I wasn’t in the mood to socialize, even before the issue about the house became a solid thing between Brando and me. Which, I understood, was one of the reasons Brando wanted to go home, to our house.
It had been a while since we had a house entirely to ourselves. We were constantly surrounded. Here, at home, he felt safer than he did anywhere else. Our house on Snow stood as refuge.
Unable to keep still, I opened the fridge, its light brightening the kitchen some. I snatched a cold beer, using the bottle opener magnetized to the fridge to pop the top, and rested my back against the closed door, closing my eyes and taking a sip.
My eyes flew open when I felt him enter. His presence alone could fill a room. It felt as though he had me pinned against a wall even though he hadn’t touched me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. He had only been gone a little while, and he was back, soaking wet, but staring at me in the dim glow of the kitchen. “Did something happen?”
He didn’t answer.
Something had happened, though. Desperation rolled off him. It was as powerful as the tang of outside air and musk from the sweat on his clothes.
He had gone shirtless, but now his shirt covered him, the light blue almost navy from perspiration and humid air. He probably used it to wipe his head before covering himself.
Such a sin to concealthatbody.
Resigned that he wasn’t ready to talk, I took another sip of the beer. Then I offered the bottle to him. He took it but placed it on the table. “All right.” I sighed. “I set aside dinner for us. Will you eat,mio marito?”
The way he looked at me, I wondered what was on the menu—Eunice’s boiled shrimp or me.
“I need a shower first.” His voice was almost hoarse, matching the slow roam of his heated eyes.
“No,” I said, lifting my bare foot. “We both come to the table dirty. Let’s eat and then we can shower. It’s late. You haven’t eaten much today.”
I wasn’t hungry, but I took out each of our trays anyway and set them on the table.
My movements slowed in response to his mood. Whatever had happened on his short run had changed his course. The discourse about our house on Snow was present, but somehow, it was pushed to the side in light of whatever caused this reaction in him.
It was strong, coursing, and he was being carried with it. Carried straight to me.
What could’ve caused him to cut his run short? And in the time he was gone, make him feel almost—desolate?
The next words out of his mouth were spoken so low that in the silence it sounded close to a breath. “Come to me, woman.”
The breath I had been holding left me in a tremble. I went to him, but he also came to me, and we met in a crash, our centers yielding to the gravitational pull. I found myself pressed against the refrigerator, the humming of the motor no match for the one he sparked inside of me.
After our first contact, his movements slowed and became tender. Even the look in his eyes softened.
“What happened?” I whispered, gazing up at him.
He ran his fingers, only the tips, down the side of my face, and I shivered. “The night I—” Refusing to say any more, he left me to fill in the blanks.
The night he sent me away, he did it here, at my parents’ house, in the middle of the night. I had followed behind him, stumbling over things in the darkness, but feeling what he was about to do. He had carried me back to my room after he had broken it off between us, because I was too numb to do much else, and after he had kissed me on the forehead, I turned in on myself for a long time after that.
“Tell me, Scarlett.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You tell me first.”
He was the one who had left me here, had abandoned me in honor of the career he felt I should have. If anyone should tell first, it should be him.
His fingertips glided along my face, down my neck, all the way to my hand, where he took it in his and placed it against his heart. The pounding of it beat against me like a drum. After a minute or so, I got lost in the cadence of it.
“Scarlett,” he whispered. “Scarlett. Scarlett. Scarlett.” He started to time the beats of his heart to my name. I was starting to become hypnotized by his voice, by the rhythm of his pulse against my palm.
I took his empty hand and placed it over my heart. The beat was much faster and I rushed out, “Brando, Brando, Brando.”
“You could never keep still,” he whispered. “No patience, unless the stars are out.”
