APRIL
I wake up in the middle of the night with a start, fragments of a nightmare still flashing behind my eyes. I can't remember what it was about - I never can - but that's probably to my advantage. I have a feeling I wouldn't like the images much if they stuck with me.
The feeling of residual fear isn't preferable, though, either. I lie there for a moment, completely frozen, waiting for my heartbeat to slow. Instinctively, I reach for one of my little sisters to pull her closer, but instead I come into contact with a very bare, very sturdy stomach.
I whip my hand away like he burned me. Though his skin was pleasantly warm, I can't let myself touch him. Glancing over, I'm surprised he's still here after how I acted last night.
I won't look at him. I keep my eyes directed towards the ceiling. But now, I can't ignore the soft rise and fall of his breath as he sleeps peacefully beside me. I've never been in his presence when he's so calm, and it's somewhat of a comfort. If I wanted it to be, that is. If I wanted it to be comforting, it would. But I don't need any comforting from him.
I'm not upset that he stayed. If I remember correctly, I asked him to. It wasn't anything he did wrong, that's not why I reacted in the way I did. He doesn't need to know the reason behind my reaction, it doesn't matter anymore. It happened, it's over, and that's that.
I lace my hands together on my stomach, listen to it growl, then close my eyes to let out a deep exhale. Maybe it wasn't a nightmare that woke me after all. Maybe I'm just hungry. It wouldn't be the first time a rumbling stomach took me out of sleep, but it would be the first time it's uncalled for. I've been eating better here than I have for my whole life; I have no reason to be hungry. I've gone days without food before. This is pathetic; I can go a few hours without eating something.
I have a good life here. I have food when I need it, a beautiful roof over my head, and gorgeous clothes on my back. If all of this holds true, though, then why do I feel so empty? Why do I feel so alone with another person lying right next to me?
A person who I can't even look at. One who I was making out with just hours ago, who had almost pushed too far, past a point I wouldn't be able to explain my way out of.
But I had kissed him. I had started it. I don't know what came over me - it was so unlike me, I barely recognized myself. I burst the bubble between us, I cracked the tension until it spilled all over us. I can still remember the way his mouth felt over mine, how his tongue felt against my lips, how his saliva had soaked through my camisole onto my breast when he was kissing me there. I've never felt that before.
I can't let myself admit that it felt amazing and I want it again. I can't think that way. We shouldn't have - I shouldn't have - done what I did. I don't want my walls down, and I don't want him to think he can knock them down. There's plenty about my life that he doesn't know and would never, ever understand.
Things that I haven't unearthed for years, and never will again. If I do, they'll only cause me pain. I could barely come back from it when it happened. Talking about it would do no one any good. It's not like Jackson could be of any support.
He and I are nothing alike, I know that much for certain. I also know he has secrets of his own, just as I do.
I still can't stop thinking about what transpired before we fell asleep, as much as I convince myself that it was inconsequential, that it didn't matter.
He made me come. I can't remember the last time I had an orgasm; it's been years. But he coaxed one out like he knew exactly the right way, without faltering. So confidently, like my body already belonged to him.
I press my thighs together now, remembering what it was like. It was a lot to take in. I don't know when the last time was that my body felt that good. Maybe never.
I'd almost made him come, too, though I'd almost forgotten. It's not difficult with a man. I learned that once.
I think we would've had sex, had I allowed it. Had I not stopped our little escapade and put my head on straight, I'm sure we would have gone all the way. And that's not what I wanted, it's still not what I want.
At least, I don't think I want it.
I close my eyes to try and fall back to sleep, evening out my breath while attempting to clear my mind of the whirlwind inside. Of course, it doesn't work. It never works. I'm not sure what time it is, but it's probably close to 5am. That was the time I'd normally get up, back when my life was the way it used to be, and my internal clock still hasn't switched over.
