I start scrolling back through our conversations. There haven’t been many, since we’ve been together nearly 24/7 since we arrived, but whenever we’ve been apart, he’s always checked in on how I’m doing, made sure I know where he’s at. And what he plans to do when we’re together again. My nipples tighten and my core muscles clench.
Ant’s true feelings are there for me to see. Am I going to trust the evidence of my own eyes, my own body, my own heart, however difficult I find it to believe, or take what Warren said at face value? I still don’t understand why Ant didn’t stand up for himself, although two little voices that sound a lot like Mei and Louise whisperyou didn’t give him the chance. Hopefully, I’ll get the opportunity to give him the chance soon.
And maybe the point is not to understand, but to believe anyway.
Maybe then I can take the chance and ask for what I want. One way or another, I need to know where we stand. Because Louise sees it, if I feel it, maybe it’s not so implausible that he feels about me the way I feel about him.
Back in our suite, all of Ant’s clothes are exactly where he left them. Except for the suit that was hanging on the door, freshly pressed by the resort laundry in preparation for the wedding.
Even though the shuttle driver had said she dropped him at the chapel, there was a large part of me worried I’d come back to find his belongings gone. Seeing them there loosens the band around my chest ever so slightly.
Indecision tears at me as I pace around the suite. Do I message him? Do I go back to the wedding? But then what if I miss him?
I’m standing in the middle of the lounge room, paralysed by uncertainty, when I hear the faint buzz of the access card and the door flies open.
Ant could be naked for all I know because I can’t drag my gaze from his face. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his dimple is nowhere to be seen. The misery in his blue eyes matches how I feel.
Silence stretches between us until I can’t stand it another second.
“I thought you might have left while I was at the wedding,” I say.
“Did you want me to?” Ant walks towards me slowly, as though approaching a wild animal. I can’t blame him.
“No.” I sound like a sulky teen but can’t bring myself to say anything more.
Ant throws off his jacket, yanks at his tie, pulls a chair out from the dining table and sits, shoulders hunched, elbows on knees, hands clasped. He lets out a deep breath. “I need you to answer a question for me. Will you do that? Please?” He’s clearly not confident of a hearing.
Which is fair, given how I shut him down earlier. Not letting him explain was wrong. I nod and pull out a chair on the other side of the table, the glass top stretching between us like a tightrope we need to walk.
“I couldn’t possibly have targeted you, because I had no idea who Warren was. If I were scamming you, why would I have told you about the cafés and the board business?”
I can’t think of a response.
At my silence, Ant shakes his head, disappointment clear on his face, in his body language.
“What’s really going on here, Lil? You’re a smart woman. You know what Warren said was a pack of twisted half-truths and lies. Be honest. Please. I deserve that, at least.”
I’m not sure I’ll be able to speak; my mouth is so dry. Ant must see my throat working because he leaps up, goes to the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of water. He twists the top off before handing it to me and returning to his seat.
I guzzle a few mouthfuls, and he waits in patient silence.
“I believe you. I don’t understand how it all fits together, but I believe you that you didn’t target me.” I pause, wiping at my cheeks as the tears start to roll again. “But isn’t it all irrelevant anyway?”
“Irrelevant?” Ant’s eyebrows raise. The look on his face—so earnest, so hurt—rips at my heart with sharp claws.
“This was a holiday romance. We’re going home in a couple of days. End of holiday. End of romance, right?” I’m shaking so hard I have to put the water down for fear of spilling it.
I’m giving him an out. If he wants to take it, I’ll have my answer. Every muscle in my body clenches, hoping he doesn’t. I know it’s cowardly. I should’ve been brave. Lead with how I feel. But opening up, after a lifetime of keeping quiet, of accommodating others, of asking for nothing, is hard. Believing I might be worth the fight—that Ant might think I’m worth the fight—is hard.
“That’s what you think?”
“Well, yes. I mean … that's what we agreed.” I sputter to a halt. I’ve never seen Ant look angry before. Then his face shifts. His eyes cloud.
“Is that what you want?” His voice is barely a whisper.
A shrug is all I can manage in response.
Ant is silent for a long time. Maybe hours. It feels like hours. His face is motionless and unreadable, but the fingers on his right hand flex, just once, and form a fist so tight his knuckles are white.
