Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Mick takes my hand, snatching it up from the table and kisses it. I don’t know what to think other than he’s very good at being the handsome, charming lover. I’m supposed to play the pampered mistress, I guess. I let him hold my hand and kiss it, saying complimentary things about how beautiful I look. I’m scowling a little to myself. He’s not acting like himself and I feel off-balance.
Is it because I chose this, to be his secret with the standing weekly date, and now I think I sold myself too cheaply? I gave up on anything real with him and settled for hiding in the shadows for as long as I’m in town. I gave up hope is what I did, and now I feel like this is something seedy.
It's like I’m outside my own body sort of floating above the scene instead of being present. He notices that I’m distracted and asks if I’m feeling okay.
“I guess I’m just tired. And this feels different to me, like it’s not real life anymore.”
“We’ve spent a lot of evenings in the crow’s nest,” he says. “Do you want to go somewhere else? My house?”
He’s solicitous and considerate, but it feels fake. Like we’re playing roles now. Or maybe we’ve been playing roles all along and I just now noticed it. I can’t shake the weirdness, the sense that something’s not right.
“No. I just want to know, why dinner? And jewelry? Why now?”
“You let me know that you thought you were catching feelings for me. I got to thinking maybe I led you on and let you think there was gonna be a big love story with a happy ending. But I don’t ride off in the sunset, and I’m a Southie boy. I’m not gonna follow you to LA or give up the business. I won’t turn out to be the good guy. It’s only fair to let you know what I can give, and what I can’t. This, I can do. I can have my secretary order dinner, and I can buy you something nice to let you know I like having you around. You decided on a night you want us to meet, and I can respect that. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss you the other days of the week, but that was what you wanted after I laid my cards on the table. So this is where we are.”
He's so reasonable about it, and he seems patient and clear, like he’s respecting my boundary or something. I want to knock the plates off the table and tell him I don’t want this. I want things the way they were but better, with more of his time and attention, whole days spent together, weekends in bed, growing closer instead of putting our affair into a box and labeling it ‘Wednesdays 8pm’. I’ve painted myself into a corner and don’t know how to fix it.
I take a drink of my wine and shake my head. “Just forget I said anything.”
“Which time?” he challenges, which I don’t expect.
I expect him to say okay and then go back to the wining and dining routine. But I see it now. This is Mickey when he’s pissed at me. I almost smile to myself because now I get it. That’s what felt off to me. Not just that I don’t like the arrangement we made. I could sense him acting differently toward me and it was the way he covers frustration or anger—with charm.
“All of it. Especially when I said I had feelings for you. That’s where I screwed up. I either scared you off or made you mad because this is what I get. Old wine and older diamonds.”
I reach up and unfasten the necklace, feel the weight drop off of me. “Here. I’m not that woman. Maybe your others wanted presents and stuff. I just wanted to know you and be with you. Maybe keep this for someone else.”
“There isn’t anybody else,” he says, and his mouth is a hard line now. Good, I think, now we can both be mad.
“You’ll find somebody soon enough. Look at you,” I say almost derisively. “You look like a goddamn Versace ad.”
“I’m Irish, not Italian,” he says unnecessarily.
“You know what I mean. The jaw, the hair, the piercing eyes. Suit, expensive watch. The whole package. Your picture could sell a lot of cologne.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if I decide to branch out in my business,” he says. “I don’t get you Katie. You tell me this is what you want and now you’re mad. What gives?”
I shake my head. “It just feels like, okay so I say I love you and you don’t want to have that conversation but you also don’t want me to leave, so you get me some big dumb present so I can pretend that’s proof of your feelings that you don’t admit to or at least I have something expensive to hold onto instead of any kind of commitment. It’s a substitute for emotional availability.”