I roll onto my side from my back, making the temptation to look at Jackson less apparent. I stare out the window, but instead of seeing anything outside, my body through the darkness is all I can see reflected back. I see myself lying there, arms tucked by my face, hair tied up on my head, looking the same as I always have but living a life belonging to someone else.
I feel a shift behind me, which makes my shoulders tense. I try and look behind me with just my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest, but I can't see a thing.
He continues to move and get comfortable though, seemingly not able to find a spot that suits him. I furrow my eyebrows, begging him to just stay still, until he does something that catches me off guard. He scoots closer and throws a heavy arm over my middle, like it's something we do every night.
I widen my eyes and look down at his masculine hand resting atop my ribcage, fingers lax and spread out. I can feel his breath in even puffs on the back of my neck, until he lets out a long sigh that flutters the curls pulling out of my bun and tightens his arm a bit.
"Hmm…" he stirs. "April."
My breath hitches and my eyes flit around, nervous now. "Yeah?" I say, disrupting the cool silence.
He doesn't respond. I frown again, this time deeper, and let my fingers dance on his wrist. I had moved with the intention of picking his arm up and casting it aside, but I can't seem to do so. Instead, I twist under the weight of it so we're facing each other, nearly nose-to-nose.
"What," I whisper, my voice cutting through the still darkness.
His eyes are closed, lips unmoving, undisturbed. He's still asleep. He said my name in his sleep.
My cheeks blush red because of it, and because his eyes are closed and he can't see me, I don't try and hide it. Instead, I use this small moment to stay where I am and study his face, study what I can't while he's awake and putting me on the spot for staring.
He has intricate freckles across the bridge of his nose that I briefly noticed before, when we'd kissed in the very beginning, but I hadn't realized how many. There are small groups of them, smattering his skin in defined patterns. I resist the urge to touch them, to count them one by one. It's such a sentimental thing to do - such a wifely thing - and no matter what role I'm playing, I can't seem to convince myself that that's what I am. It can't be true, that I'm really his wife. I never thought I'd be anything to anyone. So, I don't touch him.
His eyebrows are perfect, though. Not bushy or unkempt, but definitely masculine. They're thick and commanding, but all the hairs lie in one direction without any rogues sticking up. Their color is a beautiful black, one that I feel I could sink into if I let myself. But I won't, of course.
His eyelashes are probably longer than mine, without mascara, and his lips are the perfect shade of pink. They're slack now, pushed out with the relaxation of sleep, and before I can stop myself, I find one of my hands raised with my pointer finger out, tracing the pout of the lower one. It's softer than I imagined, though I should've known. It was plastered against my mouth not that long ago.
I take my hand away as I remember how he had me. Pinned under him, at his mercy, and I had enjoyed it. I liked the way his body overcame mine and took control, I liked how he knew what he was doing. I liked being led for once, instead being the one leading. It was refreshing, invigorating, and incredibly arousing.
I make myself stop thinking about it, though. I can't, not while I'm in bed right next to him.
Then, his eyelashes flutter and he presses his lips together. A soft sound emanates from his throat as he rises to the surface, and I close my eyes to feign sleep and pretend I wasn't just staring at his face for moments on end.
"Mmm…" he hums, inhaling deeply as he wakes up. I don't know why he's conscious right now. He likes to sleep in.
Instead of moving away, he tightens the arm that had gotten comfortable around my waist. He presses his palm against the small of my back and pulls me closer, maneuvering my body easily under the covers. I let him.
"I know you're awake," he says, surprising me.
I open my eyes instantly, directly into his. That sends a bit of a shock through my system, but I do everything to hide it. Still, the color is enough to knock the wind out of me. The expression is worse - soft, warm, and without pretense so early in the morning.
"How?" I manage to ask.
"Why do you think I woke up?" he says. "Felt eyes on me. You were staring."
"I was not," I claim.
"Don't bother with lying," he says. "Believe me, I know I'm easy on the eyes."
I scoff and flash the biggest eye-roll that I can. "You know, you're very good at ruining things," I say.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You and your… your pompous behavior," I say. "It's off-putting."
