Page 105 of The Wrong Move

The sun has barely touched the horizon.

Like the certainty of the sun rising and setting each day, I refuse to wait another minute to confront Byron. I can’t avoid the inevitable. We have slipped effortlessly into a relationship, sliding the problems of the past and how we have dealt with them under a very thick rug. We’ve danced over and around it so we don’t trip and spoil the fun of the last few months by arguing. But all real couples argue, or at least debate, at some point. Sometimes, you have to in order to move forward. And if we want to move forward, we need to discuss how we deal with complications like adults.

He’s pushing me away rather than discussing our emotions. Sure, he is angry, hurt, and frustrated. While yelling doesn’t resolve anything, I’d rather that than the silence. My plan is to talk to him in a calm way so he’ll hopefully open up about his feelings.

Imagining how the ‘debate’ will pan out, I practice positive reactions while driving to his place. I check my facial expressions in the mirror, practicing my best poker face if he says something negative. I’m not about to smother him with positivity because I know he is hurting, and too much sunshine will burn him when he’s feeling down. Instead, I want to offer a gentle warmth and let him know I’m here for him.

After parking my car out front, I use the passcode to his gate, then stand at his door, knowing the cameras will alert him to my presence. I tap in the code to his front door and let myself in.

He’s not in the kitchen or out on his beautiful balcony watching the sunrise reflect off the water of his pool. Without knocking, I march straight into his bedroom and swing open his door. He is sitting upright with pillows behind his back.

“Clearly, I need to change the code,” he says without looking at me.

For a moment, I’m distracted by his tanned bare chest, his muscled abs, and the beginning of the V on his hips, where the sheet falls loosely over his skin.

“So he talks,” I remark sarcastically. I walk over to his bed, take the cell out of his hand, and tap on my number. My cell buzzes in my handbag strapped over my shoulder. “And this works.” I toss his cell onto the white sheets, then fold my arms and glare at him. “What’s your excuse?” He turns his head to the window and stares out to his beautiful garden. I move to block his view. “Oh no. You don’t get to ignore me today.”

This is not what I foresaw happening. What happened to calm Giana?

He tilts his head back, leaning it against the headboard. “Why are you here?”

Still, he refuses to look at me. I take a deep breath to slow my racing heart. “To talk. Resolve our problems. Talk about the future.”

He shakes his head. “No, Giana.”

I flinch at his tone, and the fact he called me Giana and not Gigi. In the seconds of silence, I momentarily avert my gaze to the wall. My painting ofour beachhangs on the wall. It’s not my best work, yet it means a lot to Byron, and for him to have it in his room reminds me all is not lost.

“Why are you here in LA? You left. You can’t just?—”

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do,” I yell, louder than I intended. “I am here for us, and I’m not about to let you ruin our chance.” I inhale a sharp, angry breath. “Deny it all you want, but we have something special, and you’re running from it.”

Byron throws back the covers, stands, and balances on one leg while his foot in the black boot hovers above the floor. He stares down at me, his blue eyes a darker shade than I remember. He narrows his eyes at me, almost glaring. “I’m not running away from shit. I’m giving you a chance to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave,” I yell, then point a finger at him. “If you want out, then say so. Be the coward. Or is this all too close to how you were in your freshman year? Poor Byron didn’t get on the court, the coach wouldn’t give him a chance. Now you’re feeling sorry for yourself all over again. Lick your wounds, do what you need to do, then grow the fuck up.”

His face turns red. “I want out,” he says slowly, between clenched teeth. “I want you to leave. Now.”

I hate that we have come to this. We’re acting like petulant teenagers. I push him. He stumbles back. I push him again so he falls onto the bed. “Make me, asshole.” I grab his chin and raise it so he is looking at me. “Six years ago, you made one wrong move that ruined everything we had. Don’t?—”

He grabs my wrist and holds it away from his face with a grip tight enough to cut off my blood supply. His eyes bore into mine. “You don’t get it, Gigi,” he whispers angrily.

Gigi. I have an edge.

“Yes, I do. You’re trying to push me away, thinking you’re saving me from making a big mistake.” I lean closer so our faces are inches apart. “I beat you to it. I’m here to save you from making one of your own.”

He gently shakes his head as tears well in his eyes. “I can’t let you do that.”

The world stills. I pant as though the air in the room has thinned, making it harder to breathe. He’s not being an asshole. He’s not acting selfish, thinking about himself or his career. It’s not about him falling from grace and turning to alcohol or substance abuse again. He is thinking about me. He believes he is saving me from him, the one person I don’t want saving from.

I lean down and kiss his lips once, softly, then again. “Too late. I already have.”

He flops back onto the bed, pulling me onto him. We kiss each other with desperate passion, lost in the moment, his hands hold my face so I can’t break free. This is our first real argument. The last time, he ran away from our problems, and I sprinted in the other direction all the way to Italy.

“If this happens again… the only place we run to is each other’s arms,” I tell him.

Byron leans his forehead against mine and squeezes his arms around my back as though he’s afraid to let go. “I can’t think of any other place I would rather be than wrapped in your arms. Promise me you’ll never let me go.”

I never will. Never again.

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