Two months later.
Friday. 1:02 p.m.
The brown dress was back in the closet. I hadn't worn it again. He hadn't asked me to.
But I saw it. Every morning. And every morning I remembered his eyes. The way they didn't blink. The way my skin felt under them.
Two months. That's how long it had been since Vespertine. Since skin to skin. Since I realized Alexandra Vega had hands, and a mouth, and a voice that went low when he said "Dance."
Two months of noticing. His hands when he signed papers. His mouth when he said my name. The way his suit jacket pulled across his shoulders when he reached for coffee. The way he didn't reach for me.
I wasn't in love. I wasn't stupid. I was just… aware. Aware that my husband was handsome. Aware that he had soft lips. Aware that I'd never noticed before because I wasn't allowed to look.
Now I looked. And I didn't know what to do with it.
---
Elias and I became friends. Slow. Not fast. Not lunch on day two.
It was week three when he brought me coffee without asking. Week five when I told him his tie was crooked. Week seven when he told me about Cambridge. About her. Three years. Long distance. "She's a professor," he said. "Medieval lit. She's smarter than me. Don't tell her I said that."
I didn't. I just smiled. "Explains the glasses."
"Explains the socks on the floor," he said. "She hates it. I do it anyway."
By month two, we had a rhythm. He covered my 9 a.m.s when I was late. I reviewed his decks before he sent them up. We didn't do lunch every day. Twice a week, maybe. The place on 42nd. Corner booth. Windows.
Today was one of those days.
"You're quiet," he said. He was halfway through a burger. I was picking at fries. "Not working?"
"Thinking."
"Dangerous." He wiped his mouth. "About?"
I set a fry down. "Hypothetically. How do you know?"
"Know what?"
"That you love someone."
He didn't laugh. Didn't tease. He set the burger down. "Hypothetically?"
"Yes."
"Hypothetically, you stop being rational about them. You see them in a room and your brain goes offline. Hypothetically, you get mad when someone else makes them laugh and you don't know why. Hypothetically, you remember what they wore two months ago and it pisses you off that you remember."
I choked on my water.
He handed me a napkin. Didn't say anything else. Just waited.
"It's not like that," I said.
"Okay."
"It's not."
"Okay."
Across the street, Vega Holdings' glass reflected the sun. Thirty floors up, a window.
Alexandra was standing in it.
---
Alexandra
Two months.
Two months since brown. Two months since her skin. Two months since he told himself he was "figuring it out" and then never did.
Two months of her coming home on time. Of her leaving coffee on his desk. Of her not looking at him, except when she thought he wasn't looking.
Two months of Elias Rowe.
It started slow. A coffee. A file. A nod in the hallway. Then it was lunch. Then it was laughing. Then it was today.
Corner booth. Windows. She pushed Rowe's arm. Not hard. Familiar. Easy. Like she'd done it a hundred times.
She hadn't. Alexandra would have known. He knew her schedule. He knew her calendar. He knew she worked late on Tuesdays and left early on Fridays and took her lunch at her desk unless—
Unless she was with him.
His jaw locked.
He wasn't possessive. He wasn't a child. She was his wife on paper. That was all. That was the contract.
Then why was his chest tight? Why were his hands in fists? Why did he want to go down there and sit down and make her stop laughing?
He didn't know.
He was confused. He'd been confused for two months. Since brown. Since he bought a dress to see what it would do to her. To him.
It did this. This feeling. This nameless, wordless, angry thing.
He turned from the window. Sat at his desk. Opened an email. Closed it.
He didn't own her. He didn't want to.
He didn't know what he wanted. Only that he didn't want that. Her. Laughing. With him.
He was very, very, very angry. And two months later, he still didn't have a word for why.