"Funny, no one's ever told me that before," he tells me.
"I'm sure they're thinking it. Because it puts me off."
"And you're the center of the universe?" he counters.
"Quite the opposite," I volley back. "That would be you, right?"
He chuckles. "Finally, you're starting to understand."
"Ugh," I groan, then turn away from him.
For a second, I thought I might actually have some fluttering feelings for him, and they were scaring the life out of me. Now, I'm happy to report that I don't. He still annoys and disgusts me as much as he did before our accidental makeout session.
"Don't 'ugh' me," he says, then flips me over with a hand on my hip. "Jesus. Bony enough?"
"Stop it," I snap, and smack his hand away from me.
"Jesus Christ," he says, pulling back. "If you don't want me to touch you, just tell me. You're sending me a lot of mixed fuckin' signals. First, you kiss me and you let me finger you-"
"You did not…" I trail off, letting the word die before it passes my lips. I can't bear to say it. I clear my throat. "You did not do that to me."
"Oh, then was it a ghost who had his hand shoved between your legs and made you come through your shorts?"
My face blushes hotter than I've ever experienced. I gasp audibly, my cool palms reaching to press against my burning cheeks.
"Yeah. That's what I thought," he mumbles.
"You didn't…" I purse my lips. "Finger me. Nothing went inside."
"Technicalities. I still made you come."
"You rubbed me," I practically whisper, unable to raise my voice any higher. "There was no skin on skin."
He turns onto his side, voice close to my ear. "Wanna change that?" he asks.
I shove him away with my shoulder, and he laughs. I know he's not serious. He's not that much of a prick, though he is that arrogant to assume as much.
"As I was saying," he says. "I never know where I stand with you. First, I'm getting you off and you're loving it. Then, you freak out and act like you never wanted any of it. But then, you snuggle up to me to fall asleep."
"I did not," I say.
He laughs. "You sure did."
"No, I didn't. You did as much to me, just now."
"I'm not even touching you."
"You were," I say. "You were spooning me, when you were asleep."
"So, you admit it," he says. "You were awake and staring at me. And apparently, letting me cuddle you. Not so bothered now, huh?"
"I don't have to listen to this," I say, moving to sit up before he takes my wrist.
"Hey," he says. "Come on. Don't leave. It's barely 5:30, where do you plan on going?"
I rip my wrist away and cradle it close to my chest, shooting a death glare over my shoulder. There's a glint in his eyes that I can see only because of the low light, and it beckons me back to bed against my better judgment.
He keeps his eyes centered on me as I lie back down, and I narrow mine. "What?" I snap.
"You're so skinny," he says. "I could snap your wrist if I wanted to."
"Thank you, that's a very comforting sentiment."
He lets out a sound that's a mixture between a scoff and a laugh. "Sorry," he says. "Apparently, I always say the wrong thing when it comes to you."
"You do," I say.
"I admit it," he replies, and that strikes a chord within me. It's the first admittance to come from him - or, at least, the only one that's held any weight.
"Good."
"So… tell me," he says. "How does someone get so skinny?"
"By not eating," I say, right away. "And it wasn't by choice, before you go spewing something about me having an eating disorder.
"I wasn't going to 'spew' anything," he says. "Believe it or not, I'm capable of listening."
"I'll believe that when I see it," I grumble.
He stares at me, unblinking, seemingly expectant.
"What?" I say.
He chuckles. "So quick to bite my head off. I'm listening. I'm waiting for the rest."
"Sorry," I say. "I'm not used to you letting me speak."
Something flashes across his eyes and changes his expression, but it slips away before I can get a good reading on what it was. He keeps his eyes centered on me, and it comes across that my only option is to keep talking.
"We just didn't have food some nights," I say. "Well, I mean, we did. But what little I could get my hands on always went to my little sisters. And if that meant I went without, it was fine. I always made it through. As you can see, I'm alive."
