“I suppose it’s not, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise.” The corner of his mouth quirks into a familiar smile and he pulls me closer, ignoring my stony expression. “I only want to talk.”
My stomach drops. There’s only one thing this could be about.
“You’re five years too late for a conversation, Art.”
“Please, Nen— Nina.” He fixes me with those uneven eyes and brushes his thumb over the soft skin of my inner wrist.
“Please,” he repeats, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
I’ve never seen Art like this. I allow myself to scrutinize his face for a second, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the new lines. Is he begging me?
“Fine.”
Curiosity gets the better of me. After all, I’ve never been the one who shuts people out when they need to talk. That was him.
He holds the door open, but I refuse his offered hand as I step up into the car.
The dark car interior smells just the same as I remember his cars always did, soft leather scented with cedar. He stays a respectful distance away as he shuts the door behind him, letting out a sigh and stretching out his legs.
“It’s good to see you.” He turns to me lazily, handing me a bottle of water.
“Mhmm. Just say what you need to say.” I fold my arms tightly across my stomach, my nerves thrumming. The worst case scenario is so bad I don’t want to consider it. Has something changed?
“I think we should catch up, first.”
“Okay.” I keep my tone cool. “Let’s start with you ignoring me in the corridor of the hospital. I know you saw me.”
Art rakes a hand through his hair and he nods, his throat bobbing. “I did. I saw you. I glanced at you and you looked… Like you’d seen a ghost. You looked fucking terrified and I didn’t want to make it worse.”
I had almost fainted. “A little warning might have been nice.” His driver pulls away from the curb, the car rumbling and smooth and warm. “You can’t just show up at my work and expect?—”
“Seatbelt,” Art growls at me. I hesitate for a second, and he reaches over my shoulder to pull it on. “What can’t I expect?”
“That I’m going to be totally relaxed about my ex showing up at my workplace. And don’t tell me you didn’t know. There’s no way.”
“I didn’t know.” He shrugs his big shoulders nonchalantly. “There are only so many rooftops close enough to Wall Street which are for rent at any given time.”
I still don’t believe him. “Tonight, then. You must have known I would be at the bar.”
“Maybe I just wanted a drink.” I’m used to Art smelling lightly of vermouth, beneath the scent of cigarettes and cologne. Right now, I can’t detect any of that.
“Who was that guy?” He keeps his voice light but I can sense the crackle of danger underneath. “The one who is in love with you?”
“Daniel?”
“I didn’t catch his name tag.” His voice drips with disdain. “The one who was staring at you all night.”
“Everyone was staring at me. They were wondering why my ex showed up to after-work drinks.”
His lips curl into a smirk. “They wouldn’t have been quite so interested if you hadn’t slapped me.”
Somehow, Art gets me talking, though my every instinct screams not to reveal anything to him. Maybe it is the sangria.
I tell Art about my job, how I’m hoping to get the substance abuse fellowship at the end of this residency.
His eyes are warm and constant, his every reaction lulling me into the feeling that everything is going to be okay. That my goals areachievable.
He’s always been a good listener. Except when it really mattered.
