If it was purposeful or not, him calling her Janet instead of Jane made me smile. I tried to hide it. He missed nothing though. All those things I had mentioned were on a list of mine—to do with him. Though I hadn’t made it obvious. Or tried not to.
The look on his face told me that he didn’t know exactly why I was smiling, which made me smile even harder. No, if he had remembered her name, he would’ve said it.
“We’ll do them together,” he said.
“I’d love that,” I said. “Very much.”
He pulled me into his chest, away from the railing, keeping me wrapped in his arms.
“A dance under this place,” he said. “That’s on the list.”
I nodded, eager, wanting.
“Yeah,” he said, pulling me along. He called to Mick and Violet to follow. “A dance on solid ground is what we all need.”
Chapter Seventeen
Scarlett
Three days had passed, establishing a nonpermanent routine. Goodbye was close on the calendar, and although dread buzzed insistently in the background, I studiously ignored it.
I fell into easy step, almost convincing myself that time would cease and life would always be this way—filled with the people I loved the most.
As usual, I ran from the truth, terrified of the thought of Brando leaving, along with the friendship I had missed so much. Their presence became summer in the face of a long, deep winter.
During free time, the four of us loafed around Paris together. Violet was hungry for the sights; Mick was along for the ride. In his usual way, Brando seemed content just to be; I was content to have him next to me.
After his (my) jacket had been dry cleaned, I wore it more often, along with the necklace that held the key to the house on Snow he had mailed to me after I had left for Paris.
Life had started to belong to me again.
Though it killed me to give it, dance still demanded my attention—practice and performances and everything in between. Before and after, Brando escorted me. He had bought a secondhand bike from a man who would often drop by Colette’s café, and we would either ride together or walk. Those times were either filled with silence or conversations that seemed to ramble.
Sometimes we’d reminisce about Natchitoches and all that was left behind. Or we would chat about practice, or a particular performance. Sometimes I’d complain about this or that, and he’d tell me what he loved about it (there were times he’d sit in on practice). Somehow he’d help me smooth out the wrinkles.
Naturally, the conversation would lead us to his work. He’d tell me stories of offshore, about the sunrises, sunsets, the fishing, or the weather.
We were walking home now, him beside me, pushing the bike he had bought. Silence had found us, and awkwardness had somehow slipped in.
Actually, I reflected, I wasn’t convinced that it had ever truly left.
Not all had been healed between us; there was limited give and take. Three and a half years was enough time to leave us staggering behind, feeling fresh and new, yet a deeply shared history connected us in ways that the years couldn’t touch.
He had hurt me. I had hurt him. Despite it all, we were familiar, and my body reacted quicker than my inhibited heart.
A slight touch here, a simple caress there. A knowing hand on my waist moving me to the side so he could pass. Back pressed to his front in a hint of movement. A knowing look,I want you. A shy smile in answer,I want you too, but I’m scared.Our fingers brushed,closer now, our hands holding. Or something as simple as sleeping in the same bed, our bodies together to find warmth, our feet entwined to keep the thin, tender connection alive.
Little by little, the heat between us started to melt the ice. We touched more than we ever had, finding that the fire from the connection cured the insistent cold.
Time had started to stitch the gap, and now we were on the path to healing.
He reached out with his free hand and set it on the back of my neck, the warmth from his skin a balm to the frigid air. We both seemed to feel it when the other needed to be touched to close the space that tried to wedge itself between us.
The bruises were starting to fade from his face. The cuts were starting to heal. He was starting to resemble himself again. No permanent damage. I silently thanked God. Ruining his face would be the equivalent of irrevocably damaging Michelangelo’s David.
The attack in the alley had been brought up only once since it had happened. I point-blank asked him if he had been robbed or if it was something more. He made a cryptic remark in answer. They had tried to take what was his, but he’d never allow it.Again, a deeper meaning was to be found beneath the words. It left me feeling almost hollow, unease taking up the empty space.
The night at the underground club seemed to be a catalyst for something greater.
