They stood in the foyer after Miranda closed the door and engaged the alarm. Andy didn't feel locked in, exactly, but the air had thickened and dripped into her lungs like syrup. She inhaled greedily, needing to oxygenate before she could move, let alone speak.
"I always miss them when they're gone, but lately, I realized it has become less painful as I know they're in safe hands. They have a right to their father—which I thought even before James stopped acting like a vindictive fool." Miranda still stood by the door and seemed as hit by inertia as Andy did.
"It must make your life a little easier, at least," Andy said, relieved to have her voice back.
"It does. And it doesn't." Miranda moved past her and walked toward the den. "More wine?"
Andy knew it was not healthy to consider wine, or any alcohol, as a crutch, but damn it, she needed it right now. "Yes, please."
Looking oddly relieved, Miranda fetched new glasses and poured more of the Beaujolais for them. She came back and saw that Ande was still standing. "You look like you are in flight or fight mode, Andrea. Do sit down."
"There's a third," Andy muttered. "You forgot 'freeze.'" She sat down on the couch as she felt it would send the wrong signals if she chose the armchair that would add to the distance between them, over in the corner.
"Freeze. Am I that intimidating?" Miranda sat down and handed Andy her glass. Her tone was light, but the tension around her eyes gave her away. She looked as braced for impact as Andy was, as she twirled her wineglass around her fingers.
"You can be, but…no. Us being here creates a lot of emotions, but I'm nowhere near 'freeze'." Andrea sipped her wine. "I'm still holding out for us being able to discuss the past and, as you said, put the heartache to rest."
Miranda was quiet for a few beats. "The thing about heartache is that it has a life of its own. It's not easily mended, or harnessed. Especially when a person refuses to acknowledge it for the longest time."
Andy placed her glass on a coaster on the coffee table. "Are you saying you've been in denial?" She frowned. Miranda was one of the more prosaic people she had ever met, but she hadn't struck Andy as someone who wasn't in touch with her emotions.
"Oh, that's just the start of it. Remember, I went through a very public divorce where Stephen tried to get half of everything, despite our prenup. That, and trying to keep the girls out of the relentless tabloid press didn't exactly allow me to process what happened in Paris—none of it." Miranda leaned sideways against the backrest of the couch, kicked off her shoes, and pulled her legs up under her. Her eyes, flat and proving that she was in shark mode, studied Andy firmly.
"As much as I tried to bypass the gossip pages and headlines that reminded me of you—of Paris—it was impossible, of course. You're too well known, and your private life is never very private. I admit that I was selfish when it came to that."
"Selfish? You? Not possible." Miranda smirked and Andy was certain she was being ironic.
"I was in too much pain to be able to even read your name, let alone see photos of you." Andy remembered the time when she had started working at The Mirror and worked herself to a pulp, just to wear herself out enough to be able to sleep. "I didn't cope well at all. All I did was work."
"You say you kept away from tabloids and gossip to not see my face. I hadn't expected to see your face show up in papers that quickly, but you were getting more articles published under your own byline as your star rose at The Mirror. I couldn't avoid seeing your face. I could of course have skipped that newspaper and saved me the pain of watching you succeed without me." Miranda smirked again, but this time, Andy knew it was not meant for her.
"What do you mean, without you?" Andy shifted to face Miranda more. Pulling her legs up in the lotus position, she took a decorative pillow and held it against her chest.
"It's ridiculous, really." Miranda wet her lips and plucked at some invisible lint on her pants. "I had always envisioned that I eventually would be part of your rise to fame, if only as a spectator. But at least a spectator that you didn't hate with every fiber in your being."
Andy gaped. "What?" She saw the impassive expression on Miranda's face begin to crack at the edges. "I don't hate you. I never…I could never!" She wondered if she had gone pale, as her face felt oddly cold. This was crazy. It was Miranda who had hated her.
"You had a lot of valid reasons for doing so." Miranda's tone was calm, but her eyes were too shiny. "That last day in Paris…we said some things…"
"Yes," Andrea whispered. "We did."
