Page 89 of Fire and Silk
Our fingers tangle together as we turn and walk back toward the estate.
Behind me, I hear the sound of knees hitting stone.
****
That night I took a swim to calm my mind. The water glows turquoise beneath the mansion’s rear terrace, lit from below by soft strips embedded along the pool’s floor. It should feel luxurious—serene. But the cold licks at my skin like it knows better.
The black bikini clings to me in the way silk might cling to mourning. It’s quiet out here. Even the cicadas hold their breath.
I lean against the smooth tile edge, arms floating beside me. The night above is full of stars, but none of them seem to matter.
Where is he now?
I think of Mico’s hands—dusty, pleading. The rasp of his voice when he said my name like it was a prayer already lost. The way he dropped to his knees like something inside him had given out.
He’s out there. Somewhere beyond these gates. Alone.
And I told him to leave me.
My lungs tighten. I draw in a shaky breath and slide beneath the surface, letting the water close over my head like a coffin lid. My hair lifts. The chlorine stings my eyes. I stay down long enough for the pressure to build, then longer still.
When I finally rise, I break the surface with a gasp.
And a sob.
It comes hard. Loud. My hands cover my face as the tears shake loose, trailing hot down skin already wet. My chest heaves and I fold forward, elbows hitting the pool ledge. My forehead presses to the tile.
Why couldn’t I just go?
Why couldn’t I let myself choose the easy love?
Footsteps. I look up.
He’s there at the pool’s edge—barefoot, bare-chested. His shorts are black. His skin pale in the half-light. A single glass of red wine cradled in his hand. His eyes—clear and still as glass—settle on me like the world hasn’t shifted at all.
He crouches.
Holds the wine out.
I wipe at my face with one trembling hand and walk to him through the water, slow strokes guiding me toward the ledge. I rise halfway, enough to reach.
Our fingers brush as I take the glass.
The wine is full-bodied and cold. It tastes like a dare.
His hand lingers.
Two fingers slide along my cheekbone, light and unhurried. His thumb follows the path of a tear.
His voice is lower than the night.
“Have you been crying?”
I meet his eyes.
“Do you really care?”
He stands and walks to the stairs, descending into the pool with a grace that feels too practiced to be casual. The water welcomes him soundlessly. Even the surface resists the ripple. I don’t move.
