“Yes.”
She shook her head from side to side. “What a waste. You would have been an excellent ruler.”
His smile was without pleasure. “Thank you.”
“How could you keep this secret?”
“Do you remember when you told me about Brent? We were having dinner here? It was our first date…”
“Yes.”
“I stayed away after that. I tried to stay away. I knew it would be better for you.”
“You came back.”
“And you told me we would keep this light. That you only wanted a fling. I thought, then, that I could be happy with that. I thought you would never need to know. That we could be together, have fun, and go our own separate ways – no hard feelings.”
“No hard feelings,” she repeated, replaying that night in her mind. She had wanted him so badly that even if he had told her about his addiction, she’d have probably brushed it aside.
“But I was in love with you.”
“Don’t keep saying that,” she snapped, struggling to keep a lid on her temper. “You don’t lie like you did and call it love. It’s classic addict behaviour.”
“Don’t.” It was the first time he’d ever come close to raising his voice around her. She startled and he shook his head angrily. “I’m sorry. But I am not an addict. I have worked damned hard to beat it, and I don’t want you to throw it in my face to make a point.”
“You’re right.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Now you can go.”
He cleared his throat. Another time, under different circumstances, he might have found the idea of being dismissed vaguely amusing. Him! Ra’if Alin Fayez. “I’m sorry you found out like you did. I was planning to tell you after Christmas.”
And, looking into his face, she believed him. But she had nothing left to say; no fight left to offer. She was weary. Tired. Exhausted.
The sound of something heavy landing against the door made them both shift. He moved first, crossing the apartment quickly. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“Just Santa Clause,” she responded crankily.
“He prefers the chimney, I think.”
Ra’if wrenched the door inwards and pulled a face of disgust as a mix of sweat, vomit, urine and stale alcohol assailed his nostrils.
He knew, without looking at Melinda, who it was.
“Brent.” The man shifted heavily glazed eyes with tiny pupils towards Ra’if’s face.
“Oh my God. He looks awful.”
“S’not,” the man shook his head, but the action made him wince. He braced himself on the door frame.
“He’s high as a kite,” Ra’if agreed.
“I can’t believe he’d come here like this.”
“I …” He shut his eyes and reached into his pocket. His fingernails were filthy, his fingers just bone covered in grazed skin. “This.”
Melinda ground her teeth together. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, showing up like this? You’re suppose to be in rehab,” she hissed angrily.
“It didn’t work,” Brent muttered, his skin paling by the minute. He pulled a small, dog-eared envelope from his pocket and thrust it towards Melinda.
“I don’t want it,” she snapped, her brow furrowed. “Bloody hell. I can’t believe you’d turn up on my doorstep on Christmas eve, and like this!”