Two tiny lines appear between his eyebrows. It's clear he's troubled. I haven't seen this look on him yet. He doesn't verbally respond, though, which prompts me to continue.
"It was hard, yeah. But what's my suffering compared to theirs? They're babies. Babies shouldn't go hungry. Babies shouldn't go to school with rips in their clothes or dirt on their faces. Babies shouldn't feel that pain. Any pain."
I realize my eyes have started to grow hot, and tears threaten to fall over at any given second. I blink hard to quell the feeling, and sniffle loudly. I don't want to cry, especially not in front of Jackson. Who knows what he'd say.
"Hey," he says. "Breathe. They're fine now. Right? You saw them. They're living large in Lincoln Park."
I don't respond. I'm still trying to pull myself together - hurting from more than what little he knows.
"Right?" he tries, a second time.
"Right," I say finally, attempting a smile.
"Well." He clears his throat. He's no good at empathy, or even sympathy, but I think he might be trying. "That sounds horrible. I don't think I could do what you've done."
"You're right. You couldn't," I say, hardening again.
He recoils a bit, and I find myself wanting to take the quip back. I have no way of doing so, though, so I let it continue to hang in the air between us.
I wring my hands and try to make amends for what I've said by softening it a bit. "I haven't had an easy life," I say. "But it's fine. I'm used to it. Or… I was."
He blinks softly, eyelashes slowly fanning down until his eyes open again. It's nearly putting me in a trance, how he moves his body - even in the smallest of ways.
"Last night," he says. "When I touched you. I touched you wrong. Didn't I?" His face changes, grows different, somehow younger and more vulnerable. "What did I do wrong?" he asks. I've never heard him sound so open and unguarded.
I can't match it, though. Not with this subject.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, words falling from my mouth quicker than I know what I'm saying.
"April…" he says, letting my name trail off at the end. "When you panicked and shoved me away. I had obviously done something wrong. Can you just tell me, so I don't do it again?"
I feel my gaze smooth over, now emotionless. If I bury the feelings deep enough, maybe they won't come back up. Last night was a fluke. I haven't acted on such a primal instinct in years - but I knew I couldn't let him go any further with me. There are some things he just doesn't need to know.
"I just wasn't ready for it all," I say, trying to keep my voice even. "If I hadn't stopped us, we would've had sex. Would we not?"
He's trying to read me. I can tell by the way his irises flick back and forth between my eyes, trying to find something that he can latch onto and analyze. He won't find a thing, though. I'm good at hiding what I need to; it's an imperative skill, when your life is as layered as mine has been.
"Probably," he says.
"I didn't want that," I say.
He's quiet for a moment, but just a moment. And even during that small amount of time, I can practically hear him thinking.
"Ever?" he says.
"Why do you care?" I ask, flipping my head to look at him.
My tone has bite to it. He's too close for comfort. Not physically, either. I don't like someone in the vicinity of my secrets, of my past that leaves much to be desired. This isn't something people can guess about me, and it's definitely not something I make people aware of. It's a deeply buried part of me that will never rise up. He won't be the one to do it, either. I'll do all I can to push him away from this tomb and towards the mirror lake I've spent so long creating of myself.
"We're married," he says, letting his head fall forward a bit. "I know it's not conventional, by any means, but…"
"Are you saying that you expect me to have sex with you?" I ask, voice rising in pitch.
It's not that I've never let the idea cross my mind - it is what married couples do, after all. But speaking it out loud is a different story.
The way I state the question makes him balk, which I'm not used to seeing. He's faltered more during this conversation than I've seen him do up until this point. It's a little unsettling.
"I guess not, if it's not something you're interested in," he says, refusing to meet my eyes.
There's something he isn't saying, it's clear that there's more to this than he's willing to let on. For a moment, I debate whether or not I should press him on the issue, but decide against it. My pushing would only give him grounds to push back, and I'm not willing to be prodded into spilling anything of mine.
