The futility of trying to be with Mac suddenly hits me, almost as painful as the blows I’d taken earlier. I hold my breath, trying to keep from crying out.
Here we are, finally spending the night in each other’s arms, and look at the circumstances. I know Mac cares for me in his own way. I can feel it in his touch. But that care won’t be enough to break through the challenges between us. We’ve never had a real relationship. And my love was built on a foundation that, like this club, was built on faulty ground. Love can’t grow from a transaction or an unequal exchange of power and money. I’m not sure Mac will ever understand that. And suddenly I know what I have to do.
“Hold me,” I say again, and I feel his arms band tight around me.
We lie there in silence, and I imprint everything about the moment in my memory for later. I feel his warm and shower-damp skin against mine, the flutter of his eyelashes against the skin of my shoulder, and the soft sound of his breathing.
His breaths lengthen and even out, and I stay still, making the most of this memory.
Then I edge away, holding my breath as he stirs. But he’s as exhausted as I am, and his breaths even out again. I quickly and painfully put on the clothes he left for me on the easy chair, then, finding a pad and pen on a table, I tear off a sheet of paper and write quickly on it.
I can’t do this anymore and I know you’ll be fine with that. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Goodbye.
I take one more look at him. He’s lying in sheets that smell of us, his body long and pale, his hair dark against the pillow. I fix the image in my head, before I turn away. He’ll be awake in an hour or so, but I don’t think he’ll be surprised that I’ve gone. I also know he won’t follow me. I quietly leave the room, and shut the door carefully behind me.
I blink in surprise when I step into the dimly lit corridor and find Julian asleep on a chair outside the door. He comes awake with a jerk.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Waiting for you,” he says steadily.
“How did you know I’d be leaving?”
He rolls his eyes. “I know you. Are you ready to go?”
I hesitate. “I won’t be back. Do you know that?”
“I do. But I don’t think that impacts us. Do you?”
“No. So what happens next?”
“Who knows, babe.”
I look back at the door. “I don’t know what hurts more—my black eye or my heart.”
He takes my arm. “I can put an ice pack on your eye, but I can’t do anything about your heart.”
“Just be my friend, eh?”
“That I am.”
And then we turn and leave.
sixteen
One Month Later
My phone rings, and I fumble for it, nerves squirming in my stomach like a bed of snakes.
“Cath?”
“He’s okay, Wes.”
I slump against the counter, letting my breath out in a loud sigh. The man perusing the skin mags on the other side of the counter shoots me a suspicious look and then goes back to gazing at this month’s centrefold. I ignore him.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Her voice carries a hint of hope, and I don’t know whether to encourage it and let myself feel the same or whether we’re both just heading for more disappointment. “I think this is going to work. He looked determined.”
