Maybe Later(49)

“Can we talk?” I ask keeping my voice steady.

“It’d be best if you lose my number,” she speaks each word with composure and professionalism.

“We had a fight,” I offer. “There’s obviously something we have to discuss.”

Like figuring out who you are, Emmeline or Amy?

“Clearly, it wasn’t just a fight,” she says firmly. “I think it’s best if I walk away tonight.”

“Do you think it’s easy for me to trust others?” I ask. My tongue feels too thick to form the words, but I ask, “How do I know you’re not playing me?”

She blinks a couple of times and frowns.

“Why in the world would I play you?”

“My ex-wife did for a long time.” I blurt it so loudly that people walking along the sidewalk turn to stare at us.

“Look, obviously you have some unresolved issues with your wife,” she says. “Who knows what happened between you, since there are always two sides to a story.”

“We met through mutual friends. She was social, and smart. I was impressed by her beauty. You can’t blame me, I was twenty-five. Life went by, she became convenient,” I say and flinch. “It makes me sound cold, but it was nice not to have to think about dating. Work was absorbing me and, before you know it, she gave me an ultimatum. So, I agreed to marry her.”

“Romantic,” she says and can’t control the snort.

“It wasn’t until later that I realized she was using me. Maybe I was using her too. Things ended so badly I moved to Denver to restart my life—privately. Like you, I don’t put myself out there.”

She narrows her gaze and asks, “Did you ever hit her?”

I shake my head. “Never, not even when she did this.” I show her the scar Vivian left when she scratched my neck.

“Why would she do that?”

Leave it to this woman to want to know all the facts.

“When the divorce was finalized, she didn’t get a penny out of me, and she was ordered to repay the money she took from me,” I say vaguely. I hoped she wouldn’t ask me about how I lost my first company.

“She was stealing from you?”

“Yes,” I answer.

She shakes her head. “I don’t understand why you’re relating her to what happened in the restaurant.”

With a loud exhale, she pulls out the keys of her purse and says, “Maybe we should continue this conversation upstairs.”

I follow her, and right as she shuts the apartment door behind me, she asks: “Do we look alike, me and her?”

Well, damn it, she cuts right to the chase. I inspect the living room as I try to figure out how to answer. They don’t look alike. Not at all. Vivian was tall, thin, her body was angular, and her face was made up all the time. There was nothing vulnerable about her. She didn’t have the honest eyes or the bright smile that Emmeline gives me every time I’m around her.

This little apartment is just like Em. Cozy and warm. The antique couches go perfectly with the coffee table she renovated last year. There’s a lot of history in here that she’s accumulated. She doesn’t hide anything but herself between these walls. I just can’t understand why she pretends to be another person while doing her work.

“Not at all. Look, something triggered the memory of my life with her,” I say. “It was painful. I didn’t have a moment to myself. She exposed our lives from the beginning to the bitter end. We never had a moment of privacy.”

She holds her head and shakes it.

“Sounds like a bad relationship and a hell of a divorce,” she says. “You should work through that before you jump into a relationship.”

I have worked on it, and then, here you are playing me. Are you playing me?

I study her slumped shoulders and absent look. If she had figured out who I was, this wouldn’t be the conversation. She’d be dancing like a football player after scoring a touchdown. Fucking, Vivian, she did a number on me. I have to give Emmeline the benefit of the doubt.

“Look, I’d never do anything to hurt you or your company,” I say and mean it. “There’s something special about you.”

“Let me ask you something.” She sits on the couch, pulls her legs into her torso and hugs them.

I realize she’s not wearing shoes anymore and I can admire her beautiful feet. Today, her toenails are dark green, and she’s got a ring on her pinkie toe.

“If you’re still dealing with your divorce, why even date?” she asks. “Being sucks.”

I pace back and forth before stopping by the couch and taking a seat right next to her.

“You’re not the rebound,” I protest.

“When was the last time you dated or hooked up with someone?”

“I haven’t dated since,” I murmured. “Hooked up with someone the weekend between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.”

“You’re not over the hurt. I’m nothing like her, so that’s why you’re drawn to me—but—in the long run, it won’t fulfill what you’re looking for.”

She brushes her hair to the side and crisscrosses her legs.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say, assuming this is the person who I banter with every day. “You can judge what happened earlier, but until you have all the elements, you can’t draw a conclusion.”