If I'm allowed to keep my past covered, he can keep whatever he's hiding, too. Nothing is as important as protecting what I've spent five years shielding from the world.
…
I didn't know houses were supposed to have conference rooms, but apparently ours does.
It's still strange, calling the mansion 'ours.' I think it always will be strange. When I think of the word 'always,' I can't help but turn over the question as to how long I'll be here. For how long do I get to come to this place and call it home?
It was stupid not to think of the long or short term in relation to mine and Jackson's marriage, but it's not a question I feel I can ask now. It seems too legal, too contracted, too unspoken.
But forever is an awfully long time to spend with a stranger.
The conference room is sparsely decorated, with a few modern pieces on the walls and a long, mahogany table set in the middle. Jackson and I sit on one side, Catherine and Calliope on the other.
I'm wearing a pressed, Gucci suit. It's a muted teal with subtle, embellished buttons, and I've never sat up straighter than I'm sitting now. I'm still at a loss as to why we both had to dress up for a meeting with people who we should be comfortable with, but I've learned to stop asking questions about these types of things. There are certain things that I will never understand, and I have to accept that.
I fold my hands on the table, nails glistening, ring sparkling. Both Catherine and Calliope's eyes catch on the jewel on my finger, ostentatious in its glory. I feel embarrassed to be wearing it.
"So," Catherine begins. "How are things coming along?"
I glance to Jackson, who's wearing a stern expression. Infallible, he looks invincible right now, tough and glossed over, like a photo in a magazine. If I reached out, instead of pressing against a pulse, his paper veneer might crumple under my touch.
He turns to me and matches my gaze. For a second, it's like we share something that the two across from us are completely unaware of, like we're becoming a semblance of the couple we're written to be.
"Things are going just fine," he says, and though his words leave much to the imagination, his eyes are actually warm. I find myself not wanting to look away. In this room with these two intimidating people, he's the one I've found comfort in. Somehow, he's begun to play that role while we're among others.
"Don't be so taciturn," Catherine says. "I'm your mother. Calliope is practically part of the family. You don't have to put up your famous front."
"It's not a front," Jackson says. "Things are fine, as I said."
Catherine's eyes roam to me, and I wish they hadn't. It's not a comforting feeling, knowing she's watching me, waiting for me to come up with a response. I know nothing I say will be good enough. Nothing I say will live up to her standards. Though she's the one who plucked me from obscurity, I get the feeling she thinks I'm not good enough for her son. And she's right - I'm not, not as far as status is concerned, anyway.
"Good," I say. "They're good."
"I heard you've taken to sleeping in the same bed," she continues, almost as if I hadn't spoken.
I blush. I don't know why, but I do. Jackson clears his throat and says, "Yes. I see you've spoken to your correspondent."
"Antonio, yes," she says. "He has your best interest in mind, Jackson. Don't be so hard on him."
"He has no one's interests in mind but his own," Jackson answers, and something swells in my chest hearing him counter back so quickly. "He pries into our business when it's not his place."
"Your life is more public than you'd like to think," Catherine says, then looks to me again. "And I'm sure you've found that out, haven't you, dear?"
All I can do is nod. I don't want to speak again. I don't feel right speaking here; my voice doesn't belong. Suddenly, I want to be alone with Jackson. We barely get along, but anything would be better than this.
"You'll get another large dose of it soon," she says. "At the governor's ball. I'm sure you'll both have such a lovely time there."
My mouth goes dry. Jackson hadn't told me about a ball, but judging by the look on his face, he either hadn't known or he'd forgotten.
"Right," he says, his voice a bit dampened. "Yes."
Catherine doesn't miss a beat. "So, half of the inheritance has found its way to you, it's official," she says, her voice smooth as honey as she watches her son. "It's yours to do with whatever you choose. But the second half, on the other hand, is still sitting in the vault. Far, far away from you."
Jackson gives a terse nod, and his cheeks bulge with the tension of his jaw. I look to him with confusion, not knowing what she means by a 'second half' of the inheritance. I had no reason to believe that my signature on our marriage document wouldn't guarantee him all he's worth.
