The corners of my eyes stung.
“How have your weeks been?”
“Fine?” I heard the confusion in his voice.
“That’s good.” I let out a breath, easing the pressure in my chest. “Anything interesting happen?”
Then, he audibly laughed. Properly chuckled. Loudly. And I couldn’t not pull away and look at him then. “What?”
His eyes fell back down on me. “What’s with all the questions?” He asked, his smile wide.
I blinked. “I’m just making conversation.”
He shook his head, still dancing me. “No, you’re not.” His hand moved back to my waist, holding me close. “A few weeks away from you isn’t going to make me forget how well I know you.” His eyes flicked between mine. “Why are you asking me every question under the—”
“Maybe because I’m trying to ask you everything but the only thing I want to know.”
I watched the emotion drain from his face, as we stilled and came to a halt. Suddenly he was a mirror of himself from that night on the roof; shaky hands, breathless, that stream of panic coursing through his eyes. All of that for one very simple question.
Do you love me?
Our stare was bounded. “A few weeks away from you isn’t going to stop me from wanting to hear your answer.”
His glassy eyes held mine, and I wondered then if it was more than him being too nervous to admit it. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t convinced myself that that was the reason he’d frozen when I’d asked him, simply because that was easier to swallow than thinking he didn’t love me, or at least think that he could, one day.
But looking at him now, his skin paling, his mouth gaped, his voice non-existent, I was starting to think that I had no choice but to swallow it.
And as that thought embedded itself into my mind, I slowly slipped out of his hold. He tried to cling onto me, but I wouldn’t let him. I couldn’t.
I stepped back. He stepped forward.
His hand reached for me. I pulled away. Walked away.
I tried not to let the look on his face slow me down. Still managed to catch up to me.
“Cora.” He breathed, his hands brushing mine.
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
And I turned around, grabbed a champagne off a passing tray, ready to find a corner of this ballroom where he possibly couldn’t find me, but as I did I walked into something hard and shadowy.
“Oh fuck, sorry!” The shadowy thing said, and when I cleared my eyes and looked up I saw a man who looked an awful lot like Marcus. At first I thought it was him, but then my eyes dried enough to notice that the features weren’t nearly as intense as his, nor were they strong enough. They were softer, prettier, with no edge or dare. And compared to Marcus, his mask was a deep maroon, matching his suit.
“You okay?” He asked, looking at me, then looking over my shoulder. “Is she okay?”
I turned around to find Marcus on my heels, his face free of any evidence that he’d been sad, as he hiked his smile back up. “Um, yeah.” He looked at me and then I realised that that sadness was actually exactly where I last saw it. He could just hide it well. “Cora, this is Oscar. My younger brother.”
I held Marcus’ gaze for another second before looking back at Oscar, and then it all made sense.
He was Marcus, only three years younger.
Oscar looked down at me and smiled, his dimples deeper than his brother’s. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” His dark eyes sparkled. “I just saw one of your paintings, actually. If you don’t win I’ll pay for the programme myself because, Jesus, you’re good.”
That pulled a little smile out of me. It was nervous, but it diffused whatever tension that was hanging over us. “Thank you.” I sniffed. “I was just going…” I looked back at Marcus, into his eyes that silently pleaded for me to wait. And I hated that my heart listened to him. “To get a drink.” My eyes fell to the half-full glass in my hand. “Another one.” I whipped out my fakest smile. “Would anyone else like one?”
“I’ll go.” Marcus breathed. He kept staring at me, like he couldn’t quite believe I was still standing here. The corners of his mouth peaked a little, as he reached for my glass. “Be right back.”
And then he turned away, weaving through the dance floor.
