I was changed in that stolen moment with a stranger.
And I cannot go back.
Chapter 12
Afull month passes.
I do my job, pretend to be aloof and untouchable, snap at and insult rich young boys and correct their grammar and their posture, push them to the edge of their tolerance. And then, just when they start to think ill of me, I allow them to guide the conversation, pretend to care when they speak, encourage them, let them test out their charm on me. Pretend to be charmed. Pretend to bealmostseduced. Pretend to be flustered when they get too close. It’s all a game. It’s always been a game. But now, it seems even more a game. I am numb within, and the burden of playing pretend is heavy.
Alone, I wait. But my bedroom door is not darkened again. No deep-of-night visits.
What is this thick, curling, yet somehow weightless feeling within? Is it hope? Relief? Should I feel relieved that the visits seem to have ended? I owe my life. My self. My past and my future.
It is a heavy debt.
Something changed, and I cannot pinpoint the precise moment when, or how, or why. Or even what. Something to do with Jonathan, oddly. Seeing his transformation, perhaps theonly true success I’ve ever had, watching him unfold and be reborn out of his cocoon, become a man worth knowing. It made a lie of what I do, for the alteration was all of his own doing. I provided the impetus of seeing the need for change, perhaps, but that at most only. I did no changing.
Now I wonder what service I provide. I once thought I did something worthwhile. But now I wonder. These young men who pass through my life, what do I do for them? And what payment do I receive for doing so?
How have I existed—somehow the termlivedseems too strong, suddenly—for this long, having asked no questions?
I’ve been floating along, doing as I’m told, blinded willingly.
Now I see more clearly, but all I am able to make out is outlines of absence, the shape of all that is missing. I see how much I do not know.
And then, one day six weeks after the charity auction event, my door opens, and my heart ceases to beat.
I sit on my couch, sipping tea, waiting for my last client of the day. Oddly, I have received no dossier, no contract. Only a notice stating that the final time slot of the day—six forty-five in the evening—has been filled at the last minute. The client will provide all necessary materials at the time of service.
I sit, leg hooked demurely over knee, and wait. Smooth my dress over my thighs; it’s a white dress with a square neckline, the hem falling to an inch above my knees. Blue peep-toe wedge heels. Hair in a deceptively complicated knot at the nape of my neck, the sapphire pendant at my breastbone.
Ding.
Watch my door handle twist, watch the door swing inward. Shrug my shoulders, square them, let out a breath, force my posture to appear relaxed, my expression blank, indifferent. Tug the hem of my dress closer to my knees, so as to not bare too much flesh.
Saucer in my left hand, cup in my right. Plain white china, gold lining the edge of the saucer and the rim of the cup. Harney & Sons Earl Grey Imperial, a touch of milk.
These details are seared onto my brain.
Watch over the rim of my teacup as the door swings open, a male frame fills the opening. Steps through. Closes the door.
My heart freezes. Lungs halt midbreath. Teacup at my lips, paused. Eyes wide open, unblinking.
It is him.
Logan.
Dark blue denim, tight around thick thighs, a rip at the left knee, right thigh. Rectangular outline of a cell phone in the right hip pocket. Black T-shirt, V-neck, hugging ribs and his powerful chest, sleeves taut around golden biceps. Mirrored silver-frame aviator sunglasses hanging at the apex of the V. Wavy blond hair swept back, hanging around his jawline, a strand across his too-blue, almost purple eyes. Jawline so hard, so strong it could be hewn from seaside cliffs. High, sharp cheekbones. Lips curved in a knowing smile as he meets my gaze. Lips that kissed me, lips that stole my breath and with it my life.
“Found you.” I shiver at the intimacy of his warm rumbling voice.
It seems a voice I’ve always known, a voice heard in unremembered dreams, the dreams you forget upon waking, dreams you wish you could return to as you surface to wakefulness.
I gently set my teacup and saucer on the coffee table, so as not to betray my shaking hands. I cannot take my eyes off Logan. I also cannot speak, cannot offer so much as a polite hello.
He moves toward me, eyes on me the whole while, and sits on the coffee table, a sturdy thing of thick black wood and polished glass, an antique map of the world under the glass. So close. Knees brushing mine.
He leans forward, into my space. Smiles. “What’s the matter... Madame X? Cat got your tongue?”