"And you know what it'll take for that money to come," she says.
I've never seen Jackson more rigid. His back is painfully straight, neck stiff, hands frozen. There's something about what she's saying that he really doesn't like.
"No matter how silly your purpose for the money - and, yes, I'll say it now and a thousand times over, your intended use for it is silly - you won't see it until-"
"I'm aware," he says, his voice commanding the room.
Catherine raises her eyebrows, obviously taken aback by his brusque manner of speaking. I am, too, but I try not to show it. I want to support him. It's clear that he's not comfortable around his mother, and I feel defensive. I'm not sure why. He's my husband on paper, that's true, but until now I've never felt any sort of allegiance to him.
I can't help but wonder how that could change so quickly.
I don't open my mouth for the rest of the meeting. In fact, I tune it out. Jackson barely speaks, either, and his mother doesn't go near the subject that he so vehemently avoided. I can't stop thinking about what the constituent is. Is that what he's been hiding from me? It can't be. It seems like so much more than that. How bad could it possibly be? Does he need another wife? Because I don't plan on sharing.
After Catherine leaves and the meeting is adjourned, Calliope lingers and pulls Jackson to the side before he has a chance to disappear with me. They go to a far corridor without so much as throwing a glance back to me, so I watch them. I don't attempt to follow - I know that would be a mistake - but they don't notice my eyes.
They talk close. Her eyes are wide and serious, and his neck is bent forward, listening intently. With his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunch by his ears and give him a diminutive look. He's flustered, that much is clear. I want to know why.
When Jackson starts back in my direction, his eyes are cast towards the floor and he has a worry line on his forehead. Once he reaches me, I resist the urge to reach up and smooth it away. It would counteract everything I said and showcased before, about not wanting intimacy with him, and it goes against all the thoughts I had this morning about not letting him in. One soft touch, and I'm done for. He'll have broken me down.
Maybe that's a silly, irrational thought. Maybe I'm a silly, irrational person, but I've stuck by my ways for so long. I don't know what would happen if I stopped now. He's too dangerous for me to test it - if I let him in, what would happen after? The dam would break, the floodwater would surely drown me. It's a risk I can't - and don't want to - take.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
I want to take his hands. I stare at them, now out of his pockets, hanging loose between us. I want to hold them and look into his eyes, soothe that concern on his face, and let him know without saying a word that everything is okay. I don't like seeing him upset. It makes everything else feel off-kilter.
I give in and take his hands. I stop resisting, just for a moment, and reach between us to envelop his fingers in mine. His are much bigger, much sturdier, but my wisp of a grip sends a wave of emotion across his face that I hadn't expected.
Our hands linked together makes my heart thump violently against my chest plate. I don't know why this contact is so much more intimate than where we'd been last night, but it is. Right now, there's nothing between us. We're on the same plane. He needs me, for the first time, he needs me and I'm allowing myself to be there for him.
"Our room," he says, stroking my skin with his thumbs. "Please."
My lips part with a silent gasp as he leads the way, unlacing our hands to slink an arm across my lower back as we ascend the stairs, away from any listening ears.
Once we're inside behind a closed door, he sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. I'm not sure what my next move is, standing there watching him, so I do what comes naturally. I walk over, sit next to him, and wrap arm around his mid-back to try and give him something that resembles comfort.
Admittedly, I'm not sure how to comfort a grown man. I've never been presented with the chance, but I do my best. He's not in a puddle of tears like my sisters would be, but this is almost worse. He's tense, upset, and silent. I don't have a remedy for this.
"Jackson," I say, keeping my voice quiet. "What were you and Calliope talking about?" I blink a few times, turning my head to try and see his face. He keeps it covered, though. "Was it about what your mother said, what you wouldn't let her say? About the other half of the inheritance? What did she mean by that?"
His shoulders rise as he inhales deeply. "Enough with the questions!" he says, storming to his feet.
