What she’s saying may be true, but there’s something else in the way she says it, something that makes me wonder if that’s theonlyreason.
“You’re a quiet rebel though, aren’t you. That’s why you steal from the rich and give to the poor. And all that interest in Gwen Allison…”
I feel her stiffen in my arms—a little rod of anger. Outwardly, she is pure talent and grit, a respected artist who keeps the world at arm’s length so no one can know her. We are all like that a little bit, putting on the mask that people like the most, hoping no one will ask us to take it off.
“You know what you are?” she asks.
I wait for her to fill me in. I’m dying to know. “What?” I bite the inside of my lower lip. When she doesn’t answer, I scowl at her. “What were you going to say? What am I?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“You brought it up!”
She sighs. “I’m not a rebel. I was simply commenting on something in the news, curious about what’s happening in the Regions.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
She looks at the other couples dancing around us. They’re all watching us, but when Phoenix looks their way, they suddenly become distracted by their partners.
“You think that because you have a degree in psychology that you can—”
“A master’s,” I interrupt.
“—A master’s—that you can possibly know who I am?”
“The master’s is just a technicality; reading people is a gift.”
The song has changed. I pull her closer so she’s pressed against me. She blinks hard a few times but doesn’t complain.
“Okay then, read me,” she challenges. She has to dip her head back to look me in the eyes. I’m tempted to bend down and kiss the dip in her shoulder.
“There. What you just did. I make you uncomfortable, but you refuse to show it. Reacting is a weakness.”
She says nothing, but I see the effect of my words cross over her eyes.
“Is that because of your profession or upbringing?”
There’s a long pause, during which I watch her struggle with her answer. She doesn’t want me to be right, but I am. Finally she says— “Both.”
I can see the regret on her face as soon as the word is out of her mouth. Her lips make a littleOshape as if she’s wanting to suck it back in.
“You don’t like anyone to know who you really are because you don’t want to get hurt.”
“Who’s going to hurt me?” she challenges. “No one has that power.”
“That’s sad.”
She draws back as if I’ve slapped her, and then she laughs, her eyebrows creasing together.
“Sad? That’s ridiculous. Who wants to get hurt?”
“Without the risk of getting hurt, there is no probability of falling in love,” I tell her. “Vulnerability and love go hand in hand.”
“That must be why all the men are gone.” She smirks. “With that sort of logic, it’s no wonder.”
I take her in—smooth, honey skin that smells like apples, the broad bridge of her nose and arched nostrils. I don’t know how to tell her that back then men were not the romantics. The things we had left of the past: the movies, and the books, and the stories, were things hoped for, not seen.
I lean close so that my mouth is next to her ear, my lips brushing her skin.