Page 8 of Lessons In Love
DELANEY
Shaking off the unexpected run-in with Lachlan, I get in my car, and head home. When I park in my reserved spot, I’m not entirely sure how I got here.
I take the shampoo and head to the elevator, blindly pushing buttons, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. It’s surreal. For years, I’ve dreamt about running into him again—what I’d say to him if given the chance. How I’d eviscerate him, make him pay for breaking my heart all those years ago.
Lachlan Romero is directly responsible for my relationship issues—at least, until Myles came along. Nothing ever worked out because not one man could scale the wall of betrayal that I’d built to protect myself from being hurt like that again.Hedid that.
I’ve spent nearly a decade perfecting the tirade I’d deliver upon our reunion. And there I was—stammering, acting as if the past ten years never happened, thrown right back into the pain I’d experienced at his hands. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to run into him—literally—out of nowhere.
The elevator stops and I get off, not paying attention to the floor, walking blindly, still lost in my thoughts.
“Miss Hawthorne,” someone says, cupping my elbow. “Are you alright, dear?”
I blink away my confusion, seeing Mrs. Sutcliffe standing in front of me. “I—I think so, ma’am,” I say, looking around. A door opens and I smell something spicy on the air. “Oh my god! My chicken!” I turn quickly, heading back to the elevator.
“Can I call someone for you?” Mrs. Sutcliffe asks with a frown.
“No, thank you. I’m fine. Just forgot something in my car.” I smile as the door closes, taking me back down to the garage without another stop. I walk quickly to my car, opening the trunk and grabbing my original purchases.
I make it to the penthouse without further delay, putting things away and changing out of my work clothes. Myles isn’t home yet—no surprise there—so I take my time getting things together to make dinner. When I spot the bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator, I take it out, pop the cork, and pour myself a large glass.
I sigh appreciatively after my first long sip of the oaky wine, deciding on the spot to scrap the pretentious scallops I’d been planning, instead choosing the comforting flavors of fettuccine alfredo with the rotisserie chicken I brought home.
I keep drinking as the sauce simmers, the aromas wafting through the apartment, letting my mind wander as I prepare everything to be ready when Myles arrives home. I refill my glass, careful not to drink too much, despite how much I might need the liquid courage later.
Things have been…off… lately with Myles. He’s never done anything unforgivable, but all these little things over the past year have been adding up and making me question our future. I’ve been so immersed in work lately that I haven’t had the energy to really examine our relationship. Now that I’m finally taking a moment to realize I’m not as happy as I thought I was, I have to push myself to begin the conversation I know we need to have.
When we first got together, Myles was attentive. I was attracted to him physically—he’s the all-American boy next door type, so who isn’t?—but as we’ve settled into domestic bliss, I feel less like a partner and more like an object to him. He doesn’t talk to me about work anymore. His phone rings and he takes the call in his office, no matter what we’re in the middle of. I’ve never pressed him for details—confidentiality is important, after all—but he’s never been secretive. Until the last few months.
The door opens as I’m setting the table. Myles disappears into his office to drop off his briefcase before coming into the kitchen, kissing the top of my head gently, and loosening his tie. “Something smells good,” he offers, pouring himself a drink and downing it in one sip.
“Thanks. It’s just a simple alfredo with chicken. It’ll be ready in three minutes.”
He hums noncommittally, moving to sit in his usual seat at the head of the table, waiting for me to bring his plate.
When I first moved in, I loved taking care of him. It felt like a small thing that made him happy. My mother always had dinner on the table for my father when he got home from work, so I grew up not realizing it was something I needed to be cautious of. Now, however, he expects me to cater to him, and I don’t know how to change our dynamic.
When I sit down, Myles picks up his fork and knife, looking around the table for something. “Where’s the pepper?” he asks, setting his flatware on his plate, and grabbing his napkin from his lap, setting it on top of the table, watching me expectantly.
I hop up, moving quickly into the kitchen to find the pepper mill. I take it into the dining room, setting it before him. He pulls me down onto his lap, his usual move, his arms banding around me and holds me close for a moment.
I take a deep breath, unable to delay the uncomfortable conversation any longer. “Is there anything you need to tell me, Myles?” My voice is barely over a whisper, and I hear a faint tremble at the end.
He looks at me, his arms loosening but still holding me to him.
I move to stand, and he holds me for a few beats before finally letting me go. I turn and look at him, noticing that his gray eyes, once vibrant and full of charm, are now dull and unamused.
“What are you going on about?” The way he says it is defensive, almost accusatory.
I move away, sitting in my seat once again, close enough to see his hands clench and relax repeatedly.
Sighing, I look him in the eye. “Is there anything important I should know about? Anything you haven’t told me?” His nostrils flare, and I know that he’s holding something back from me. If we have any chance of making this relationship last, I have to know.
“Myles, I told you when we first started dating. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t value truth and transparency. You promised you’d always tell me the truth, even when it was difficult. I believed you, but I’ve felt for a while now that you’ve been keeping something from me.”
He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze falling to his plate before rising to catch mine again, blazing with—is thatanger?
“Clearly you’ve got some crazy idea in your head. So just ask, already. I’m not a fucking mind reader, Delaney!” His outburst is uncharacteristic—he’s usually quite even-keeled—and I jump in my seat at his tone.
