CHAPTER 22: He's with her now. Sitting at the small table, VIP reservations, in jeans and a shirt. Expensive food, wine, privacy. Gifts. He gave her a dress to wear, just for that night. She's beautiful in it. He tells her. Repeatedly. She blushes. Sips some of the two hundred dollar wine. They eat, dishes with names they can't pronounce. He's looking deep into her eyes. His hazel gaze is mesmerizing. She can't resist him. The candle lights on the table glow gently. It's romantic. He smiles, tells her something funny. He's being subtle and shy. It's cute. He's making her laugh. Under the table their hands graze. His eyes sparkle. She looks up at him through her eyelashes. She smiles softly. Reaches out. Their fingers touch, then intertwine. Their eyes meet.
"Let's go home," he says. They do. Take a cab. On the back seat they start to touch. Fingers, hands, arms, first wrists, then lower arms, elbows, biceps. Shoulders. Chest and back. All over. Neck, face. Cheeks, chin, jaw. Lips. The cab driver doesn't see, or maybe he ignores. It's like they're all alone. She leans in, discreetly. He knows what she wants. He doesn't stop her. Their lips brush, once, twice. Then a third, fourth, fifth, sixth time. Then they meet for good. The cab driver clears his throat, but they pretend he's not there. They can't let each other go. Their bodies are constantly touching. She wants him, and he knows. He has no intention of rejecting her.
They reach the house. His house. Expensive, classy, filled with little details that display the amount of money he's capable of spending. They walk through the front door, his hand in hers. He flips the light switch, so they can see each other. She's beautiful.
''You're beautiful,'' he tells her. It's maybe the twentieth time he's told her that night. It's true. She paralyzes him. She makes his heart beat too fast. He can't even catch his breath.
They sit on his huge, soft, comfortable couch for a while. Candles are lit. He doesn't usually fancy candles, but he'll happily light some for her. A half empty wine bottle and two wine glasses are on the table. Drops of red wine on the bottom proves that they drank. He pours them some more, and drinks another sip. The TV is on, but the volume is low, and neither of them are paying attention. All they see, feel, hear, smell and taste is each other, the wine, and the low heat building in their bodies. They sit closely, and as the evening progresses, they move closer. The kisses they shared in the cab are felt between them as a warm attraction. Suddenly, they kiss again. This time it's real. Hot, intense. They touch, hands roaming, searching for bare skin and removing whatever is in the way of it. The heat between them works its way down low. Night falls, and it's too late. They can't turn back. They move to the bedroom, glued together by either hands or lips. They can't sense anything but the other. Soft whispers and moans build behind the curtains.
''I'm sorry,'' he says. His voice is a plea, and it's directed to her. His eyes are closed. His head is bent, his forehead is resting against hers. He's praying, like a sinner on his last day. She moves, she's under him. Her arms are around his neck. He can feel her kiss, brief, soft.
''I love you,'' she whispers, confesses. He knows she does. Oh, he knows. Too well does he know how much she regrets her actions. Not only because she said so, but because he can sense it in the way she's around him, the way she touches him, kisses him, talks to him. She loves him, and she wants him to know.
''I know,'' he murmurs. He does. Which is why he told her so. He told her because it's the truth. He knows she's sorry, that she regrets.
He also told her because he knows he can't love her back.
He wish he could.
He doesn't regret.
The only thing he regrets is that she is the one with him right now, the one who whispered his name and kissed him and held him. It shouldn't have been.
It should've been you.
You've been thinking about the way he probably reunited with her a billion times.
Why can't you stop thinking about him?
He's been haunting you for a while, now. You're not sure how long, exactly. You just know it's been a while. Every time you see his face on a magazine, in a music video, on a talk show, you think about that night in the bar bathroom. You think about why he did it. Why he treated you like that. Pushed you away. Why he
backed out.
You also think about her. His girlfriend.
Why did he take her back?
They're everywhere, the two of them. Holding hands, kissing, sharing loving looks. You try to ignore them, and you fight to convince yourself it doesn't hurt when you see him with her. But it does. It makes you feel mad at him, furious, cause he used you and then took off without even telling you a proper goodbye, and it also makes you feel sad. Why, you don't know. At first, when the first pictures and articles documenting him and his back-together-girlfriend's relationship started surfacing to the public audience, you kept wondering what they were like together. What their feelings were like. Did they really love each other? Did they really care, or was it all publicity? Your guess was as good as the next guy's. You didn't know. All you could do to keep updated was to read the magazines, knowing well that half or more of those couldn't be trusted (hoping they couldn't), and watch as they officially announced their relationship at a very fancy restaurant, her in a beautiful dress and him in a jeans and shirt. Although it made you feel guilty, not to mention nuts, you wondered what they were doing that night after the restaurant. You pictured it, and imagined for a second what it would be like if she had just left him alone after the initial breakup. Would things have been different? Would you still have had some kind of a relationship with him? Would it have been you in that pretty dress, with his hand in yours and his eyes all on you?
You find yourself wondering about him at times. About how he's doing, about whether he's okay, and you don't see anything wrong with that. Of course you wonder, because you do care about him, even though he was an asshole. It would be weird if you never gave him another thought. And at first, it really is all you wonder about, his health and happiness and how he's hanging up. It doesn't concern you much. Then, after a while, other wonderings sneak into your mind. Things that aren't so casual. Like, what shirt he's wearing that particular day, or what he's doing. Or like, what he looks like just when he wakes up in the morning, what his voice sounds like. Or like, what he does in the evening when he's not at work, or what ice cream he likes the best. Sometimes it's even worse. Sometimes you picture the way the sleeves of his tight T-shirt stick to his tattooed arms, or the way he looks shirtless, or you imagine the way it would feel to lie next to him in bed, or, God forgive you, the way he would look after spending a night doing anything but sleeping underneath the sheets. You imagine the gentle side of him, caresses and soft kisses, gentle voices and adoring eyes. You don't know what's wrong with you. You shouldn't be thinking about him like that. In that bar, all he did was pull both of your pants down and finish it up, and it wasn't close to tender; it was rough, as far from emotional as about possible. So why do you want it to be? Why do you fantasize about it?
It takes you too long to realize you're in love with him.
In fact, you probably don't quite realize it until the day when you once again look into his eyes, and he smiles shyly at you and says, ''Hey, Emilie.''
