Page 64 of The Moon & His Tides
So I nodded curtly. “Va bene, if you say so.”
When we pulled through the gates, I opened the car door for her, then briskly made my way around the house to the path that led to the carriage house. She didn’t call after me, but I could feel her gaze like a hand grasping at the hem of my coat.
I just needed the space.
Seeing her like that had brought my insecurities to the surface.
Because I was aware enough to admit that I’d never be fully satisfied with this status quo. Unable to love her, to possess her in every way. The animal in me yearned to own her.
Maybe if she loved me back, it would be different.
Maybe if she told me I wasn’t alone in feeling this way, I could silence the impotence and jealousy that reared its head. I knew it would continue to arise again and again for as long as this arrangement lasted.
Being a third in a marriage wasn’t even the problem. I never felt “other” or extraneous when it was just the three of us together. Sometimes I even wondered if they both enjoyed me more than they enjoyed each other.
But I was a romantic man, and no amount of exposure to British culture could change the fundamentals of who I was.
I wanted an epic love.
The kind of passion that made you call in late to work and go out of your way to surprise and cherish each other. The kind that made you want to crack open your chest and offer up all of your insides on a silver platter.
Andporca miseria!
I wanted that with her.
The door slammed against the opposite wall as I pushed into the little cottage I spent very little time in. I looked around the space, searching for something to ground me. Moving across the room, stopping only to flick on the record player so that Frank Sinatra’s voice filled the space, I grabbed my notebook, shucked my jacket and driving gloves, and threw myself into a chair at the little kitchen table thrust up against the wall.
Through the mullioned window, I could see the garden bursting with blooms as spring rolled across London. Everything was green and white with little pops of colour that appeared like little rebels fighting to be seen against the almost austere British garden.
I wondered idly if I’d brought colour to the Meyers’ lives and if it was warmly received or unwelcome. It seemed to me that I made them uncomfortable as much as I brought them joy.
Tapping the pen against my mouth, I let my gaze wander away from the heavy boughs of the blooming hydrangea bushes and tightly cropped box hedgerows to peer at things only I could see in my mind’s eye.
The problem, I thought, was that Savannah was the dream, and I was the dreamer. Could I ever really know her point of view without imposing my desires on her thoughts and actions? Maybe if she would actually communicate with me, but she and Adam both seemed too reluctant to speak about anything involving their histories or feelings.
Ducking my head, I wrote the title of the screenplay that was taking shape in my mind.
The Dream & The Dreamer.
“Sebastian.”
I jerked my head up, heart racing at the shock as I found Savannah lingering in the doorway to the cottage. She seemed hesitant to enter, and I wondered if it was because she didn’t want to invade my space or because it was beneath her to enter the home of the help.
There must have been something cruel in my gaze because she visibly swallowed hard and took a delicate step over the threshold.
“You come in here, you won’t like the Sebastian who greets you,” I warned her, feeling the sneer on my lips, the primal restlessness in my limbs that made me want to stalk and hunt and roar. “I don’t feel like tending to aduchessaat the moment.”
She stared at me, hands held in front of her almost primly even though her chin jutted up slightly at the familiar haughty angle. “Maybe I don’t want to be treated like a duchess right now.”
I scoffed slightly, writing over the title of the new screenplay until the words were indented, the paper nearly torn by the force.
“Maybe I want to be reminded of what it feels like to fuck in the grass like animals,” she said, her voice quiet but unyielding. “Maybe I want to fuck like you hate me because… because I feel safe knowing you never would.”
“Never could,” I corrected, sliding her a dark look with my eyebrows raised. “You want to be honest with each other, finally? You want to address the elephant in the room with the three of us when we play your games?”
She sucked in a sharp breath but hesitated again.
I pushed back sharply from the chair as I stood, sending it screeching across the hardwood. When I stalked forward, she shivered but held her ground. She was so slight, and I towered over her even in those ridiculous heels.
