Chapter 27

MELODY

"What about this outfit,"I say, holding a pair of pants and a blouse against my body and spinning to Alice.

Her eyes beam with a smile.

"Where are you going again?" she asked, a bit puzzled. "I thought this was a date."

"He thinks it's a date."

"And you think it's a gynecologic exam?"

We both laugh before I quickly speak.

"I hope not. This is the whole point. I don't want to have sex tonight."

"You won't with those pants, baby. If anything, he will experience erectile dysfunction. What's the plan with this one?"

She makes herself comfortable in her chair and looks at mewith curious eyes.

I rarely have Alice here on a Saturday afternoon. She usually runs errands, goes to the gym, or travels with her future husband.

I become painfully aware these moments will be more and more rare.

Her dark hair looks nice, with bangs that emphasize the structure of her cheekbones.

She wears makeup without overdoing it. It's mostly moisturizer, a liquid foundation, and mascara.

Her beige top pairs well with her white pants. Her jewelry is delicate with little wisps of silver and occasionally a diamond.

"What?" she murmurs, noticing my stare.

"You look good. Content. You seem happy."

"I am happy,andIwant to see you happy, too.So far, you're ruining your mood with that boring outfit."

"I don't feel like sexing myself up. I don't want to sleep with this guy."

"Noted. But, excuse me if I ask, when was the last time you wanted to sleep with a guy?"

Last night.

Last night, I wanted Jax badly.

I wanted him to jump my bones and take me like a thug.

I was so mad that he had pushed me to the point where I had to say no… to myself.

I don't like quarreling with myself.

"I haven't met that guy," I say.

"Why go meet this one then?"

"Because… I'm trying to figure things out and keep myself busy. Help this girl out," I say, smiling.

"What things, if I may ask?"

"Getting used to going out, not getting easily attached."

"You have a PhD in that."

"It's not only that. It's about getting used to dealing with these men and learning to discern good from bad."

"You already know he's not good. The pants you have in your hand say it."

Sighing, I drop my clothes on the bed.

"I don't want to spend time alone at home on a Saturday evening. That's it."

For the longest time, I did just that. I used to work so much there was no time for anything else.

She flicks her hands up.

"You do what you think is best for you. Who is this man again?"

"Some French guy I met a while back."

"Is he cute?"

I dismiss her question with a clipped gesture before returning to the closet and looking for something to wear.

"He's a whore," I say, still searching.

"A what??"

She chuckles while I spin around to face her with a few outfits draped over my arm.

I put them all on my bed andsiftthrough them.

"What do you mean he's a whore?" she asks from a nearby chair.

"They all are. I'm just a name on his hit list."

"You think so?"

"I know so.Hewanted to see mesome timeback, then changedhismind and flew to Paris. After spending some time in Paris and London, he wants to see me again."

"He's a frequent flyer, this guy, isn't he?"

"He isn't the point of this conversation. I'm making plans with these guys for a reason. I'm going out to have dinner. Nothing more. The more men I see, the more men I attract, and hopefully, one of them will be a normal guy who doesn't dip his dick into every woman he crosses paths with."

"The premise sounds awful."

"It is what it is. I'm a bit late. Everyone I know has gottentheirsignificant other. I went from here to here. And now here."

Using my hand, I explain to her how I"ve lowered the bar and, with it, my expectations.

I went from trying to find a great love story to finding someone suitable to finding someone half-suitable who doesn't get on my nerves.

"All good men are taken…" she murmurs wistfully."But not always. My mother found a good man. Hersecond husband."

"Your mother traveled the world, and he's into traveling, living his life to the fullest, and more importantly, into her. He's learned his lessons, too. Oftentimes, men make great second husbands. I'm sure I can get someone like that for myself when I'm sixty-five. Maybe that's the thing. I need to wait. Just forget about them now and get them when they're more seasoned," I say, giving up on finding the perfect outfit.

"What about kids?" she asks.

