Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“I wouldn’t let that happen. I’m different now. I met Simon when I was younger than you, and I’m in my thirties now. I’d recognize the signs.”
He arched a brow. “Age does not convey wisdom.”
“You’re too young to say that.”
“And you’re not exactly an old hag. Think about it. You’ll have other opportunities, other guys you’ll meet…”
His voice trailed off as I shook my head. “Not like this guy.”
He grimaced. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“I need to go see him. We need to talk things out when we’re not all overwrought about running into Simon. I think that’s what set everything off, running into Simon at your party, and the fight, and getting hauled off to jail.” I shuddered. “But Simon’s the past, and maybe…maybe Price is…”
“Your future?”
I let out a breath. “Yes.”
We both lay back on the couch under the weight of this decision, this choice that felt like life or death. “You should wait a couple more days,” he said. “You should wait until you’re feeling a little stronger. I mean, what if it doesn’t go well? What if he tells you to get lost?”
“He might. He probably will.” I shrugged and twisted my fingers together. “He’s probably going to say all kinds of awful things and order me to stay the fuck away from him. I still have to go.”
Price
My house was quiet, but I liked it quiet. I wasn’t a big TV watcher, or a music person. I was a reader, and I was reading a lot to keep thoughts of Chere from crowding my mind. If I thought about her too long, I’d go to her, and I was determined not to. I’d put away the binoculars. No more stalking. No more manipulation. She’d had enough, and I...
Well, I had a stack of books in my living room, and a bottle of wine, and silence to lose myself in the words. I was halfway through Pablo Neruda’s Winter Garden, a collection of poems I’d read numerous times. It was always a transcendent experience, but I hadn’t been able to lose myself in the imagery the way I normally did. Maybe it was too quiet.
In the silence, I heard a footfall outside. The neighbors across the hall? It was late, after ten. I glanced at my watch but didn’t go back to the poetry. I had a sense of recognition, of waiting. Then, the knock.
It took just a second, maybe two, for me to realize it had to be Chere. No one else could get by the doorman at this hour, and besides that, I think subconsciously I’d registered the rhythm and weight of her steps. I thought for a moment of not answering. Just a moment, though. If she was here, I was going to see her. Maybe something had happened, some emergency.
I put my wineglass on the side table, and lay the book of poems on top of the others, still opened to my place. I’d go back to reading it shortly. I would not embrace Chere and invite her inside, or kiss her, or fuck her. By her own words, I had nothing to give her.
She knocked again, louder, then rang the doorbell. And rang the doorbell again. She wanted in, the little nutjob. Of course she’d ring the doorbell repeatedly. If I waited a few more seconds, she’d do it again. I pictured her with her finger poised over the button as I threw the lock and opened the door.
And there she was, standing two feet away. She lifted her chin as I stared at her in her pink Lanvin suit, and the black leather mask I’d instructed her to wear to our first meeting three years ago. The air whooshed out of me, taken up by the emotion in my chest. That pert nose, her set mouth, even the tilt of her chin was the same.
“Are you there?” she asked when I couldn’t produce any words. She reached out, groping for me, not quite touching me. Then she reached to take off the mask. I almost stopped her but then I remembered, you can’t stop her. She’s not yours to control. Don’t touch her. Don’t look at her.
She pushed off the mask, blinking at me through a sheen of tears. She held it out to me, and gestured down at her outfit. It hugged her curves as enticingly as it had that day.
“I just thought...remember? The W Hotel?”
“I remember.” I drank in the sight of her, trying not to look like I was dying inside. “I remember,” I repeated, keeping my tone neutral and civilized. “Why are you here?”
“Well, I thought... I wanted to come back and...” She looked past me. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
“Is there someone else here?”
Ha, someone else. Like I would have moved on from her in the space of a week. “No one else is here,” I said, “and you shouldn’t be here either.”