Page 29 of Was I Ever Here

Byzantine looks back at me now, his irises full of an emotion I can’t place, and I can’t help but squirm beneath his intense gaze.

“I want to get to know you,” he replies.

“I was just trying to do the same…” I mutter with slight annoyance. I sweep across his features trying to find anything other than his favorite stoic mask but I get nothing.

I roll my eyes and reach for my latte just to have something to hold. We’re getting nowhere.

Suddenly, the tension between us crackles when Byzantine leans over the table and snatches my left wrist in his hand.

“What’s this?” he growls, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

His thumb digs into my skin while we both stare down at the scar on my wrist. It’s an ugly thing, raised and angry. It begins at the edge of my palm and goes up my forearm, about three inches in length. I’ve managed to cover most of it with a tattoo of two snakes criss-crossing around my forearm, but at the right angle, it’s still pretty apparent. I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed it before today.

It’s also obvious what it is if you have eyes and any kind of critical thinking. I know his question is rhetorical. But he has no right to ask about something so private. Shame burns my cheeks and indignation boils under my skin as I rip my arm away from his tight hold. Still, the loss of his touch is a dull throb I willfully ignore.

“It’s none of yourfuckingbusiness.”

I throw his own words back at him and lean on my chair to get as much distance as I can from him. He studies me for what feels like forever, his eyes piercing through my resolve until finally, he leans back in his own chair and folds his arms across his chest looking defeated.

“Touché,” he simply says.

We fall silent while we drink our respective coffees, the tension between us rippling like a lightning storm ready to strike. After stewing in silence for what feels like an eternity, I’ve had enough and grab my purse from the chair beside me, stand up, and clear my throat.

“I think I’ll get going,” I say dryly.

When he glances up at me, I nearly lose my balance. It’s the most vulnerable I've ever seen him. Pain painted in broad strokes across his face. Then, he blinks and it’s gone. Back is his steely gaze and debonair attitude.

“I’ll drive you home,” he murmurs, readying himself to stand. But I stop him with a hand on his shoulder, quickly pulling it away as if burned.

“It’s okay. I want to walk. Clear my head,” I rebuff. I’m certain he’s going to object—he hasn’t let me walk home alone in weeks—but instead, he just nods and settles back into his chair.

“You should get some sleep,” he says quietly as he rests his chin in his hand, looking out the window again, averting his gaze. “I’ll see you tonight at the bar.”

I stay frozen to the spot for a moment too long. I can't help but to feel a bit jilted that he’s letting me walk. “Right, um, okay. See you tonight…thanks for the coffee, I guess,” I say, fumbling on my words and quickly walking out of the door.

I kick a small pebble further down the sidewalk as I near my neighborhood. What the fuck was that? Byzantine was acting strange all morning. I mean stranger than usual.

I know I shouldn’t have bit his head off but since when did he take my snark to heart?

I can’t shake the feeling I was in the wrong and I hate it. My thoughts travel back to earlier.

The way he grabbed my wrist like he had the right to demand the origin of my scar, as if angered someone had hurt me, even if the someone was myself. It made me seethe. I was right to shut him down. It’s nobody’s business but mine.

Besides, that scar happened forever ago. Old news. Big deal. I’ve moved on.

The week-long stay at the mental hospital might say otherwise though. I shake my head as if it could help stave off the intrusive thoughts. There’s no need to think about that period of my life.

I’m here now and that’s what matters.

I adjust the purse on my shoulder and head into my building. Byzantine was right about one thing, I need to sleep, and I need to sleep now. I dig the keys out of my purse and unlock my apartment door. I peel my clothes off my body as soon as I enter my studio, shrugging on an oversized shirt and crawl into bed.

Byzantine’s face is the last thing I see before I give into the sleepless void.

I’m wiping down the bar with a rag, trying to get my blood down to a normal non-volcanic level as my thoughts go a mile a minute.

Byzantine hasn’t left his office all night. He’s never done that. He’s always sat at the bar while I work—at least for a little while. Apparently him not doing so tonight is enough to piss me off. But are my angry thoughts directed at me or him? I don’t know. And why is it bothering me so much?

I can’t even describe the way he’s making me feel. Is it guilt? Remorse? But I didn’t do anything overtly wrong, and I’ll be damned if a man is going to make me feel like this when I’m not even at fault.

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