Chapter 18

MELODY

"You thoughtyou had it right, and now you realize there is a price to pay. And it's not what you thought it would be."

He pauses while his words echo in my head.

"All we get in life is what we focus on," he continues. You worked hard to climb the corporate ladder. You"ve made it, and it"s admirable, but there's a problem. That kind of life comes with men like Thomas."

It hits me how accurate his statement is. Yet he thinks someone like him is truly an option?

I'm not talking about how stunning he is.

I'm talking about how different our lives are.

"It's convenient for you to say that," I argue.

"It looks that way, doesn't it? The man from the other side of the tracks is trying to convince you to ditch a life of luxury and––allegedly––solid men for what exactly? A life in a trailer?"

He stops again.

"That's not what I was saying," he goes on. "Me wanting you and him being a terrible choice can be simultaneously true. Everything in life comes with good and bad. There's something ugly behind the most appealing things. I'm sure you have a side like that. I know I have. When we choose something, we get the good with the bad. In time, the good no longer hits that sweet spot for us, while the bad is there to stay, clear and harsh, more potent than ever. Losing the good makes us want something new. And sometimes, it makes us regret that we can't go back and choose something different. Ultimately, it's all a dead end, and the only thing that matters is how we live. I'd personally pay a different price instead of feeling stuck."

I stare at him for a few good moments.

"How do you know all that? It happened to you?"

"No. I've seen it happen to other people. And it happened to you," he says,bringing his gaze tome. "Am I right?"

I mull over an answer.

"I don't know… I really don't know," I say, avoidinghiseyes.

I can't say he's one hundred percent right.

Although, he is. But things are not asclear–cut as he wants them to be.

Some dead ends are comfortable. They come with accomplishments: things, people, and family.

He just said it.

There is a price to pay no matter what.

"So what kind of price are you willing to pay if this isn't an option?" I ask, resting my hands on my lap and moving my eyes to him.

His stare comes to me.

"What kind of price…" he murmurs absently, his eyes lingering on my hands before sliding up and stalling on my face. "You're so beautiful," he says, forgetting about our conversation.

My cheeks burn.

"The price…" I remind him, not acknowledging his compliment.

"Yes. The price."

He sucks in a short breath.

"I'd rather be uncertain about things, take risks, and even experience pain. When you hurt, you're still alive. I wouldn't want to be dead inside."

"I am positively not dead inside."

"No. But you're in an existential crisis."

"What makes you say that?"

Am I in an existential crisis?

Hey, at least it's not a mid-life crisis. But how far off am I, really?

I'm already considering a younger partner.

No.

I wasn't looking for someone like him.

"You're a bit lost," he says.

I don't like where he's going with this.

I'm not used to being perceived as lost, weak, or vulnerable, although he's seen enough of me to make it difficult for me to deny that.

"I'm not lost," I say.

A slow smile tilts his lips.

"You looked very much lost when you shook around my fingers."

A surge of pleasure barrels through me.

"I haven't done that a lot."

I haven't done a lot of things a lot.

Our conversation stalls for a few more seconds before he folds an arm over his eyes as if he wants to sleep.

I ponder what he said.

"Maybe you're right."

"About what?"

"The dead-end thing."

"I know I'm right. We all fall victim to our choices. Being where you are comes with sacrifices. Being where I am comes with sacrifices too. In your case, you don't like the men in your circle."

"I didn't say that."

He laughs, not believing my words for a second.

"What kind of sacrifices have you made?" I ask.

"I'm making one right now. I don't have access to you,"hesays, and I thinkhehas more access to me than anyone elsehas ever had.

MELODY

It'searly morning when I finally fall asleep.

Our conversation dwindled for a while as neither of us wanted to be open to each other anymore before he swiftly fell asleep.

I couldn't, so I silently watched him like you'd watch someone you love.

I always thought that if you liked someoneasleep, you'd surelylikethem awake.Sleep removes the asperities, pretenses, and roughness, making them vulnerable.

You watch their world getting swept away while their eyelids flutter, their muscles twitch, and their minds travel to places of peace and calmness or blatant horror.

They're not there while you are.

It's a beautiful thing to watch.

His arm was folded under his head, and his knee was slightly lifted while the window was barely open behind him. I wanted to ask him if he was cold, but I didn't want to wake him.

The fire kept me company for a while before it started to die down. I didn't want toget out ofbed and put another log in the fire, so I let it be.

The room was warm, yet I was still worried he might be cold by the window, so I eventually tiptoed out of my bed, grabbed a blanket from the closet, and covered him.

I held my breath for fear I might wake him.

Not a muscle twitched on his face while I felt like I was naked in a lion's cage and he could grab me at any moment.

But he remained a sleeping lion.

I moved my arms and felt the wind against my breasts while spreading the blanket over him before I went back to sleep and twisted and turned for a couple of hours.

Not once did he move.

Between him and me, I was the vulnerable one.

I had issues.

The thought made me laugh inside.

I was happy I got to know him a little.

Interesting man.

I couldn't say I wasn't flattered by his attention, but we were still a no-go.

Perhaps that's why I couldn't sleep.

