Page 36 of Free to Run
Her lips part. She’s surprised I remember, but I haven’t forgotten a thing. Not even those damned shoes she was wearing—her prized silver Jimmy Choo sandals.
The meager food choices she ordered for her dinner, along with a half-finished bottle of wine sit on the table. My chest hurts knowing this woman was going to console herself curled up in a hotel bed surrounded by nothing but the storm to keep the pain away. And at the heart of it, I was the reason for it.
I offer a detente. “Come on. That was a decent appetizer. Let’s order real food, and we’ll talk.”
She gapes at me like I’ve lost my mind. And maybe in some ways, it’s true.
She turns back to the windows, her body slumping in defeat versus the defiance it normally holds. My insides twist as shame washes over me.
My selfishness might have been what ultimately broke this strong woman. I thought I could demand her to give me a chance, explain my reasons, share my secrets that were weighing me down in time. Suddenly, I have nothing. No reasons. No explanations. Nothing good enough to explain taking the light away from the sun.
I turn away from her and rub the back of my neck. I’m defeated too.
Suddenly, she throws me a lifeline, offering, “This is what looked best on the menu.” She’s guarded, wary, and wounded. The acid in my gut is rising. “I didn’t care about eating earlier,” she admits quietly.
It’s hard not to let her quiet comments increase my agitation, but she doesn’t need anger at myself misinterpreted. I reach up and gently push a lock of hair away from her face. Just as I imagined, it’s soft.
“How about now? Think you might want something a little more substantial?” I coax her to meet my eyes by bending down a little.
She shrugs. Her noncommittal response is disquieting. Quickly thinking, I come up with, “How about some mac and cheese instead of this crap?” I gesture behind me.
She shakes her head sadly. “It wasn’t on the menu. I already looked.”
I smile at her. “Oh, ye of little faith, Alison. This is New York.” Pulling up my phone, I look for the phone number for Butter Restaurant Midtown. Within minutes, I confirm they have their infamous gnocchi mac and cheese on the menu and arrange, with a hefty delivery fee, for it to be delivered to the presidential suite of the hotel. During my conversation with the famous restaurant, I watch as Alison’s posture relaxes a little.
Hanging up with the bar at Butter after giving them my credit card, I ask Alison, “How about some more of that”—I nod at the half-finished wine bottle—“while we wait? And you can explain to me again why Em has to copyright all of her dress designs when they’re all basically white dresses.” I cock my brow and wait for her response.
Her lips twitch as she raises her almost empty glass to them. “Don’t ever let her hear you say that.”
She walks over to the wine and pours herself another glass. “Make yourself useful, Keene. Order more wine.”
“What? Tracking down mac and cheese isn’t useful?” I toss back, thrilled to see her more animated.
She’s thoughtful for a moment. Tipping her head to the side, her hair brushes against the satin of her sleep shirt. “Are you eating some of it?”
I scoff, playfully. I paid close to a hundred dollars for delivery to make her smile. I’m getting a forkful at least. “I’d planned on it,” I answer with amusement.
“Then it wasn’t completely useful. It was self-serving. So now it’s time to be useful.” There’s a smile hovering on the edge of her lips that makes me want to pump my fist in the air. I’d forgotten what it was like to spar with her and her smart mouth. “Order the wine, and I’ll once again try to school you on the importance of copyright law and design.”
At that small smile, my muscles relax. Somehow, I managed to pull her back tonight from the abyss of her thoughts with simple gestures and words.
Walking over to the phone, I remember something my mother said to me long ago as she held my head in her lap.
“Don’t underestimate the power of honesty, Keene. Sometimes it hurts and sometimes it heals. But if you want it, you have to give it. Honest words may make a life-changing difference.”
Ordering more wine and two fresh glasses, I watch her. In profile, her beauty is stunning, but it’s the daredevil, the brilliant mind, the warrior’s soul living beneath the beautiful face that has captivated me since our first meeting.
One battle at a time, Keene, I tell myself, dropping onto the couch. First, I have to get her to trust that I just want to know her as Alison again. And even while I’m waging war with my own body because I want her so desperately, Alison needs to know I’m not just looking for her as a one-night stand.
But as more.
16
Alison
When the knock came at the door, first for the wine and then shortly after for the gnocchi, Keene jumped up both times to answer. After he plated the food, he presented me with a dish of gooey, rich, buttery cheesiness that had me moaning aloud at the first bite. Hearing him mutter, “This might have been a mistake,” had me throwing my head back and laughing.
And it came to me. It was the first laugh we’ve shared since our night together at the Plaza.
