Page 51 of David's Chase

“Yes?”

‘See what you get for not minding your business…’the voice in my head mutters.

And she’s right.

I make a small gesture.

“I’m sorry. We shouldn’t discuss this,” I say, hiding behind my glass while sipping the rest of my drink.

He gently cuffs my wrist while I set my empty glass down.

“Why do you want to know about my past?” he asks quietly, not threatening in any way.

I give him a smile, feverishly seeking a way out.

“Writers are curious folks.”

A throaty laugh makes it to his lips.

“I’m not talking about writers in general. Why doyouwant to know?” he presses further, and I sense it’s important to him to know more about my motives.

I slump back in my seat and tip my head to the side to take him in.

His hand holds mine, and I find it endearing.

Swiftly I realize there is no way out, so I decide to speak the truth.

“I want to know what makes you who you are today,” I say, and his eyes hold a glint of surprise. “Your past is shrouded in mystery. No one knows much about it. Not even Rain had much knowledge of it when she wrote the book.”

Bringing up her name dims the brightness in his eyes.

His stare becomes dull and unreadable, and I’m quick to throw an apology at him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to ruin your mood.”

He takes a long breath, more uncomfortable by the moment, which pulls me out of my comfort zone, making me run my mouth again.

“She’s my only point of reference. And, I know… I know. I shouldn’t be interested in stuff like that because it’s an old story and has no relevance to us. I mean, me… Oh, forget about it.”

Annoyed and embarrassed, I yank my hand out of his grip and push out of my seat. I wish I didn’t bring it up.

The evening started up so nicely, and I had to unearth this old story to find out what?

The man was married. He had an affair or more. The marriage didn’t work out for either of them. He got a divorce. And here he is, living his life and not wanting to get into that serious stuff again.

What’s so hard to understand?

“Sit,” he says, looking up and tilting his chin toward the lounge chair.

“I don’t have anything else to say,” I argue, gesturing softly.

“I said sit, Elizabeth,” he tosses at me again, a faint smile on his lips.

Reluctantly, I lower myself into the chair and watch him watching me.

“You have the right to ask questions,” he begins. “It has nothing to do with what we are to each other.”

A few seconds pass, and his eyes go vacant as he revisits some moments from the past.

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