“I don’t owe anyone anything.” I shiver as many of the attendees, in their blacks and grays, shift from a mass to a rough line. “A half-hour.”
“Done.” Judging by the gleam in his eye, he hadn’t expected more. I should’ve started with a lower number and negotiated up.
It’s torture of the polite variety. The same song over and over. Sorry, sorry, sorry, condolences, condolences, condolences, and compliment after compliment about all Max did and was. All turning into sandpaper, grating against the hole left by his absence.
Reminding me of the void.
Even family—his and mine—and close friends fall back mostly on platitudes. They blur into a single multi-faced, many-handed monster, turning around and around while repeating itself over and over in a respectful, droning monotone.
Corin and Caity stay by me the whole time. My other nieces keep me supplied with water to ease my throat, the glass giving me something to hold—and an excuse not to shake clammy hand after hand.
I break a little before promised, slipping away to the rest room to wash my face and adjust things. The image staring back from the mirror lacks color. I’m uncooked bread dough. Haven’t been out in the sun in weeks.
Otherwise, I look the same as always: beige skin, with undertones of gold when I spend enough time in the sun; short gray-brown hair framing an oval face; and pear-shaped body, draped in black, hiding the red beneath.
Still me.
With or without Max.
A trio of chatterers whirl into the restroom. I smile, then bolt back to the hall. I cannot make pleasantries over a sink today.
Two steps out the door and no matter that the corridor’s wide enough for three to stand abreast, I slam into someone. Hands grip my upper arms, steadying me, but I face-plant against a broad, solid chest under a soft linen shirt. For a moment, it’s a familiar, longed-for closeness, complete with a flittering purr lasting all of three breaths.
Then the fragrance registers. Even with the neutralizers going full blast overhead, impossible to miss this close: alpha musk infused with a hint of trees and the crisp air of the forest on a cold, wintry night.
You’d think with all the people in the world there’d be more overlap in scents, but no. Everyone emits their own unique odor. Of course, most of us can’t tell the difference—we’ve all got our own limit on how many aromas we can distinguish and which we remember.
It’s been years since we so much as met in passing, but I never managed to forget that glorious midnight-forest fragrance.
Or him.
“Dan?”
He’s changed. Hair gone completely gray, so he ranks as a genuine silver fox. Amber eyes study me under angled brows. A few lines mark the corners of his eyes and his forehead, taupe against his fawn-colored skin; though otherwise his face resembles that supplied by memory and a few photographs tucked away. His lips form a tight line with no hint of a smile or pleasure at seeing me. He stands, as broad and strong as ever, in a gray suit and white shirt.
Yet the biggest change lurks underneath. When he was young, he exuded energy, dominance, and violence: always vibrating, and ready to leap into action and defend against all comers. The impression now is of control and conscious action, of no longer being in constant battle with hormonal impulses.He’s a living example of what my favorite, much-missed father used to call ‘a human grown into their alpha.’
Dan Eveson—not my first love, not my last love, but never forgotten.
“Johanna, imagine meeting you here.” Dan nods, mouth twisting to one side, gaze fixed on me. “I caught the tail end of the service. Quite the send-off.”
His hands slide from my arms, leaving patches of cold behind. My shoulders crackle as I straighten but don’t otherwise move, only a few feet separating us. Shards of memory issue conflicting orders in my head, one set demanding I cuddle close, the other screaming for me to stay away.
Last I heard, Dan lived in one of the suburbs. Too far away for mere chance to bring him by this hotel, on this day, at this time.
“Did you come to dance on Max’s grave?”
He runs a finger along the side of my face. A light touch, one I could easily pull away from, but sparks flow from the contact and ripple through my body. My muscles tighten, elbows pressing into my sides, fingers and toes twitching.
“The problem was never with Max. I admire all his contributions to society.” His eyes fix on mine, white lines edging his mouth. “His isn’t a grave I wanted to dance on.”
“You’ll have to keep living if you want to dance on mine.” I step just out of easy reach, so only the faintest hint of his scent lingers. “Is your motto to never forgive, never forget?”
“I didn’t come today to argue with you, but to offer honor and respect.” He looks away first, throat working.
Out of that unexpected respect for Max, or care for me, or maturity? Probably two, at least, if not three, but I don’t dare ask. “Some other day, then?”
“Like old times?” His quick smile—here and gone but warm while it lasts—rouses echo of the time I saw it daily, all the times I kissed it, drinking down the shot of sweetness.
