The door slams. Keys chink as they’re dropped to the table in the hallway. Sharp fingers catch my elbow.
My body stiffens under his grasp, my heart beating a tattoo.
‘Get off!’ I yell, my tears turning to anger.
‘What are you doing here?’ Mac’s words are harsh, too, his tone fierce. ‘And stop fighting, you wee fool. It’s me.’
‘I know who it is!’ I yell back. I’m not a yeller. Or a fighter. I’m more likely to cry quietly. Leave. Run away. Oh, God, that is what I do.
‘Oof! Watch where you’re puttin’ those elbows. Y’ nearly had my balls.’
‘Good! I wished I had hit them.’ My words are more than just hard edged—I totally mean them as I struggle to free my arm from his grasp.
‘Let go. Fucking. Let. Go!’
‘Such bad words,’ he chastises. ‘Someone should wash your mouth out.’
The way he says this sounds so gritty and dirty. Like he’d wash my mouth out with something other than water, given half a chance.
‘I’d like to see you fucking try.’ My heart thunders like hooves as I lash out with my foot, catching him in the shin. Unfortunately, I’m wearing running shoes rather than steel-toe boots.
‘Let go!’ Mac spins me, my back plastered to his front.
‘I will not. Not until you tell me what you’re doing here.’
Not a chance. ‘You smell like cheap perfume,’ I grate out, trying to pull my arms free from where they’re captured by my sides.
‘Do I?’
‘There’s no need to sound so delighted about it.’
‘You would think so, wouldn’t you?’ Part words, part breathless chuckle, his reaction increases my ire, but I’m helpless as he presses his mouth to my ear, whispering, ‘But you’d be wrong.’
Shock is the first emotion to register, followed quickly by sickness. He just admitted it—admitted he’s been with someone while I’ve been sitting here waiting. The knowledge is like a rock shot at my chest.
‘You bastard! You absolute bastard.’ My words are expelled through angry sobs as I yank one hand free and begin hammering his shoulder with my fist.
‘It’s not very nice, is it?’ He then grunts as I catch him in the chest with a good one.
‘I hope it wasn’t. I hope she gave you fucking herpes!’
I feel wild—like an animal—an animal fighting a snare or her captor. As I lash out, pummelling and scratching, he slides his hands around my waist, carrying me back into the living room and setting me back on my feet.
‘It’s not very nice to worry and wonder, is it? Not very nice to imagine. To ask yourself questions of how and why, to ask yourself what makes a person cheat or lie.’
‘I didn’t cheat.’ A glass of wine with his friend isn’t cheating. ‘And I came here to apologise, to explain why I didn’t tell you about tonight.’
‘Did you now?’ Why isn’t he more annoyed, and what’s with his smug attitude?
‘But now I’m not going to. B-because you don’t deserve it.’
‘Aye, you’re probably right. Even if I’m not guilty of fucking someone tonight.’
Relief is swift, but it isn’t just the sincerity in his voice that’s enough to make me believe nor is it foolish blindness. It’s because this is who he is. The kind of man he is. A good man. And I know this intrinsically.
I try not to cry with relief—try not to tremble as his hand trails down my neck, his large palm balanced against my collarbone.
‘Tell me.’ His words are like fingertips against my skin. ‘Tell me what you came to say.’
‘I—came to tell you about tonight. I—’ What can I say? How can I explain why I did this?
‘Help me understand. This dancing, is something you do for . . . money? Accolade?’
‘No,’ I say quickly, though my gaze can’t seem to hold his. ‘This is something I’ve done only once. A sort of dare—something I’ve made myself face. I didn’t mention it because I can barely believe it of myself.’ My words aren’t defiant, yet not contrite.
‘So not a permanent thing?’
‘No.’
‘Not something to get your rocks off?’
‘You couldn’t be further from the truth. I-I came back from Paris because nothing had changed. I went there to get away from me—the girl who was nothing but her boyfriend’s beard. A girl who was studying a degree for someone else—I didn’t want to study finance! I did it for my dad. I was a girl who’d never had sex. A girl who couldn’t even attract the opposite sex! So I went to Paris. And guess what? That girl? She followed me. So I started a burlesque class.’ God, that sounds so pathetic.
‘I won’t pretend to understand. I’m not perfect. And I sometimes get things wrong, but I’m not ready to forgive you for tonight. Even,’ he adds, ‘if you’re not asking for forgiveness right now.’
I swallow past the ball of emotion stuck in my throat, willing myself to hold my tongue, because what could I say? He’s right. I should’ve trusted him. Should’ve told him about my fears. And I haven’t apologised. Just spewed a load of nonsense. But whatever I think and whatever I don’t say doesn’t alter the fact that as his big fingers grasp the tiny zipper, pulling it down an inch, I don’t pull away.