Page 123 of Van Cort
“And what does that mean? What does being Mrs Van Cort look like?” I have an idea, and it’s not one that I think of when I view myself. An accessory to show off at gala dinners or charity events? Am I to provide an heir, like he implied earlier, be the dutiful wife? That’s the image that springs to mind as we stand, staring at each other. That’s the base – the very foundation – of everything Van Cort is built on, from my perception.
“Being together. Being bound together. Honour, respect, love.”
“That’s being a wife. Not what I see when I think of marriage.”
“What do you want then? What else do you want from me?”
“What else? You’ve given me scraps, Everett. Everything on your terms. Everything under your control. Your choices. Your decisions. Right from the very start,” I shout. “It’s like I push you, and I don’t know what version of you I’ll get back. And I can’t live like that.”
“I’ve given you more than anyone!” His words echo and bounce off the enclosed space, ringing in my ears, but the sound only stokes my anger. We’re right back to the argument in the office again. He’s decided, and that’s it? No discussion, no talk, just…
“You haven’t even gotten down on one knee? This is the most important question you could ask me, and you do it here, behind ten feet of reinforced concrete, in a vault, like you’re asking me to sign a contract, even comparing me to what’s in here.” A bigger part of me than I’m comfortable admitting wants the declaration, the over-the-top proposal, something that means something to both of us.
“This is the most important place for me,” he grits out, his temper flaring. “This is a part of my soul, maybe the only part left that’s still whole. This is the heart of me, if you can’t see it…” His eyes blaze, his usually rock-solid façade slipping under my questions, or more likely, his answers.
I try to wrap my head around what he means by his soul, and this place being his heart, the intensity of the words willing me to see something he’s not spoken. It’s clear he’s uncomfortable here, yet why bring me to propose, of all places, if this also causes him pain?
“Take it. Take it!” He yells, and I reach to hold the golden box that already feels like a weight in my hand. “It was my mother’s. And I want it to be yours. I want you to wear it.”
Those final words slay me, breaking a part of my heart for him. The mother who died, whom he never met. And I suddenly want to take back all the words I spat in my own confusion and pain, an understanding of sorts becoming clear. So much of Everett seems to be wrapped up in his family, in legacy, and in the past. Coming here, he’s opened that up and expected me to understand the weight of that with nothing but clues.
It’s enough for my temper to soften, but not to loosen my tongue into answering him with what he wants. I keep my lips shut and the words lodged in my throat.
And the quiet pause stretches out between us.
An impasse, of sorts.
The air grows thick with anticipation. With expectation.
I want to say something, because I can see he’s suffering, but then, shouldn’t he be happy? Shouldn’t I be happy if it’s what I want?
“Can we leave?” I ask, desperate to be out of here. The weight of the room is pressing in on me, and the panic grows in place of the questions. It’s suffocating any way forward, strangling the thoughts out of me.
He nods and sets about leaving this place.
Back through the doors, the codes, the armed-fucking-guards.
Andre is waiting for us when we finally break free of the building and head down the steps, but Everett doesn’t speak aword. His face is a mask of ice – no glint of emotion. I almost miss the reaction he gave me inside, because at least that told me he feels.
I sit in uncomfortable silence, feeling like I’m slipping from reality.
Everett is the reason I’m hesitating over accepting the job opportunity. He’s the reason I question my own sanity sometimes.
He might say he loves me, but does he? Is he capable of that real, burning desire that melts two people into one other?
My head tilts a fraction so I can glance at him, catch a look, a gesture, something that might help me dissect this, but he’s staring out the window – lost to himself. And isn’t that part of the problem? He might think he’s given me everything, but he’s given me more questions and nothing to make me want to give him the answer he wants.
Andre takes us back to Everett’s apartment. I should be grateful he’s not taken me home and left me there, never to see him again. My inner monologue paints a disturbing picture, more for myself than for him.
As the silence shows no sign of breaking, I wonder what my reaction has done to him. If he thought what he did was the grandest way he could declare his love – show me his soul – and I rejected him – isn’t it a wonder he’s building his armour back in place? The inner desire to please that was first a way to fit in and soon became a crutch that ensured I’d always fit in, still whispers for me to make the first move. To check on him.
He opens the door to his apartment, still without a word, and heads to the bedroom.
Would we live here? Would he want to share this space? He likened Vancouver to a home, or at least that it could be. I try to piece the lines and words he’s offered and given me, and attempt to make them equal his proposal.
“Everett?” I call, following in his wake into the bedroom, “I just…” I look up at him, as he pulls the shirt from his back, and three dull, red claw marks reveal themselves.
I think about the other night – the night he stayed. There were no marks then, no scratches I thought might have been visible after the sex in his office.
