Virtuous(52)

He smiles at that, but it’s not his usual smile. It’s not the one with the deep grooves that line his cheeks when he’s truly amused. “If you’re saying good-bye to me, don’t. We got carried away, Natalie. Won’t happen again until you want it to.”

“That’s just it! I may never want it to, and that is so unfair to you.”

“Can I say something here without sounding like a total cad?”

“Can I stop you?”

He takes my hand and holds it tightly, as if he’s afraid I’ll get away before he can express everything he needs to say to me. “I’ve been with a lot of women. Probably too many. I’ve kissed them and f*cked them and done things with them you’d no doubt find distasteful at best, objectionable at worst. But I have never, ever had a woman react to me the way you do. And I have never reacted to any woman—ever—the way I do to you. So if you tell me all I can do for the next year is kiss you, I’ll take it. I’ll take that over you walking out that door right now after telling me we’re done.”

I immediately want details of what he’s done with other women that I would find so distasteful or objectionable, but I have no right to ask those questions. Nor do I have the right to ask him to live like a monk so that I can continue along this path I chose for myself.

“I’d marry you tomorrow, Natalie, if you’d have me.”

His words shock me and bring more tears to my eyes. “Stop it. You have no desire to be married. You’ve made that very clear.”

“I thought you weren’t believing everything you read anymore.”

“You told me yourself that one is true.”

“It was before you. Before you bowled me over and took all the oxygen with you.”

The sad thing is, I want to believe him. I want to buy everything he’s selling. I want to wrap my arms around him and never let him go. But I’ve learned to be wary and distrustful, except I haven’t been with him. I’ve jumped in with both feet and practiced none of the usual caution I usually bring to every new relationship and situation. In my new life, people have to earn my trust. I never give it away like I have with him.

“Do something for me.” He gazes earnestly into my eyes. “Give me this weekend. If, after that, you want out, I’ll let you go. I’ll never forget you, but I’ll respect your wishes.” After a pause, he adds, “Things got out of control tonight. It won’t happen again, unless or until you initiate.”

I’m torn in a thousand different directions at once. I want him. God, I want him so badly I burn from the inside for him and all that he’s prepared to offer me. In six days, he’s made me forget eight painful years spent largely alone while I reinvented myself into the person I am today. I’m risking all that hard-won freedom and emotional well-being with every minute I spend with him, and I’m doing it willingly with my eyes wide open to the potential fallout.

And I don’t care. I want him as badly as he seems to want me. I take a deep breath and release it slowly, the way my counselor taught me to do when things get overwhelming. I force myself to meet his gaze, to look directly into intense brown eyes when I say, “Okay.”

“Yes?”

Nodding, I cling to his hand like it’s the one thing keeping me from hurtling into space, never to be seen or heard from again.

He moves cautiously to put his arms around me. I rest my face against his bare chest, breathing in the scent of soap and deodorant as his chest hair brushes against my cheek. “Whatever it is, whatever you need, I’m here, Natalie. You’re not alone anymore.”

I want more than anything to believe him, to hold on to his words and his assurances with everything I’ve got. But I know better than to be that foolish. So I give him the only thing I’ve got to offer—one weekend. After that, I will leave him, and I’ll never look back.

I’m very good at that.





After I convince Natalie to stay and give me a chance, we enjoy a subdued dinner before leaving for the show. She loves “Wicked” and brightens visibly as the show unfolds before us. We’re in the tenth row in the orchestra section, and since I’ve seen the show twice before, I watch her as she takes in every detail with her usual enthusiasm and exuberance.

I’m gutted by the memory of her pain, her fear and the tears. Part of me wants to hire someone to find out what happened to her so I’ll know what I’m dealing with. But the more reasonable part of me rejects that idea as the stupidest thing I could ever do to her. If and when I find out what or who hurt her, it’ll be when she decides to tell me and not before.