The room was on the smaller side, filled with a bed in its center, a bedside table next to it, a dresser, a futon bed in front of a second window next to the fireplace, pictures, and the scent of her. The door opposite the room led to a private bathroom.
The fireplace crackled quietly, throwing off a small amount of heat, fighting to control the chill from the open balcony door. The white lace curtains fluttered in the breeze, reminding me of an angel that flew back and forth, not sure where to go.
Beyond the balcony, an inky expanse outlined her, the sky full of stars circling her like the crown she had worn during her performance. Her body pressed against the decorative black iron railing, head turned down, eyes searching the street.
Once in a while a gentle wind swept past, tickling her hair and bringing me the smell of roses. Her perfume. One foot came up, her heel almost the same color as her skin, and she rubbed it against the back of the other leg in long, easy strokes. Up and down, up and down, almost hypnotizing.
“Scarlett,” I barely got out.
Her hands tightened around the railing, knuckles turning ghostly. Her heel paused mid stroke.
The first thing that came to mind came out of my mouth. “I need to see you. I need to talk to you.”
It took a long moment, but finally, she turned around to face me. For the first time in years, our eyes met, and my knees went weak. But I didn’t let my eyes linger too long, not like I used to. My eyes spoke for me, but she wasn’t ready for my entire truth. Not now.
I took in her hair, her lips, her face, her neck, and her dress—my eyes narrowed into slits. The dress left little to the imagination. A flower-patterned red lace looked like it was slipped over a nude one-piece bathing suit. Petals covered her breasts, but the rest was completely sheer. The only coverage she had against the bitter weather was the leather jacket. Even her heels exposed skin—the leather wrapped around her ankles like ribbons made of thorns.
Her body shook with cold but her burning emerald eyes were fastened on my face. I held out my hand to her, but she continued to stare at me, her thoughts probably catching up to her feelings. She crossed her arms over her chest.
I got the feeling she would have taken a step back, if she could have. She felt me too; no, nothing had changed there.
Her gaze narrowed and her mouth pinched into a severe line. “Have you seen enough?”
I shook my head—never. I stayed silent, though, the awkward dance between us just beginning.
In a swift movement, she blew past me, taking a seat on the bed. I stared out at the balcony for a moment, hating her reaction, hating myself, hating the years and the space, but at the same time hoping for better things to come. I closed the door, cutting off the cold air supply.
“You were here…before, I mean? About a year after I left?”
Her question didn’t surprise me. “Yeah.”
“You’ve come here, once a year, since I left.”
No heat in her voice, no ice, only an even tone that caused my pulse to accelerate with the kind of fear that would come right before the speeding bus of indifference hit.
The flames of the fire illuminated her profile and threw me into long shadows. She glanced at me, probably because of my prolonged silence, and the color of her eyes glowed green for the briefest of seconds—the shine of a jewel when the light hits its facets, sparks of gold glimmering inside of it. That’s what the color of her eyes had always reminded me of.
I nodded. The tick in my jaw started to pulsate.
She turned away, eyes on her hands. “You came tonight. To watch me dance?”
“I flew in with your family, Violet, and Mick.” I took a silent breath, needing to feel the air touch my lungs. “You or no one else could’ve stopped me from coming.”
She became silent, thinking, and whatever her thoughts were passed over her face like angry shadows. She smiled to herself. “What did you think?”
“To say I loved it would be a lie. What you made me feel goes beyond love. I’ve never been prouder of anyone or anything in my entire life. You were perfect. Beyond perfect.”
“Love.” She smirked, rubbing her thumb against her palm, tracing the lines. “Love is plenty enough.”
“It should be.”
Our eyes connected again—glower against glower. Some of the fear left me, relief dripping in to take its place. Anger. Anger was good. Indifference was a fatal blow.
“How do you like Paris?”
“It’ll do.”
“It’ll do?” Her laugh was humorless. “Paris is for lovers. You should have brought her. You two could have spent the day walking along the Seine, grabbed a cup of coffee, people watched for a while, and then you could have taken her to the Eiffel tower. Afterward, you two could have danced under its lights. She could have gotten all dressed up for you, and you could have taken her out for a night on the town. You could have taken her to the ballet tonight—Oh. Perhaps she told you that you were not allowed to come? Is that what you meant when you said that no one could’ve stopped you?”
