My fingers curl into fists.
“Buffalo means that much to you, does it?”I mutter, leaving the table now myself.My appetite has vanished.
Curse tenses slightly, but maybe it’s just because he’s leaning over to turn on the tap and rinse his plate.
“Right,” he replies.“Buffalo.”
There’s something almost sarcastic in his reply, but I can’t figure it the hell out.It’s always been about Buffalo.If it were about something more than that, something more personal, he wouldn’t have agreed to the divorce.
Elio’s earlier words come back to me, unbidden.
Divorce?He’d looked so shocked, so entirely bewildered.And my brother agreed to this?
That was the deal.Curse never had any trouble accepting the terms.
So why that charred edge of bitterness to his voice now?Right.Buffalo.
Maybe it’s merely a comment on the fact that he won’t personally benefit from this arrangement at all.Elio is the boss.Curse might get some kind of bonus for his trouble, but ultimately, all of my inheritance will end up under the elder Titone brother’s power.All Curse has gotten out of this situation is a bride he never wanted, a new enemy nipping at his heels, and the lingering aftereffects of a near-fatal overdose.A pretty shit deal for him, all in all.
So maybe his biting tone makes sense after all.
My stomach turns inside out with shame and anger.I want to defend myself against him and his contempt.To hurl my plate at the wall.To shout at him that I never asked for this.
But I did, didn’t I?Even if he was already there in New York, even if he would have come for me anyway…
I called him.
I don’t remember much of that harried phone conversation beside Marco’s limp form.But I do remember the jagged relief when Curse answered the phone, even if he didn’t say a word when he did it.
And I remember telling him at least one thing.
I need you.
“I’m going to bed,” I say abruptly.I spin on my heel, only to realize that I don’t know where I’m meant to be sleeping tonight.Wherewewill be sleeping, I guess, since I already know it will be together.Grimacing, I head for the couch, still covered in its plastic, and plop myself down on it, arms crossed.In the kitchen, I hear the tap running for a few more seconds, as well as the clink of dishes and cutlery.Oops.I left my half-finished plate of lasagna on the table.I guess Curse is dealing with it.I ignore the guilt that creeps up in response to that.
I busy myself picking at the old wedding nail polish, flaking off the little bits that come loose.I don’t hear Curse enter the room; I only see the dark shape of his silent feet enter my line of sight.I draw my gaze from them, up the hard lines of his legs, the tapered V of his torso, to his face, impassive as ever.
“That doesn’t look like bed,” he says.
“Whatever.”I shrug.“It’s where we slept last night.”
“I have a room here.”
Curse’s room.
My future husband’s bed.
I’ve slept in his bed before, of course.In Montreal.And in other beds with him, like at the motel.
But the thought makes my stomach squeeze now.
“And?”I say, not getting up, trying to delay the inevitable.Coward.
“And that’s where we’ll be spending the night.”
“I see.And I get no say in the matter, is that it?”I lift my chin, trying to project a boldness I don’t quite feel.
“You get a say,” he replies after a beat.“We can sleep here again if you want.”He nods towards the couch.“But it’s not going to be comfortable.”
