What the hell are you hiding from me?
I had opened my mouth to ask him that when he received a phone call and his countenance changed.
The rooftop was empty and the last few guests had left.
I had turned to him with the question that had been sitting on my mind since midnight in the villa but at that moment, when I watched his face change, I couldn’t approach him anymore.
It told me that whatever he’d said through that wall last night wasn’t nothing and that I needed to know what it was because it was the only thing that explained this hot and cold I was experiencing.
His expression shifted like a door closing.
And everything that had been open at dinner, where our elbows had touched and neither of us moved, was completely gone, reminding me that in the truth of it, this man was a stranger.
He held up a finger, a gesture to ask to be excused and walked to the far edge of the rooftop where he knew I couldn’t hear him with the phone in his ear.
I stood where I was and watched him go have his private conversation about all the things he was hiding from me.
Why do I even care?
The thought irritated me because I had apparently lost all previous rights to the things I should have known.
Didn’t we agree to be a team?
Maybe that was only to handle the joint crisis we were facing and nothing morw.
I was irritated, yes.
But deep down in my gut, I knew it wasn’t about him leaving.
That feeling was directed at myself, for caring that he had.
I watched him standing at the railing with his back to me, contemplating whether to wait for him or not.
The latter won so I quietly slipped away without him noticing and I went back inside.
We barely spoke for the rest of the evening but the sad part was that the vibe between us wasn’t even cold.
Maybe I would have preferred that.
I could handle the cold.
But it was awkward.
We had things to say and every now and then, I wanted to speak.
I fought to be quiet and vocal at the same time.
It was a struggle.
This carried on for the entire night creating more emotional distance until we chose physical distance and retired to our individual rooms.
“I’m going to bed” I said at ten-thirty without turning to look at him.
“Okay” He said distractedly also not sparing me a glance.
That infuriated me even further.
“Good night.” I said plainly “Good night.” He said returning my energy.
That grated on my nerves more than it was supposed to.
I wasn’t supposed to let it get to me so I shook it off like I always did.
That was it.
I left him in the quiet.
Seattle was grey and indifferent.
Even more than I was used to.
It always has this effect after I had been somewhere warm.
The plane had been eleven hours of sitting beside each other in the close proximity of a private cabin where there was no good reason to sit on opposite ends, and so we hadn’t, and the result was eleven hours of being close enough to be aware of him.
Just us.
Adjacent.
At thirty-five thousand feet.
He slept for four of those hours which I watched him through almost the entire thing until I caught myself and opened my laptop to read the same three emails six times without processing any of them.
He looked tired, even asleep.
Something around his eyes that hadn’t been there in the early days or maybe it had been, and I hadn’t been looking carefully enough to see it.
I was glad the honeymoon was over.
I told myself this at thirty-five thousand feet and again when the wheels hit the runway.
Things could return to their proper shape now – the contract, arrangement and fourteen months of cohabitation required to secure what I’d already secured.
No more balconies and ruins and beaches where his heartbeat gave him away.
I was glad.
I stole another glance across the car.
He was looking out the window with that far-off expression that wasn’t coldness but something near it.
He looked different in Seattle light because that easy quality he’d had in Portugal, open collar, morning coffee on the terrace was already compressing back into the CEO version of Zane Della-Ross.
I looked back out my own window.
The estate received us with staff at the entrance.
There were professional and quiet, efficient hands taking luggage, giving us the full warmth of a well-run house welcoming its occupants back.
The housekeeper smiled at me.
“Mrs.
Della-Ross, welcome home,” She said with a naturalness that told me she’d been saying it in her head since the wedding announcement.
The name Mrs.
Della-Ross landed differently than I expected.
I still wasn’t used to it.
Zane handled the staff with ease obviously because he’s been living here and been with them for years.
He knew their names, knew to thank the housekeeper specifically for the delivery she’d organized in our absence and knew to check in with his security lead in the hallway without making a thing of it.
I watched him do all of it and felt, absurdly, like a guest.
We confirmed the arrangement in the hallway at seven PM with briskness, returning the conversation to its original terms.
We would stay in separate rooms and our individual work schedules were resuming tomorrow.
“I’ll have Henry coordinate the schedule,” he said.
“Maya already has mine.” “Good.” “Good.” I went upstairs.
I unpacked methodically, which was how I did everything that needed doing when my mind was somewhere it shouldn’t be.
The Portugal clothes went in the hamper while my work clothes were hung.
My toiletries went back in the bathroom like they were two weeks before the honeymoon.
Everything was back in its correct position, returning to the shape it was supposed to hold.
I laid down at ten, staring at the ceiling.
At eleven I gave up.
The house was quiet and eerie.
It was typical of large houses to be this quiet at night.
I went downstairs in my socks trying not to wake the household, though the staff quarters were in a separate wing and there was no one to wake.
No one except, apparently, the man standing at the kitchen counter.
I saw him before he saw me.
He was wearing grey sweatpants with no shirt.
His hair was slightly loose from whatever it had been earlier as he was standing at the counter with his back partially toward me.
Zane was still, the way he usually was when he was thinking.
I stopped in the doorway.
He heard me and turned.
Neither of us spoke as our eyes locked for a second before he looked away.
The kitchen was lit from under the cabinets only we stood in that dimly lit place looking at each other like we were strangers even though we were two people who had spent two weeks in another country together.
He reached up and took a second mug from the cabinet.
And held it up to me.
“Can’t sleep either?”