“This week’s endeavors could fit the description,” I say with a playful tilt.
My skin heats just thinking of our encounters. We burn for each other, the passion consuming, our tangled limbs a violent dance of mating—sheer carnality wrapped in ecstasy. Addicted is too mild a word to express what transpires between us: deliberate, purposeful, an animalistic drive taking over to become one.
He casts a knowing look my way. “A proper one.”
I’ve never thought about honeymooning, and all my travels have been for business. I don’t even know where I would like to spend ours. The destination doesn’t matter; spending time together does. After pondering longer, a secluded spot with no disturbances sounds dreamy. No phones, no work, just us.
His chest rumbles with a noncommittal sound. “You’re thinking about it.”
I can’t shake the impression he knows me better than I know myself, reading my mind with such ease. I got used to it, and it comes with benefits. I don’t even have to open my mouth, and he somehow knows what I mean, what I desire before I even form the thought, process it, or filter it.
I strongly believe that my fiancé was my soulmate. For years, I held on to an elusive feeling, a blurry image, certain that if he were alive, I would recognize him by the connection, certain you have just one true love. Maybe that’s a fallacy. What I am experiencing with Vian is not lesser in worth or meaning. It’s different. Stronger. Deeper.
We reach the Italian restaurant, and the letters flickering above my head hypnotize me. It’s this recurring experience: I was here before. In this city. With him.
It’s not the first time it has happened, but this flashback is strong. I shake my head, commanding my thoughts to cease their deceptive games. I don’t know what I should do with nothing. It’s as if the connection between my synapses is cut and only half the information travels.
“What is it?” he asks, placing his palm on my back in silent support.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to ease the turmoil. “Nothing. I feel like I’ve been here before. Do I know you from before? I am crazy, Vian…”
In an instant, he gets in my face and grips my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “My wife is not crazy.”
My eyes water, and I clutch his lapels, sighing. “No, just broken.”
“You’re talking bad about my woman here. I won’t stand for it.”
I bury my face in his chest, not caring that anyone could see me. I’ve built a reputation for being inscrutable, yet with him, my emotions flow with such ease.
“You’re my beautiful, broken whole. Strong. Competent. I am in awe of you.”
What I see as weakness, he sees as strength. “Sorry for ruining our date.”
“Your feelings matter the most.” He looks between the restaurant and the car. “Let’s go home. I don’t have to share you with anyone there.”
But something pushes me to go inside. “No. I’m better now.”
“Sure? I don’t want it to trigger you again.”
Chicago triggers me. He triggers me. Currently, I think everything triggers me. Does that mean my brain is healing, thatevery little nudge is a sign I will recover my memories? It would be a wonder.
Inside, the chef greets us, looking at me with fondness and at him with barely contained glee.
The greeting is a bit much, I think, but I smile back.
“Welcome,” he says, his enthusiasm clear. “Let me show you to your table.”
My husband snaps his gaze at him, and the elderly man turns a fiery red, wearing an apologetic glance.
I am too stuck in my head to delve into the strange interaction.
At the small and intimate table, I look outside, simply watching the passersby, unperturbed by my inner conflict.
He places two menus in front of us, and I peruse mine a hundred times, but I always return to pizza Michelangelo. My mouth waters just at the thought of it.
When he comes back with our drinks, I say, “A pizza Michelangelo.”
My husband and he share a look before the latter says, “Good choice. You’ll love it.”