"And you…disappeared. You left and I never heard from you again. When the editor-in-chief of The Mirror called the office and talked to Emily, that was the first life sign after weeks of silence." Her voice catching, Miranda ran her fingers through her hair. "Then, Roy delivered boxes of haute couture, addressed to Emily. He said you'd called him and asked him to deliver them to her at the office, as a gift. Every single piece you'd been offered, you gave to her. Or, I should say, everything but the pendant I picked out for you." Miranda drew a trembling breath. "If that had been among any of the custom jewelry you added in a box, I don't know what I'd…"
"Again. I could never." Andy pressed her hand against her chest. Under her shirt, the pendant sat securely on a silver chain, warmed by her skin. "That was a gift…from you."
Miranda's eyes grew wide. "You still have it."
"Yes." Slowly, Andy opened the top two buttons of her shirt and let Miranda see the dragonfly made from the most intricate silver filigree. "I don't lie, Miranda."
"God." Miranda covered her mouth with an unsteady hand. "You don't lie. No, But you don't always tell the truth either."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Andy blinked. She buttoned up her shirt again, feeling too exposed.
"You never told me the truth about Thompson." Looking like she tasted something foul, Miranda wiped at her mouth. "You let me go on thinking that you slept with him."
"I did sleep with him." Andy raised her chin. "I just didn't fuck him, but that was an oversight on my part because I had too much wine and I was seriously jetlagged. What you thought…was obvious. Your deduction was obvious." Feeling the old resentment stir, Andy straightened her back. "I was going to use him, that's the ugly truth, to wash you off my skin. Then I saw the Runway mockup, and like an idiot, all I could think was to run to you, to beg your forgiveness and warn you." Andy drew a deep breath as her stomach was about to rebel against the chicken casserole. "And you slammed the door in my face. Literally. You could say it all went downhill from then on."
"Yes," Miranda whispered, her lips pale. "I already knew I'd lost you, and I decided to make sure it was irreversible. I had never been so furious, so frightened, and damn it, so confused in my life, and it was as if everything I touched broke. Or, I should say, I broke it."
"We broke it." Andy heard the words leave her lips, and she knew part of the truth had seeped out—the truth she had swallowed and swallowed for four years. "Not just you. Not just me. Us. We crashed in every way possible."
Miranda seemed to have problems breathing. She pressed her hand against her chest. "I hate…feeling like this." She glowered at Andy, but there was no real menace behind her burning pupils. The dragon was out but seemed confused as where to direct her fire.
"Hey. Breathe." Concerned, Andy slid closer, taking Miranda's hands in hers. "You're okay. Just breathe."
#
Miranda stared down at their joined hands. Andrea's hands were smooth, young, and with unpainted, well-kept nails. Her own were not bad for her age, but clearly older, and with her signature French manicure. She had chosen so many signature styles back in the day when it mattered, there were times when she was certain she would look, and act, exactly this way for the rest of her life. Mummified.
"Those weeks when you were nowhere to be found, I feared you might be dead," she murmured, and it was the first time she had uttered those words to anyone. "I must have scared the staff to death daily, as nobody came into the office unless summoned—certainly not Nigel, but that was, as we both know, for other reasons. It took two months before I managed to secure him a better position than the one he lost. No. The one I stole from him. He's still with Elias-Clarke, but the editor-in-chief for one of the new men's magazines."
"Oh, good. I was afraid that you'd say Auto Universe." Andrea was still holding Miranda's hands and now smiled carefully at her.
Guffawing, Miranda felt she could breathe. "Silly girl," she murmured. "How is it that you know just what to say, nowadays?"
"I don't. Honestly." Andrea rubbed her thumbs against the back of Miranda's hands. "I suppose I just lucked out being silly just when it worked a few times."
"I'll say." Tilting her head, Miranda studied Andrea's face. She was pale, and her eyes had gone a lot darker since she uttered her harsh words regarding Thompson, but she appeared calm. Calmer than Miranda felt, at least. "I sometimes find it unfathomable that you, whom I trusted more than anyone, turned out to be the one I never could allow myself to think of—even for a minute." Miranda saw sudden tears rise in Andrea's eyes. Of course. This was her MO after all. Causing pain.
"Because you trusted me, and I ended up hurting you. I disappeared and stayed away for four years. And remember, if I hadn't run into Caro, I would still not be here. I would be working late at The Mirror even if it's Sunday, and I would not allow myself to think of you—even for a minute." Andrea drew a trembling breath. "I would go about my day, and then my week, and the upcoming month, and I would believe that those nine months I was allowed to be in your presence, was not real. Just a dream. Nothing to dwell on." Andrea lowered her voice into a mere whisper. "And I'd be lying."
