“Why now?”
“Yes. What’s brought on this sudden rash of nerves? I saw no sign of them the other night when were together.”
I made a high-pitched, desperate sound and rolled my eyes. “Sudden? My doubts have always been there. Surely you get that. Why now? It’s just a basic law of emotional physics, I guess.” I reached for my wine and took another swallow, aware of his tight attention on me the whole time. “Things build until they reach a boiling point. And once that point is reached—boom. Everything changes.”
He said nothing, only watched me with that enigmatic, steady gaze that was either cool or hot. I could never decide which.
“I Googled her. Elizabeth,” I admitted impulsively, wild to break the silence, crazy to get past the finish line now that I’d started. Surely mentioning his dead wife would bring things to an abrupt end. “At first I tried Elizabeth Halifax, but then I remembered that Tommy had mentioned her father’s name. Noah Madaster. Tommy doesn’t seem to like your former father-in-law much.”
“A lot of people don’t,” Evan said evenly enough, but I saw the glint of curiosity in his eyes. “Tommy knows Noah?” We referred to my boss and mutual friend, Tommy Higoshi.
“Only briefly. He met him once at a medical technology conference,” I said, watching Evan’s reaction to my miniscule knowledge of his deceased wife’s family. I realized he wasn’t going to say anything else, so I continued on my suicide mission.
“So I Googled her maiden name: Elizabeth Madaster. I just thought you should know,” I said lamely. Was he angry at my admitted intrusion in his carefully guarded past? Mildly curious? Politely disinterested? I was flailing for a hold in this conversation. In this whole affair.
“And what did you find out about her?”
“Not much. Most references were to her father and his political career, and a few charities Elizabeth was involved in.” I hadn’t even been able to locate Elizabeth’s obituary or the circumstances of her death. The small amount of information I’d been able to find about Evan’s wife had only served to make my curiosity—not to mention Elizabeth’s invisible, suffocating presence—grow.
Evan didn’t speak. He gave nothing away. I was mad at him for making this so hard, and pissed at myself because I was pushing him. Was I ruining something special because of my own insecurities?
You’re taking care of yourself. Who else will?
“I just don’t think you’re ready. You’re still grieving for her.” And I’m not the Band-Aid to your grief.
“She’s been gone for more than seven years.”
I found myself studying his face closely, searching for some hint of how he felt about Elizabeth Madaster, right now in this very moment. I found nothing, which is what I really expected to find. The past eight weeks of being with him had taught me that.
“There isn’t a time limit on grief, Evan. I understand.”
“Do you? Would you mind explaining to me what it is you understand, precisely?”
“I understand you don’t want me,” I snapped.
His jaw tightened. I was doing this messily, but there was no going back. “Maybe you feel guilty, or maybe you just want some companionship because you’re lonely, but you aren’t interested in the physical side of things, so whatever the reason—”
“You think I don’t want you?”
I went still. His voice was a quiet, ominous rumble. I could tell by the sudden gleam in his gray eyes I’d seriously offended him.
“Don’t you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked bitterly. “Don’t you notice the stares you get when you walk into a room? You told me once that you used that dating site because men don’t approach you. Don’t you get why? They stay away because you intimidate them, Anna.”
“No,” I said, thrown off balance. “That’s not the point—”
I faded off when I noticed his furious expression. He was like a precision blowtorch in those seconds. I cringed under his stare. I’d never seen him like this. I didn’t know what to say or do. He abruptly rose from the table, towering over me. My stomach dropped. He was going to leave. I’d never see him again, all because I couldn’t go with the flow and keep my stupid mouth shut. He put out his hand.
“Let’s dance,” he said, tight-lipped.
Through the muted roar in my ears, I realized that a jazz quartet was playing across the room.
“I don’t think—”
“Let’s dance, Anna,” he repeated. He took my hand when I didn’t offer it. I rose and followed his tall, formidable form, swimming in confusion.
Through my distraction, I noticed a small dance floor overlooked the Bay Bridge and a magnificent sunset. To this day, I have no idea what song the musicians played. I’d been so anxious about the meeting, so overwhelmed by his presence, I’d never heard music. He turned and took me into his arms. He pulled me close, his hold on me firm and unrelenting. His body felt hard, yet fluid, moving next to mine.
We didn’t speak. There wasn’t any need to, I realized after a moment. His eyes said it all as he looked down at me. His body shouted it so loudly, the truth roared in my ears and stung in my veins.