Page 33 of Sweet (Chicago Underground 7)
Because God, I did love him. Hadn’t I always? Inevitable, eternal, whether he bade me leave or stay.
I scrunched up my nose at him, though surely the glare of moonlight hid my expression. “Are you stalking me?”
“Define stalking.”
“What you’re doing righ
t now, basically.”
“Ah, but I was invited to come see your place. Sure, that was a few weeks ago, but how was I to know there was an expiration date?”
Emotion thickened my voice. “You’re the one who wanted me to leave.”
“I know. I came to talk to you about that.” He straightened up so he could come to me. To walk into the street.
“No, wait. Don’t.”
He paused, midmotion. His voice was roughened with regret. “I know. I’m sorry. Just let me—”
“Okay,” I burst out. “Let me come out and give you the key card. You can drive around to the parking garage.”
There was a pause; then he spoke softly. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll look both ways this time.”
“You did last time too. It was just—”
“An accident.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Which means it could happen again.”
He nodded, the motion small but infinitely significant from where I stood. “That’s why I don’t want to waste another minute without you. Without telling you how I feel about you or what I want for us. And I don’t really want to do it thirty feet away, so the first step is to come inside.”
“But—”
The line went dead. With a quick but definite look both ways, he crossed the street. His gait was weighted to the left, swinging low before he caught himself, half falling on every step. I had seen enough busted knees to recognize the careful movements, a symptom of chronic pain—but not at all like the stiffness arousal lent him. He reached the curb and continued with agonizing deliberation across the leaf-strewn courtyard. The wind picked up leaves in his wake and tousled his hair. He arrived at the front door wearing a lopsided smile.
Something stayed my hand for a moment, and I looked at him, thinking this is it. The last time he and I would ever be divided, separate entities—the last time I’d ever be trapped on the inside looking out. I’d ask him to stay with me. No time limits, no waiting. If he didn’t ask me first.
I flipped the lock and opened the door. A spicy burst of autumn air entered first, followed by the more solid, musky scent of the man I loved. He bent to give me a chaste kiss, his lips cold but soft against mine.
He surveyed the studio: the mauve walls with black silhouette etchings of little ballerinas along the seating area. Then the dance floor itself, a bland grayish color—more utilitarian than beautiful—and a wide expanse of mirrors broken only by a thick barre all around.
He turned back, his expression bemused. “It’s beautiful.”
“Really?” I said, a little flustered to realize how much his opinion mattered.
His head tilted slightly in deliberation of his next words. “I think… If you don’t mind me saying it, I think you fit here. It’s modest.”
I made a face. “Should I be insulted?”
“You’re modest,” he said, too earnest and open and honest to be mean. “I always thought the pomp of the ballet was…too much sometimes.”
“It was a chore, but that wasn’t why I did it. Besides, I would have thought you liked it, seeing as you always used Philip’s seats.”
He looked at me sideways. “Rose, you must know by now that I don’t care about ballet aside from you.”
“You never wanted to talk to me about ballet,” I accused. I had suspected his attendance was a sign of interest in me, but whenever I had broached the subject with him, he’d shut me down with monosyllabic answers and that damned bland expression.
“What was I going to say, that I only went to see you in a leotard?”
