Smooth As Silk
Miriam / Emma
Oh, my god, he was killing me. From the moment he walked in the door I could barely keep my eyes off him. My skin got all tingly and I was certain he could tell by how red my face must have gotten. If I looked at him I knew I’d never be able to say no if he asked me out again. So I stared at the counter and tried to pretend he wasn’t there.
But then he just kept on talking to me with that country-boy drawl. That might not have much sway here in Texas, but where I’m from that accent, that unfeigned self-confidence, is a total aphrodisiac. Listening to him order breakfast was almost enough to get me to throw my apron on the counter and make him take me back to his little apartment and have his brutish way with me.
And I was curious about so many things about the man. What caused that dangerous look in his eyes, so carefully hidden behind his wicked smile? Who had he been fighting, and why wasn’t there a mark on him? I’d been around fighters before. When you hit people, you got hit, and that left bruises. But not a bruise on that perfect, square-jawed, dimple-cheeked face.
I bit my lip and hoped he didn’t notice. If he noticed how much I wanted him, I’d never be able to claim I didn’t.
And I had to claim that I didn’t want him. That was the rule. As hard and fast as the rule that kids shouldn’t take candy from strangers.
No personal attachments.
Especially intimate ones.
Especially intimate ones in which I would be tempted to tell the truth about myself. And in that split second that I thought about it, I found that I really wanted to tell Ryan Calder the truth. That my name really wasn’t Miriam. That I wasn’t from Philadelphia. That I hadn’t come to Fort Worth to care for my dying aunt.
Maybe because I was tired of living a lie, necessary as it was. Or maybe just because I wanted him to know the person that I was, rather than the made-up person that I wasn’t.
If someone connects with you, but you’re not being the true you, is the connection even real?
I found I was gripping my pen so hard in my hand that it left a deep red groove in the space between my fingers. I pressed my lips together and steeled my resolve.
Ryan could not know who I was. He couldn’t know anything about me. No one could. And since I was so close to the edge of telling him everything, of completely exposing myself, I had to get rid of him.
So I told him no. I was cold and unfriendly, hiding my own emotions behind the artificial ice in my voice.
But he just kept on. With his charming, sexy voice, and his boyish sense of humor, and his maddening grin. Was there some vibe I was giving off that betrayed that I didn’t want him to go? Did that bewildered, hurt look in his blue eyes spark some sympathetic look in my own that let him know how easy it really would be to get to the truth of things—that if he just stuck around another five minutes I wouldn’t be able to maintain my resolve? That I’d give in and let him take me out again, and that I’d tell him everything and endanger my life and the lives of everyone I loved?
That thought sobered me quickly. I felt the blood drain from my face and the air in the diner felt five degrees colder.
He said, “I like you.”
I leaned over the counter until I was on a level with him, eye to eye. One corner of his mouth ticked up, as if he wanted to smile but wasn’t sure if he should. The counter was smooth under my palms, and I concentrated on that feeling as I lied to him.
“I don’t like you.” I have no idea how I got those words out without a tremble in my voice, but they came out smooth as silk and cold as a blade. “I was bored, so I went out with you.” As I spoke his lips went slack and his eyes seemed to retreat back into his skull. I wanted to stop there, to tell him none of what I said was true, but I had to keep going. For his sake as well as mine. “It was—sort of—a nice time. But that’s all. A nice time. A nice dinner. A nice conversation. A nice roll in the hay.” He winced at that, and slid off his stool. “And that was all, Ryan. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.”
He didn’t seem to know what to do with his bandaged hands. He seemed to want to slide them into the pockets of his jeans, but the bandages caught. He wound up just letting them dangle at his sides. He looked at the floor and shook his head. There was a fire behind his eyes. Not that dangerous look I had seen hiding in there. Just anger. He was angry at the way I had treated him, at the things I had said.
And he was right to be.
They were shitty things to say.
Finally he said, “Okay. Guess you can’t be more plain than that.” He pulled out his wallet and threw a couple of tens on the counter. “For breakfast. Give it to the next sucker that walks in here. I’m not hungry.” His boots were loud on the floor as he walked out. The bell over the door rang again.
There was a hollow place in the pit of my stomach, and my eyes had that stinging again. I looked down at the money on the counter.
It was the right thing to do.
I wished I could convince myself of that.