Page 24 of Phishing for Love
Nathan and I had no such reservations. We unashamedly watched the whole spectacle play out with the kind of morbid fascination reserved for car wrecks. We then proceeded to dissect the entire incident for the rest of our dinner. It was our most animated conversation to date.
“So, what happened?” I ask, aware that I’m brazenly encroaching on personal territory.
“I believe you witnessed what happened.”
Nothing like deliberate obtuseness to encourage me to scratch deeper. “What did you say to her?”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Probably not,” is my honest answer.
I have the satisfaction of seeing his eyes narrow. Oh, I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. But I am. I truly am.
“Would it be too much to ask that you forget what you saw last night?”
“It would.”
I’m certain I’ll forget a lot of details about that night. But what I won’t forget is the fact that he made a woman cry.
And that’s what I tell him now. “You made her cry.” I’m no longer teasing or sarcastic because this feels too weighty an observation for levity.
He closes his eyes for a second. “I know.”
When he opens them again, his blue eyes are so somber I feel as though I’ve glimpsed something there I shouldn’t have, something that looks so much like pain it takes my breath away. But it’s gone so quickly it’s almost as if I’d imagined it into existence.
I have a sudden, terrible premonition that Aaron Sinclair is not at all good for me and that one day I’ll be the one crying in front of him.
Unnerved, I move out the doorway and head to the fridge, yanking the door open. I take out a yogurt tub and my cantaloupe, deposit them on the table, and start slicing up the fruit.
Oddly, Aaron hasn’t moved. I glance over at him. He’s set his mug down and is gripping the back of a chair. He looks a little pale. And, wait. Are those beads of sweat on his forehead?
“What’s wrong?” I ask sharply. “Are you sick?” I run through a mental list—low blood sugar, anemia, flu, possible heart condition, emotional constipation.
He doesn’t answer, too preoccupied with breathing in and out slowly.
Maybe he’s overheating? He’s dressed in his typical formal attire of dress pants and a long-sleeved shirt, but the air conditioning is on and it’s nice and cool in here.
“Hey,” I persist. “What’s going on?”
“Please take it away,” he says in a low voice.
Confusion barrels through me. “What?”
“The cantaloupe,” he says in a strangled voice. “Take it away.”
I have no idea what’s going on, but his distress is real. I quickly grab the plate and, with a twinge of regret, tip the melon into the trash.
“It’s gone,” I tell him since his eyes are closed.
Aaron pulls out a chair and slumps into it.
“Okay, what just happened there?”
“Give me a minute,” he whispers.
I give him thirty seconds because curiosity is eating away at me. “What was all that about?”
He grimaces. “I suppose you’re not going to forget about this, either.”
