“The lobster risotto is next. I think that will be your favorite.”
Letting my fingers slip down the stem of the glass I ask him, “Will there be another glass as well?” and he nods.Shit. These places always give you so much wine and so little food.
“I have to work tonight,” I tell him, voicing the concern that’s keeping me on edge.
The light in Madox’s eyes, that fire dims slightly, but it’s back just as quickly as it left. “I could have it all wrapped up to go if you’d prefer.”
“No, no, I just can’t drink …much.” Lifting the glass to my lips and deciding this will be my only glass until the presentation is done tonight, I tell Madox offhandedly, “I’m a little too carefree when I drink.”
“What’s wrong with being carefree?” he questions, although it’s meant to be playful.
“Well, last night for one,” I answer him honestly. It’s not healthy to do what we do. “I probably shouldn’t have slept with you.” An anxiousness comes over me, this feeling of dread.
“Why is that?” he asks, sitting up straighter and placing his hands on the table. His fingers are interlaced as his thumbs roll over one another. I imagine this is how he looks at business meetings. Intimidating.
“Well that makes me kind of easy, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘easy.’ You’ve never been easy to hold on to.”
I start to say it would have been better between the two of us back then if he’d been open with me like this, but it feels like the start of a fight and that’s the last thing I want.
Habits are hard to break and when I left three years ago, I spent a lot of time with self-help books. Lord knows I needed it. I’m trying to break the habit of picking fights with him. Toward the end, I think I’d pick a fight just to see if he would ever tell me to stay.
He never did.
I already wish I hadn’t brought up this topic. It’s begging to be spoken from the tip of my tongue though. I want to know what he wants. For years I’ve wanted to know what I mean to him.
It feels so obvious to me right now, but is it so wrong that I want to hear it? And even worse, that I’m afraid of what he’ll say.
“Thank you for inviting me out. I needed it after today,” I say to change the subject, feeling a cowardly chill run down my spine at the mere idea that Madox will tell me I’m an old friend, or friend with benefits, or something like that if I were to ask him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just a lot of stress at work.”
“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me.” Madox’s gaze leaves me and it feels like a punishment. I can feel his disappointment. That’s how much power and control this man has over me. I hate disappointing him.
“I don’t know that I want to talk about it,” I answer hesitantly. “I don’t want to upset you.”
Madox considers me for a moment, his forehead marred by a deep crease and his dark green eyes swimming with questions.
“I respect that,” he tells me with sincerity. His voice is low though, as if he hates to allow me that freedom of not confiding in him.
He changes the subject, but to something I didn’t expect.
“I saw my mother today.”
“Oh?” I ask him, glancing just for a moment to the waiter who’s suddenly at my side, offering him a small smile he doesn’t see as he clears the table of the porcelain plates.
Madox finishes his thought only once we’re alone again. “So I had a rough day as well.”
“How is she?” I ask. “Is it still the way it was?”
“The two of us not speaking and pretending there’s anything at all we could talk about? Yes. It’s exactly like that.” He may not realize it, but every time he speaks about his mother, there’s anger in his tone. Coupled with an impatience I don’t see from him often.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, and my words are calm and gentle, as is my hand reaching out to him. He accepts my offer, lacing his fingers between mine.
It feels so good to touch him. I have to close my eyes for a moment to remind myself that this is real. He’s really here and he’s even talking to me about his mother.