And when I did, my sleep was worse than being awake.

MELODY

Somehow,I'm making it to the morning hours when light slides over my face. I crack an eye open, and the couch is the first thing I focus on.

He's gone.

I zip upright and drag my gaze around the room, my eyes foggy, a debilitating migraine pounding my brain.

"What the fuck…" I mutter, rubbing a cold hand over my face.

I glance at the couch again.

His jacket, cigarettes, and lighter are gone while the blanket is crumpled on a chair.I stare at it for a fewlongseconds, wrestling with my brain fog.

This is more thanhimpicking up the blanket and dropping it on the chair.

He crumpled it up and tossed it on the chair.

Dropping and tossing are two different things.

The first action signals carelessness. The second hints at anger and frustration.

Why would he be angry?

I ponder for a second. Maybe I'm reading into it too much.Ormaybeit has nothing to do with me.

Maybe he had issues at work. Or maybe he was cold and woke up with a painful back.

I know I would after a night on that sofa.

The more I sit, the worse my headache gets.

I slide my legs over the edge of the bed and look for my slippers.I"m still sitting with my eyeshalf–closed, the throbbing pain ruining my morning.

I'm not even sure whether I packed a pain reliever or not.

Who knew I'd need one?

Steps ring outside, and my eyes snap open.

I hurriedly push up, throw my robe on, and run my fingers through my hair just as someone knocks firmly on the door.

"Yes,"I say.

"May I come in?" Olivia asks. "Breakfast is ready."

"Yes, of course."

Breakfast in bed.I forgot about that.

I open the door, pretending to be cheerful and rested.

Neither is true.

If anything, I'm grumpy and tired.

She carries the breakfast tray to the bed before glancing at me.

"Would you rather have breakfast at the table?" she asks, although there isn't a breakfast table in the room.

"No, no. It's fine. I love to eat breakfast in bed."

Which iscompletelyfalse. I rarely eat in bed. I don't find it convenient.

Most days, I rush out of bed andgo on withmy life. I shower, go to the gym–or don't go to the gym–shower again, and dress for work.

I usually sip coffee in the kitchen, standing and reading the financial news on my phone.

I normally have breakfast at work.

I always arrive early, and my secretary, Mina, does the same. She makes sure my breakfast is on my desk. Fruit, cheese, eggs, and coffee.

It's scary how set I am in my ways.

Olivia places the tray on the bed and turns to me, smiling.

"Did you have a nice time last night?" she asks.

"Yes, it was lovely."

"I'm sorry about the power outage," she says.

"Don't worry. I haven't even noticed."

At least this is true.

"I'm happy to hear that," she says. "Let me know if you need anything else. And, um… Enjoy the rest of your day."

She gestures to the windows.

"The weather is nice today," she comments just as a narrow band of sunlight cuts through the clouds. "It will get even better in the afternoon."

She moves to the windows, and I fear she might find a cigarette butt or something else hinting at the activities we engaged in last night.

"You want me to pull the drapes for you?" she asks.

"No, no. It's all right. Thank you so much."

"Okay," she says, grinning again. "Lunch at twelve," she reminds me beforemoving to the exit.

"I'll be there," I murmur, and the door closes behind her.

The smoke that twirled around the room last night is gone. Thefireand the open windows have helped remove it.

The room smells fresh. Even so, I go to the windows and inspect the window sills.

Nothing suggests we were smoking.Had he cleaned them before he left?

There's that possibility.

Nostalgic, I look at the velvet sofa that doesn't even have the imprint of his body and at the window sill where he sat last night when he pulled my tights and underwear down and drove me wild.

I look down, pensive and regretful for the things that didn't happenwhen something glints in the sun.

His lighter sits on the wooden frame of the couch.

Grappling with disbelief, I pick it up.

This is so unusual.

Smokersnever leavetheir lighters behind.They're in a relationship with them, not tosaythat sometimes, these pieces are collectibles. This one, in particular, is a beautiful silver lighter with his initials engraved.

JL.

I run my fingertips over the letters as if touching his face, lips, or chest.

As if wanting them to be engraved on my skin.

My first thought is that he has left it here on purpose.

I suspected that even the first time when he had forgotten it with his cigarettes.

It's a cheap trick everyone knows.

Leaving something behind gives youa reason to talk to that person again.

But then the blanket comes to mind, and a different scenario playsin my head.

What if something had bothered him so much that he ditched the blanket and left without a word?

Then he realized he didn't have the lighter.

If I know anything about smokers, he must've wanted to light a cigarette when he stepped outside.He knew he left it in the roomand chose not to come back.

A shiver goes through me as I realize how plausible this is.

Something had annoyed him.

The blanket?

It could be.

My mixed messages?

For sure.

It would've driven me crazy too.

But these things are never clear.

I give up on finding an answer and move back to the bed.

Sitting on my butt, I drag my gaze over the omelet, flowers, pastries, freshly squeezed juice,andcoffeeand try to imagine how the newlyweds would feel after spending their wedding night here.

It would be like nothing that I feel right now as I eat alone, trying to forget the man I spent my night with.