I jump, flinching away from his sudden outburst. My temper reacts accordingly, though - I won't be taken advantage of when I'm only curious, trying to make him feel better. I won't be stomped on.
"Don't yell at me," I say, chin quivering. "Do not raise your voice at me."
He scrubs a hand over his face, letting out a forceful sound of anger. "Jesus Christ," he mutters, pacing back and forth.
"Just answer me," I say, still sitting on the end of the bed where he'd just been. "I don't understand what's so difficult about that."
He sighs deeply. "You aren't on a need-to-know basis with everything, April," he growls.
"I'm your wife," I say, bunching my fists at my sides.
"That's the thing!" he says, blowing up again as he throws his arms into the air. "You love to toss that moniker around when it's useful, don't you? When it gets you a little more weight in the game. But when you don't want it, you cast it to the side. It's that easy. Guess what, April? You don't get to pick and choose."
"I know," I say. "I'm aware of that. It just seems that you need reminding. You do the same thing. You act possessive of me one minute, get intimate with me another, then act like I don't exist."
"Don't," he says. "That argument is old. You don't have a leg to stand on, and you want to throw that at me, fine. I've included you in everything lately. In the meeting today, I protected you from my mother. She would've torn you to shreds if she had the chance. But I didn't give her that chance - and I will never."
I back down a bit, surprised at the statement. I hadn't been aware of what he was doing.
"I still deserve to know what you're keeping from me," I say, watching him while he walks from one side of the room to the other. "I know it's something. More than one thing, I'm sure. Just tell me this - what is going on with the other half of the inheritance?"
"It doesn't concern you," he says, and his voice is thin.
"That's not true," I say, finally standing. "I'm half of this marriage. I'm entitled to that money, too. You have no argument against that." I sputter for a moment, then say something I hadn't even been aware I was thinking. "I have ideas for that money, too!"
He narrows his eyes and studies me, disbelieving. "Don't say things you don't mean," he says.
"Don't underestimate me," I say. "I do have ideas for it."
"Like what?"
"A charity," I say. "I want to found a charity."
"For what?"
"Why does it matter, if we don't have the money ?Why won't you just tell me the reason why? What do we need to do? What's the big secret?"
He spins on his heel to face me. "What's your big secret?" he exclaims.
I take a step back. "I don't have one," I say. "I'm an open book."
"That's hilarious," he says, shaking his head. "Why did you panic last night? Tell me why."
"I didn't panic," I say, unwavering.
"Would you just stop it, April?" he says. "I made you come, goddammit! And you let me - you wanted it. You were humping my hand, you wanted it, it was nothing you didn't want! And then what happened? It was over, and you acted like I did something wrong. I did nothing wrong!"
"No one said you did," I say.
"Were you raped?" he asks. "Is that it, were you violated? Assaulted?"
"No!" I say, shaking my head forcefully. "Why would you think something like that?"
"Why else would you push me away like you did?" he says. "Like you were about to have an anxiety attack. I clearly crossed a boundary I shouldn't have."
"I already told you," I say. "It felt like we were going to have sex, and I didn't want to."
"Why not?"
"I'm not ready!" I insist. "And I shouldn't have to explain myself. You don't have control over this. I say when I want to stop. That's up to me."
"I don't believe you," he says. "It's something more. I know it is."
I clench my teeth, begging myself not to cry. The tears well in my eyes anyway, though, and cloud my vision. I can't be around him anymore.
"I'm going to bed," I say, and storm past him.
"Your bedroom is right here!" he calls after me.
I don't say word. I don't look back. I'm going to the east wing.
…
I lie in the guest room, in the same bed I slept in during my first night here. It's just as lonely as it was then, if not more so.
I didn't bring pajamas, and I have no desire to go back into our room and grab some. So, I stripped my suit and laid it flat, lying atop the covers in my underwear and a t-shirt I found in the drawers that I'd left. I'm cold, but I make no moves to get under the duvet. I need to get up. I'm too hungry to sleep.
