Page 53 of That Birthday in Barbados
She makes an attempt at a cheery smile. “Just don’t let it be for nothing. Anders says your heart has been broken,” she says. “He is worth the risk.”
*
MADELINE HAS ALREADY gone in for her massage, and I follow the young lady who had come to get me down the marble floor hall with its wall sconce lighting to a room where she knocks once and opens the door for me.
The masseuse is waiting inside, a woman with kind eyes and hands that prove to be up to the job of dissolving the knots of tension in my shoulders and back.
“Ooh,” she says. “You have not been doing enough relaxing. More time on the beach, less time in your head.”
She uses the bottom of her hand to knead a particularly resistant knot. I moan under the pain-pleasure of it, trying not to let my thoughts wander to the very unsettling conversation I’d just had with Celeste.
Which is impossible.
Don’t let it be for nothing.
Had he really turned her down?
And could it really be because I’m in his head?Me?
“Blank mind,” the masseuse orders. “At least let me get rid of the knots before you start putting them back again.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, force my thoughts to something neutral, something that doesn’t inspire tension. Easier said than done.
Chapter Twenty-two
“There is no point in using the word ‘impossible’to describe something that has clearly happened.”
?Douglas Adams
Anders
I’VE BEEN BETTING myself she won’t show up for class again this morning.
When I see her walk in the door, my stomach takes a nose-dive, and I have to wonder what the heck is going on with me. First, ending things with Celeste. And now I’m acting like a teenager waiting to find out if the first girl I’ve ever liked likes me back.
She avoids eye contact, taking a bike in the back. I walk around the room, helping the other riders adjust their seat height, pull the handlebars closer, anything to avoid looking at Catherine.
I glance at my watch. It’s time to start. I lower the lights in the room. I walk to the front, climb on my bike and hit the iPad beside me to start the music. It’s a full class this morning, and I’m glad because I have a variety of places to rest my gaze other than on Catherine. Even so, I’m able to take in her movements from the corner of my vision, and I’m noting the nice color to her arms and legs beneath the short black shorts. Gone is the New York winter pallor, a healthy sun-kissed glow in its place. Her blonde hair is snagged in a high ponytail, dancing off her shoulders as she pulls a towel and bottle of water from her bag, stowing it at the back of the bike, and then adjusting the seat to the proper height, all without looking at me, or giving any indication she knows I’m in the room.
So I play it cool too. I crank the music, climb on the bike and start pedaling while jumping into the instructor modemy classeslike best. Coach with a sense of humor, prodding them to join me in meeting the goals of the class.
Ten minutes in, everyone is sweating which tells me I’m doing my job. I’m thirty minutes into the class before I let myself meet Catherine’s gaze head on. Neither of us looks away for a full five seconds, and I don’t bother to hide the heat in my eyes. I intend for her to look away first, and she does, dropping her head and increasing her pedal speed, as if she can outrun this thing between us.
But she can’t.
And I don’t intend to let her.
*
THE ROOM EMPTIES out pretty quickly. There is the buffet waiting, after all. Catherine is about to make her getaway through the open door when I call her name.
She stops, stands stiffly, and then slowly turns to face me. She says nothing, simply meeting my gaze and holding it as if she is forcing herself not to glanceaway this time.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
“About?”
“Yesterday.”