Holding a gray dress, I lower myself to the edge of the bed.

"Yeah… Kids," I murmur, not looking at her. "I can always use donor sperm."

"You're not serious."

I shift my gaze to her.

She looks at me as if this is the first time she realizes how serious this thing is.

"I think I am. If nothing works out, I'll probably consider it.It's too early to think about it, but the reality is,time is not on my side. I want to do this sooner than later."

"Can't you just find someone to, um… you know, sleep with instead of using donor sperm?"

"Isn't it the same thing but with so many legal and emotional complications? I don't want to deal with that."

"What about the baby?"

I think about it for a moment.

"It's too early to go so deep into this topic. Donor sperm is obviously not my first choice, but it will be my last for sure. And if I need to, I'll do it. I want kids but don't care for a bad marriage and a messy divorce or to look for someone in perpetuity."

She stares at me, stunned, before taking a long breath and slowly exhaling.

"How long have you been dating?"

"I wouldn't call it dating, but let's say it was dating for the sake of the argument. On and off for a few years, not considering the relationships."

She tips her head to the side in disagreement, and I continue.

"Seriously applying myself? It's probably been six months now? More or less."

"It took me a year," she says.

"You were lucky."

"Maybe. The point is youneed to be patient."

I look at her, chewing on my lip, a bit emotional after what happened last night.

"I think I'm done," I say.

What hurts the most is that I like that man.

Jax London.

He would be perfect if I were twenty-one. Perhaps a college student. We would have so much fun, spending the nights talking and fucking like we did in Connecticut…Almost fucking.

Traveling the world, perhaps.

By the time we were twenty-five, twenty-six, or even thirty, we'd be ready to settle down.

We might not last that long, but we'd have our story.

With how things are, though… We won't have a chance.

And it's not only one thing.

We'd be good in bed. Yes, we would. And we'd have fun. And maybe, despite the differences,he'dbecome my best friend, but other than that?

He is a wild, volcanic man.

He is young. No matter what he says, he hasn't reviewed all his options.

He can't say I'm his woman. No one could in his place.

And it's not only that.

He hasn't figured his life out. And there is more to two people than how good they are in bed.

Our lives are so different that he'd feel suffocated in my rigid, often pretentious world.

People would take a jab at him. And knowing him, he'd retaliate and get in trouble.

We can only make it work if we are ready to make big, and I mean huge, adjustments.

I can't even think of something that would make our life paths overlap, let alone do it.

That's the reality of it.

And then there's a different reality.

Despite shooing him off, I'm still obsessed with him.

Despite not letting him have me, I'm still lusting after him.

Despite pulling away from him and taking control of my life, I still feel like a loser.

But my mind is made up, and I'll follow the necessary steps to get where I'm supposed to get.

Wherever that may be.

And it won't be with him.

"So…" I say, pushing to my feet and holding my dress up. "What do you think?"

Sunk in thought, she shoots me a blank stare.

"I don't know. It's working, I guess."

"Right."

I drop it on the discarded clothes, convinced I'll never find something to wear.

MELODY

"Where are you,darling? I can't see you," Emile says with an unmistakable accent, pivoting and pushing his gaze over the crowd.

The place is packed. I didn't expect so many people at an art exhibition.

I spot Emile, yet he is lost in a sea of guests, moving his eyes over me without noticing me.

I'm not surprised.

I no longer look how he remembers me.

Having a few hours left after Alice had gone home, Ifelt likedoing something significantly different.

Maybe Jax is right, and I'm experiencing an existential crisis. I hadn't planned to getrealwith Alice and share intimate stuff about my fears of being time-pressured, yet it happened.

I haven't even told my mother about these things, or Aretha, who is supposed to hear all this.

When Alice left, I spent another half an hour looking for something to wear. And then I realized I had looked for something appropriate. Something that made sense for the man I was supposed to meet and the place I was supposed to visit.

When I changed my thinking and decided to wear something that I liked, Ieasily selected the dress I wear tonight.And it's the same dress I wore last night.

