Page 22 of The One Who Got Away

We were barely adults when we discovered that neither of us were fans of the flowery, gentle pace of making love. I liked it rough and he liked to be in charge. I think a part of me had leapt at the chance to do something so taboo, so forbidden that I’d give everything, including control, over to him. That I’d get pleasure whenever he held me down and bent me over and tied me up. My vulnerability, that gift, was something I’d never given to anyone else.

A man like Lincoln could snap his fingers and women would line up to be his. To be dominated. I couldn’t stand the thought of him having another woman in that way.

After I made sure our waitress was well out of earshot, tackling our order, I growled, “Clearly I’ve been unclear about the way things are now.”

That made Lincoln stroke his chin, his eyes flashing like a bolt of lightning. “Is that so?”

“I agreed to dinner. Not a makeover. Not to have you order said dinner for me like I’m not capable of making my own choices-”

“Your attitude has been crystal clear, Catherine.”

I bristled at the scold in his voice, precipitated by him snatching up his glass of bourbon and water and taking an angry swig.

“I will carry the burden of what I did. How I hurt you. The fact that you showed up here tonight is more than I deserve.”

Damn right. I took a righteous slurp of my wine. Even still, his words seemed to skate around the point, somehow missing the gravity of what he’d done. I settled on the fact that at least he was admitting that me showing up was more than he deserved.

I lowered my glass back to the table and squared off with him. “You know it’s going to take a lot more than flashing money at me to make this right.” He didn’t look fazed in the least, so I added. “Don’t you?”

He fisted his glass but didn’t raise it back to his lips. “And I think you know that this isn’t about me trying to make anything ‘right.’” He spit the word out like it was a bad piece of food, but there was no napkin to hide it away. It was right there, on the table, in all of its uncomfortable glory.

I narrowed my eyes, ready to batten down the hatches and go to war, but he just held out both of his hands, palms up like he had nothing to hide. Nothing to offer but the truth.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he confessed. “Only a year out of Rhoades, high off of adulthood and the golden parachute that’s the package deal of being a Carraway...” Pain washed over his strong features, and I got to see a glimpse of the Lincoln that no one else got to see. “I was in love with you, but I was terrified of what that meant. ‘Til death do us part’ seems like a long time when you’re a kid-”

“You were not a kid,” I cut in adamantly. I’d tried to use that excuse myself. Chalking it up to youthful indiscretion. But he didn’t get to blame what he did on being young and prone to doucheyness. That was just an excuse. “You were nineteen years old. People vote at eighteen, die for our country-”

“For fuck’s sake, Cat!” This was no flash of anger, no undercurrent of frustration. His voice boomed like a cannonball, slashing through my tirade. “I am not trying to make excuses here! I’m aware that I was legally an adult. And that there are people who fight and die for our country, support entire families, and sacrifice instead of running when shit hits the fan-”

“But that’s just the thing,” I cut back in, gripping the table. “I didn’t know shit hit the fan. We made love the night before. You sent me a text that morning telling me you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me, then the next thing I hear from you is all of these ramblings about us being too young and you not being ready.” The tears poured into my voice, pooled in my eyes. “So that makes me wonder if it was all a lie. It had to have been a lie, right? Because you were carrying all these doubts, all this angst about marrying me, and I was sitting there thinking about honeymoons and white picket fences and babies.”

Admitting that, that I was ready to settle down, be half of a whole, was like I’d stripped the fancy dress right off my body, climbed on top of the table, and was just standing there with every vulnerability, every flaw, every stupid dream on display.

I shivered and tore my eyes from his because he didn’t get to make those puppy dog eyes at me. I didn’t care if it was hard to hear. He was probably used to people bowing to his whims, blowing smoke up his ass, tiptoeing around the truth so they didn’t wake the beast. But nothing was more terrifying than realizing that your partner wasn’t your partner at all. That you’d been alone all along.

My tears splashed onto the tablecloth, disappearing as soon as they crashed into the linen. I wished the pain could disappear so easily.

“It’s not the fear that hurts, Linc.” His nickname rolled right off my tongue, but that just deepened the ache. “It’s that you didn’t trust me enough to talk to me. We could have had a long engagement. Hell, we could have called off the wedding before everyone was in their Sunday best, ready to celebrate us. We could have done what was right for us. Instead, you chose to do what was right for you.”

There.

I said it.

The thing I’d carried with me for years. That he was a selfish bastard. That he left me alone. That he embarrassed me in front of our family and friends and even people I didn’t care about but had to invite to be polite. He chose to run. And I was supposed to trust that now, he had his shit together? Now, he wouldn’t get out of dodge when things got tough?

As bad ass as my words were, I still didn’t pry my eyeballs from the tablecloth, even after I heard his chair slide backward across the hardwood floor. I counted every step that carried him from his side to mine. Felt him standing beside me, the pull of him painfully hard to deny. His hand drifted in view, palm up, seemingly empty, but I saw the olive branch there. I thought I’d surrendered by coming here, but he was the one surrendering. Giving me a chance to say that it was too late, the damage was done—or we could take the tiniest step toward something different. Something new.

And then his voice reached through the darkness and drew my gaze up to meet his.

“Dance with me.”

The words fell from my mouth a few moments ago, but I was utterly speechless now. A part of me was flabbergasted. I mean, I tell him that he abandoned me, abandoned us, and his answer is for us to dance? Dance and sing and delight as the Titanic sinks to the bottom of the ocean? Another part of me wanted nothing more than to take his hand and be swept away in this moment. Because outside of this room the real world spun on, but here? Here, it was just me and him and the chemistry that burned as brightly as the candles that roared around us.

His hand was still there, eyes still intent, question still hanging in the silence. Well, not complete silence since the music was still floating from somewhere. Not our kind of music; too classical, too romantic. And now we were about to, what? Waltz?

I glanced down at myself, wrapped in some couture gown, then back at his sleek black suit. Well, we were dressed for the occasion.

Any moment the waitress would be back and I’d have an excuse to say no. A plate filled with macaroni had my name on it. And I’d devour it and put off the inevitable, when I’d have to answer his question.

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