"Andrea…" Miranda looked down at their hands. "I would go to work every day, spend time with my girls, organize my galas, and prepare for the next fashion week, and not give you a single thought. I would work like I've always done, with one goal in mind, to keep Runway the number one fashion magazine in the world and keep my position secure." She swallowed. "That's what I'd do during the days." Letting go of Andrea's left hand, she raised hers and took Andrea's trembling chin between her index finger and thumb. "In the night, whether I'd be awake or asleep, I'd be back in Paris far too often."
"Oh."
"Yes. I'd be there, in the suite, surrounded by the legal documents from Stephen's lawyer, and I would dream of how I thought I lost my mind."
Andrea stared at her, the tears still clinging to her lashes, and didn't even blink once. "Why?"
"My life tumbled down around me. You know that. The divorce. The threat against my position at Runway. I know I acted as if they were all that mattered. And there you were, dressed so professionally, ready to be at my beck and call, and with a world of empathy in your eyes. You asked me if there was anything you could do for me. Anything at all."
"I…"
Miranda ran her thumb across Andrea's lips. "And what did I do in that moment?" Her heart hammering at the thought of that evening, Miranda kept her gentle, but insistent, grip on Andrea's chin, not taking her eyes off hers.
"You…" Andrea whimpered. "Please, Miranda."
"Tell me what I did." This had been a long time coming. Miranda wasn't going to stop now. Accountability was one of the words that people threw around these days, wasn't it? It was time.
"No." Andrea's tears finally overflowed.
"All right. Guess it must be me." Miranda pressed her lips together.
"Fine. Fine!" Andrea's eyes drilled into Miranda's. "You said, 'I need you.'"
"Yes. Yes, I did. And then what?" Miranda whispered huskily.
"I moved over to the couch." Whether Andrea was aware of it or not, she actually slid closer to Miranda where they sat on this couch.
"Mm-hm." Miranda nodded, and it was as if the dragon fire spread through her veins.
"And…You fell into my arms." Andrea drew a chopped, sobbing breath. "I held you for a long time while you cried. That was the start of it all. Before then, when I thought it was just me feeling like that, it was something I could be content just fantasizing about. After the evening on your couch, everything changed." Andrea wiped at her tears with her free hand. "And if we had not taken it further than my comforting you on the couch, we could have been all right."
"But it didn't stop there, did it?" Miranda fell forward and pressed her forehead against Andrea's shoulder. She closed her eyes and prayed for a reprieve, just a little break in the turbulence inside her.
Then Andrea's arms were around Miranda, and the irony didn't escape her. They sat in the same position as they'd done four years ago, and if Miranda could have moved, she would have. Andrea's arms around her were just as young, strong, and convincing, and Miranda knew she was too afraid of the pain if she pushed Andrea away. This wasn't what she had envisioned when they'd agreed to talk things through this evening. She hadn't planned for any more physical contact. The dancing last night had been hard enough. And now she was here, even closer than that to Andrea.
"Please, Miranda. You'll be all right. We'll be all right. It's been four years. Surely we can handle this—and ourselves—better?"
"To what end?" Miranda whispered against Andrea's shoulder. "Where do you see this going? What makes you think that I'm not the same callous bitch I was four years ago?"
"You were never a callous bitch," Andrea said hoarsely. "No matter what I said in the car, that part was never true."
"I said much worse things." Slowly raising her head," Miranda raised her head and wiped at her eyes. "You were certain I hated you for four years. There can't be any going back from that."
"There can be. If that's what we both want. Truly want." Andrea cupped Miranda's face. "Is that what you want, Miranda?"
As Andrea's hands warmed Miranda's cheeks, she took the time to analyze herself. What did she want? Did Andrea mean for them to forgive, forget, and aim for some sort of friendship? Or was she talking about what had taken place after the catalyst moment on the couch in Paris and did she truly think they could reignite that? There was no way Miranda could ask her to clarify. She couldn't take any of the implied answers. And still—another thing she couldn't stomach was to keep lying to herself, or Andrea.
"Yes," she managed, placing her hands over Andrea's that still framed her face. "God help me, but I want to make things right—no matter what that means. That's what I want."
Continued part 6.