time. I've got so much baggage to let go of before I can even think of getting into a real relationship.
Cole is a shadow, approaching from the horizon.
I've tried to push Camille's latest visit aside, but the offer of answers hangs over my head, tantalizing and elusive. Years and years have passed since Cole left, and the one thing I've been unable to shake is the desire to have the final piece of the puzzle. The one that will help everything click into place and finally set me free.
THIRTEEN
MILA
THE DECIDING IS THE hardest part. The torment is in the back and forth, the uncertainty, in the threat of coming to a decision I will regret long after it's made.
I've always believed myself to possess an acute intuition. My mother taught me how to narrow in on my gut feeling and how to translate it into simple truths. The skill helped me amass great success in my career, but when it comes to matters of the heart, my gut has failed me more times than I can count. The heart, it always fucks everything up. It disrupts intuition and warps sensibilities beyond recognition.
And since I can't rely on my gut, I gnaw over the choices, flipping between going to the exhibit and deciding against it. I spend the day alone, working on the speech I may or may not have to give tomorrow night. My gaze darts up to the clock every so often, the time on Cole's invitation lurching closer and closer.
When I think of Cole, my insides wrench tight, and I'm sure I will never set foot in the exhibit. When I think of Andrew, the knot in my chest loosens. I get flashes of laughter, the colors of the room spinning around me right before he catches me in his arms and the world steadies. He brings a rush of oxygen through my veins. He makes me feel like I can start fresh and break free of the binds that kept me from seeing what has been right in front of me all this time.
My ego offers up the lure of proving myself. It teases me with a glorious vision of walking into the exhibit and finding it all falls flat for me, nothing more than vague notions of things I used to feel and a man I used to love. It's a trap, but one I've yet to grow immune to. The urge to be the cool girl, the newer, better version of ourselves we all secretly wish to flaunt in front of anyone who's ever slighted us.
Back and forth my thoughts go until, right as the clock marks a quarter to seven in the evening, I get to my feet. I pull on a pair of dark jeans and a blouse, and call a car to pick me up.
I make the decision to go. I'm done with the questions, done having Cole-related things hanging over me. Camille said he wouldn't be there and I believe her. He ran from me and never looked back. I don't expect him to show his face now.
A sense of peace comes over me when I slide into the back of the car and tell my driver where I'm going. I'm heading straight to my demons because they only grow bigger if you let them chase you. I'm going, not because he wants me to, but because I'm ready to blast right through them.
I'm fucking over you, Cole Van Buren.
The drive is not long at all, but when the driver turns down an isolated road, I'm sure it's because he's gotten lost and needs to make a U-turn. But the car comes to a stop, and the driver's seatbelt clicks.
"This is it?" I ask, staring out the window. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, ma'am, this is the address."
He steps out of the car and rushes to open my door. I thank him, but my brows tense as I take in my surroundings. The road is sandwiched between two large buildings and ends at the entrance of what appears to be a massive warehouse.
"No, this is the wrong place," I say. "There's no one here."
The building is well lit, far better than any of the others around it. It looks as if someone put time into fixing up the exterior to give it more appeal than the surrounding buildings, which all reek of neglect. I suppose this could be the right place, but that doesn't explain why there's no one here. If this is an art gallery opening, where are all the people?
"Do you want me to wait?" the driver asks.
"Yes, please. I'm going to go see if anyone's there."
I step up to the steel door and my attention fixes on the small poster affixed to the door. It's the same design as the invitation. I hold my fist out to knock, but the metal rumbles against its frame as someone opens it.
An older man with tired eyes opens the door. He's dressed in a gray suit. Behind him, there's a small reception area with some lounge furniture
and a television mounted on the wall. The design is modern and clean, but the room is also empty.
"I'm sorry," I say to the man. "I think I've missed the opening."
"What is your name?"
"Mila Zelen—"
He cuts me off before I can finish. "No, you're right on time. I'm Jeffrey, please come in."
I don't move. "Why is there no one else here?"
"Only one person is allowed into the exhibit." He pauses, glancing at my driver. "He can wait in the reception area if he'd like."
"How long will it take?" I ask.
The man shrugs. "As long as you want it to."
I glance back at my driver, who takes a few steps toward us as though wanting to ask questions. I know he'd stay if I asked him to, but I have no inclination to do so. I might not be Cole's biggest fan, but there's not a single bone in my body that believes he'd put me in danger. But perhaps he wasn't sure I'd come to this conclusion, which is why he wanted Camille to come with me, to ensure I wasn't put off by the isolated surroundings. I'm not afraid. I might be small, but I can handle myself.
"It's alright, Thomas," I say to my driver. "I'll call you when I finish."
He nods but waits for me to enter the building before getting into the car. Inside the reception area, there's soft music playing in the background. All of the walls are exposed brick, giving the place a charming vibe.
"Would you like some water?" Jeffrey asks. He moves with an awkward limp as he heads toward a pitcher sitting on a round table.
"No. Thank you."
My gaze travels along the walls, where hand sketched images are displayed in black frames. I recognize some of them. A sketch of a hand pressing onto a glass and its reflection pressing back. The one of the little boy walking in impossibly large boots. These were drawings Cole made in the time we were together. I stare past other sketches I've never seen before, one of a mansion made of matchsticks. Another of a grand sandcastle with a foundation the width of a toothpick. Cole was always incredibly talented in making lifelike sketches. I always knew he was meant to be an artist, but he never took it seriously. I guess he finally did.
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