I love this dress, not only because it flatters my body, but because it still smells like Jax.

His scent is buried in the fabric, a tender reminder of how alive he makes me feel.

After deciding to wear the same dress, I went a step further and pulled out a hair color kit from inside a bathroom cabinet.

Mina always advised me to get a more intense shade than hers. She said it would go better with the color of my eyes, and she was right.

I'm not very handy when it comes to things I do to myself, but I got it right, and what a beautiful color it is.

A deep, dense red flutters down my shoulders in big waves. The contrast to my black eyeliner and complexion makes my blue-gray eyes look haunting.

I tried so hard to find a lipstick that matched my hair, but I ended up with a scarlet shade, like my dress.

My shoes, bag, and jacket are black, while diamonds glint at the root of my neck and my earlobes.

I move closer and give him a wave.

He's still unsure that the woman before him is me. I end the call, and it registers with him that he was on the phone with me.

Oh, the look on his face is priceless.

"Melody? Is that you, cherie? I can't believe my eyes. What happened?"

He wears light brown slacks, a white button-down shirt, a scarf with a small diamond print around his neck, and a black blazer.

He's dressed for the occasion but not necessarily to impress someone.

Many guests display varied levels of elegance and originality in how they wear their clothes.

He looks more like my accountant than a French painter, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say he had a meeting with his lawyer right before heading this way.

His effusion and wide eyes don't go unnoticed.

A few people turn their heads to us, smiling for no reason.

He takes my hand and stares down unapologetically, ignoring all the intrusive, mystified onlookers.

"Darling, you look fabulous. Très jolie."

I take his compliment with the grace of an entitled queen before looking around the room with his eyes still glued to me.

His hand still holds mine when I gently free myself.

"What would you like to drink?" he asks, procuring a glass of champagne before I can answer.

"Let me show you around," he says with a hint of urgency in his voice.

We spend an hour inside the room.

Strutting like a peacock, he is trying to impress me with his breadth of art knowledge while I listen absently.

He normally wouldn't pull away from me for no reason, but the gallery owner, who happens to be his friend, asks him to join him and a group of people in the other room.

Reluctantly, he leaves me in front of a sculpture after repeatedly telling me it wouldn't take that long.

The fragile connection between us evaporates completely when he walks out of the room, and I tune out the hum of conversations in the gallery and analyze that piece of art.

My mind travels to a different place and time, and I look at it like I'm a different woman wearing the same dress, only having brown hair and eyes that are not so piercing.

I liked that man.

I hurt that man.

Yet he never gave up.

"How do you like it?" the same man asks, the deep timbre of his voice making me shudder.

His hand comes smoothly to the small of my back, and my hair gets tangled in his cufflinks.

My lips open with surprise as I feel his scent.

No way.

"What are you doing here?" I push under my breath, jerking my eyes to him and locking his gaze only for a second.

"Don't turn around, baby. Let's look casual. All right? We're not making a scene."

What am I supposed to say?

"You're patronizing me," I murmur like a dog about to growl.

"You're a spoiled brat. Did you really think I'd feel hurt after last night and nevercome back?"

Iswing mygaze to him, and his eyes are right there, waiting for mine. The corners of his lips slowly lift with a cocky smile as if he had just found his favorite pet.

He doesn't seem impressed with how I look.

If he is impressed, he surely doesn't show it.

He's more savvy than Emile––frankly, in a different league. He"s also more experienced than him, despite the age gap.

There's no comparison, really.

His eyes glint with determination while I experience the bittersweet taste of surrender.

My eyes move from his sultry eyes to his lips and rapidly over his attire.

The artistic edges of his tattoos grace his neck, but this time, he wears a slim fitted suit, Italian shoes, and a skintight top underneath.

A fancy belt sets off his trim waist, while the jewelry he wears–solid rings and a necklace with a prominent pendant–makes him look like a mafia man.

How far is he from that?