I almost don't want to give in to the urge, but I force myself. It would be stupid and wasteful not to, with so many resources laid out in front of me. So, I get up and leave the room, met with a very silent house, and head downstairs to the kitchen.
No one is around. I've never been in the kitchen; it's not warm and homey like the one I'm used to. Instead, it's cool, industrial and full of stainless steel. But I'm hungry and I see a refrigerator, so the aesthetics of it all don't really matter.
I open the door and glance inside to find it fully stocked. The image takes me aback, makes me catch my breath - I'm overwhelmed with options. I'm not used to seeing this - I'm used to odds and ends, the essentials during a good week. This is too much. One household doesn't need all this.
I reach inside and pick out a cup of yogurt, leaving the fridge door open when I go to the silverware drawer for a spoon. As my back is turned and the cutlery clinks against each other, I don't hear the footsteps approach. Instead, all I hear is, "Can't sleep?"
I flip around and gasp, only to see Jackson standing there in his pajamas. He looks so much softer now, it's hard to believe that the same person from before is standing in front of me now.
"You scared me," I say, clutching my chest. My cup of yogurt - thankfully still unopened - fell, so I bend to get it.
"Sorry," he says, and takes my place in front of the fridge.
I watch him from behind, peeling open the cup. "And no," I say. "I couldn't sleep. I was hungry."
"You missed dinner," he says.
"I'm used to it."
He looks over his shoulder. "I don't want you to be used to it," he says, and there's no lighthearted gleam in his eye. "You eat regularly now."
I don't say anything. I do need to eat more. It's all here for me. I'm just not used to the regularity of it all yet.
He leaves the fridge open for a source of light when he turns around holding a bottle of water. He takes a long drink, then sets it down, eyes on me.
"I want to apologize for exploding," he says, without breaking eye contact. "I know it's not productive means of communication, and I'll do my best to keep it from happening again."
My eyebrows raise on their own; I'm thoroughly surprised. That was the last thing I expected him to say. I thought he'd come at me with more poking and prodding, try once again to dig the skeletons out of my closet.
"Oh," I say, stirring my yogurt absentmindedly. "Thank… thank you."
He nods, taking a deep breath while looking down at the tile floor and rubbing the back of his neck.
"I'm sorry, too," I say. "I can be pushy. I know that."
He makes a small sound that gets a smile out of me. We lock eyes, and something flows inside that contact. I set my yogurt and spoon down on the counter and close the space between us, standing directly in front of him and waiting for something to happen that I know eventually will.
He makes the first move this time. He wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me in, resting his cheek on top of my head while I hug his waist - tight, too. I close my eyes and lean into him, hoping the myriad of emotions flowing through me are expressed through my body so I don't have to try and say them aloud.
"We're expected at a ball this weekend," he says, hands roving until they find a gentle grip on the slopes of my neck. "There will be dancing."
I look at him soberly, eyes wide and expecting. "I don't know how," I admit.
"I do," he says, then takes my hand with one of his while sliding the other to my waist. "Put your hand on my shoulder," he directs, so I do. "It's simple, really," he says, speaking low and soft. "I move forward, you move back." He smiles a bit, just a little, enough for the corner of his lip to twitch. "And you have to let me lead."
"Okay," I whisper, following the steps.
"It's an easy count, we'll go slow," he says. "One, two, three. One, two, three."
I follow his movements and try to keep up. I've never danced. My body has never moved like this before.
"Quick, quick, slow. Quick, quick, slow."
I look down at our feet to try and make my steps better, but he lets go of my hand to tip my chin up with one finger.
"Don't look down," he says. "Look up. Look at me."
He takes his hand away from my face and clasps mine again, keeping our charged eye contact. He smiles encouragingly, nodding me along, and I can't help but mirror the expression.
And in that moment, in the barely-lit kitchen, slow dancing with him, I know it for sure. I'm going to let him drown me.