He meets my inquisitive gaze with lifted eyebrows.

"I didn't want to hurt you," I say.

"Don't worry. It takes more than a beautiful woman throwing a fit to break my heart."

"It wasn't a fit. I was serious," I hiss.

"And I took you seriously. Look… I'm wearing a suit for you today. Making adjustments and all that shit."

I shake my head in dismay.

"I can't win with you."

"Finally. The first reasonable thing you've said the entire evening."

It's stupid, but his remark makes me smile.

I shake my head again and look back at the sculpture.

"You need to go back where you came from," I say, and his hand moves from my back to my front while the hard planes of his chest press against my shoulder blades.

His lips hover over my temple.

"Don't shake your hair at me like that, princess, as all I want is to have your mane around my wrist and pull your head toward my groin."

My mouth drops.

"You didn't just say that to me…" I whisper.

"I fucking did, and here's the proof."

He slightly presses his bulge against me, and I turn into melted honey, thick with needs I have ignored for too damn long.

"Lose that loser for a moment, and you'll get a taste of me," he says.

"No."

"Yes. Meet me outside in five minutes. You'llcome backto this event, so have a lie ready forhim. I promise he won't touch you tonight. You either send him packing, or I'll break his neck. It's up to you."

With that, he steps back, tilts his face down to hide his smile, and runs his fingers through his hair before giving me a generic flick off his chin as a soft goodbye.

A moment later, I stare at hiswideshoulders, still marveling at how good he looks in a suit.

I've seen men in suits. I work with them. Have business lunches with them. Or dinners in the hopes that we may be clicking later.

I've never seen someone more sexy in a suit, and it's precisely because the man in front of me with a swagger and a hard-to-ignore smile is nothing but an outsider.

He vanishes around the corner, and I scan the place to locate Emile.

A side door opens, and Iget a glimpse ofthe people in the other room. He's still there with his friend and a few other guests.

This is my chance to sneak out.

First, I inch closer to the food table, acting like I'm interested in the fish croquettes and pepper aioli. And then I take a few blueberries from a bowl, pop them into my mouth, sip some champagne, and trail Jax outside with a drink in hand.

In case Emile asks, I went outside to get some fresh air.

No one asks me why I sashay across the room, round the corner, and make a beeline for the side door.

This isn't one of those alleys, I hope.

And yet, it is.

The only difference is that no one smokes outside.

For sure, not the fancy people who came here for art.

I push the metal door open, assuming it doesn't trigger an alarm, and Isigh with reliefwhen I hear it close quietly behind me.

A few stairs and a balustrade lead to a concrete alley.

The two buildings would touch if not for the narrow space between them.

It's enough for a car to squeeze in and maybe for the garbage truck in the morning.

Right now, it's sunk in darkness, but after a few moments of blinking rapidly and waiting for my eyes to adjust, I make out the silhouette of a car.

A man is propped against the car, the orange glow of a cigarette tearing into the darkness.

It's enough to see his face.

He's waiting for me, relaxed, a hand in his pocket. He knows me well by now.

And he must know nothing is guaranteed with me. But he doesn't seem to care. If I submit to him, there's always a next time to vacillate and throw him off.

I wish this were some elaborate strategy on my part to drive him crazy. It's nothing like that, and he knows it. I doubt he'd be so patient if I played him.

I'm not afraid, and for once, I don't dwell.

I'm simply not thinking past this moment.

For the first timein my life, I'm acting on impulse, on what feels good in the moment.

Existential crisis, my butt. This is a real mid-life crisis.

AndI am so anxious to go back in time and pretend that I'm not who I am, andhe is not who he is.

He laid it all out for me.

To make it easy.

And now I crave him more than I have ever craved anyone or anything. And that's scary.

Putting one foot in front of the other, I climb the stairs and head to him withoutthe slightest hesitation in my step.

It helps that I look different tonight. I finally found a way to calm down that panicked woman andstart enjoyingmyself a little.